Little Bird – The Underworld Kings Read Online Jenika Snow

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Mafia, Virgin Tags Authors: Jenika Snow Advertisement

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I focused on cleaning up my station, the last of the breakfast rush ending. But still, I felt like I was being watched.

“Need help?” Jacob, one resident who helped at the food bank, came to stand next to me.

I smiled and shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m just finishing up.” I set the wet pan on the counter to air-dry and grabbed a rag to wipe off my hands.

That tingling on the back of my neck intensified, and I lifted my fingers, trying to rub the sensation away. But the thing was, it didn’t dissipate. It just kept getting more intense.

I glanced behind me and into the large room where we served everyone. Empty school-style cafeteria tables were lined up, filling the center of the room. The large window in the front let in a stream of morning light.

But there was nobody there.

“Hey,” Jacob said and touched my hand.

An uncomfortable sensation surrounded me, and as if instinct told me a dangerous animal was close by, I stepped back. Jacob’s hand slipped from me, and his brows furrowed.

“Are you okay?”

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and glanced at him again. “I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind.”

That was an understatement. Even if I didn't feel weird this morning, the last six months had been stressful. It didn’t matter if I acted like everything was okay on the outside. Inside, I was slowly dying.

For one thing, I wasn’t sure how long I had to keep up the charade that I was willingly at the convent because I wanted to be closer to religion. If it kept me from marrying a mafia asshole, so be it, but not knowing was a killer.

I missed Dmitry. I didn’t care if I’d only ever gotten a couple letters in return over the last five years. I’d still gotten them, cherished them, and in fact, I reread them more times than I’d ever tell anyone.

The confusion on Jacob’s face was heavy. His dirty-blond hair brushed over his forehead and was a little longer around his ears. It was a shaggy mess, and coupled with his lean, tall form, he looked like he belonged on the beaches of California surfing.

I’d known him for the past several months, ever since I started volunteering at the food bank.

His father was an attorney in town and did a lot of pro bono work for the community.

“I’ll see you on Thursday,” I said and turned, feeling unbalanced suddenly.

He gave a half-hearted wave, the confusion still covering his expression. I was probably acting like an idiot letting this anxious energy consume me, and over what? I didn’t even know what I was so antsy about.

I slipped on my blazer, grabbed my bag, and then headed out. I stopped at the little café I always went to after volunteering.

As usual I ordered my vanilla cappuccino, ham and cheese croissant, a couple of biscotti, and thanked Trudy, the older waitress who always seemed to be there when I stopped by.

I gave her a generous tip because I knew it was a slow season and I’d witnessed some of the assholes she had to serve. A little extra would make me a little happier, so I figured it would for her, too.

I might be staying in a convent, but Gio kept my personal account padded with more money than I needed. I was pretty sure he did that because he felt a little guilty, given the situation.

I headed toward the gardens, having an hour to kill before I had to be back at the convent for my studies.

Although I wouldn’t really call where I was headed a “garden” this time of year. Everything had been pruned and landscaped. The flowers were now nothing but bulbs in the ground waiting for the spring so they could grow again.

But regardless if it was barren and dead this time of year, I enjoyed walking the paths. The thick trees gave privacy, but hardly anyone visited the garden right now. It was almost as if this area was a ghost town.

It gave me time to think, or more so, time to think about someone in particular where I didn’t feel guilty fantasizing about him within the walls of a convent.

Dimitry. The big, Russian mob boss.

The things I thought about would have the nuns calling me “impure”. They’d make me feel like I was committing some mortal sin or breaking the law.

Imagining Dmitry fucking me as I lay in my bed, surrounded by religious artifacts, made me feel dirty. Dirty in the best way, my mind whispered.

The thought had me flushing. Truthfully the things I’d imagined doing with the Russian—or, more aptly, having him do to me—should have made me feel ashamed. Or at the very least, a wanton slut who asked for more, who asked for it harder.

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