Bond to Break (Stolen Obsessions #4)

23. Fyodor

CHAPTER 23

FYODOR

The pork was exceptionally good, and no one I give a shit about has died in a very long time, so even if the meat was human finished, I don’t really care. I wish her a happy and healthy rest of her pregnancy and promise to talk to my sons. I’m not sure when I might make good on that since I still haven’t heard from them.

The truth is, I need to have a serious conversation with them for many more reasons. My sons have never understood the real weight of responsibility. It’s time they understood that power is kept by nurturing it, and without playing those games, they’ll end up dead. It’s my fault for not teaching them how to play the game better.

I pull into the garage and drive down the levels until I pull into my own section of the garage. Something looks off, but I can’t put my finger on what. There isn’t even an attendant able to open the gate locking it. I carefully check the garage but don’t find any evidence to back my feeling. I still keep my eyes peeled as I park and climb out of the car.

My gun slips out of my waistband and into my hand as I shut the door behind me. The elevator takes me up, and I still have it aimed in front of me, and while I can’t put my finger on it, I could swear I smell cologne. I haven’t found anyone or anything actually out of place, and I’m about to call myself paranoid when the door to the apartment opens, and I find Marta standing there, seemingly waiting for me.

Obviously, I’m not going to shoot my housekeeper. So I tuck the gun away, but the strangest look crosses her face alongside the fear, and it looks a lot like guilt.

“What are you doing here, Marta?”

“I had an emergency. I need to go.”

“Did Katya have her medicine? How did she seem?” I’ve been missing her since the moment I left, wishing I could bring her and have her sit beside me, which says a lot about my intentions for her.

Marta’s face reddens.

“I gave her the medicine, but there’s something seriously wrong with her. Nasty girl.”

I’m not sure what the issue is exactly between them. While she does clearly have issues, I haven’t seen any nasty behavior from Katya.

“Sorry if she was rude. Thanks for giving her the medicine, Marta. You need to leave right now?” For someone saying she has an emergency, she doesn’t seem too concerned, just twitchy.

“There was a problem at my apartment.”

“Yeah of course.” I wave for her to take the elevator at the front of the apartment.

“There’s dinner on the stove. I hope you have a good night.”

“You too.”

She heads to the other side of the apartment, where the elevator takes you to the building’s lobby instead of my garage, and leaves rather quickly.

At first, I don’t have any issue as she passes until I catch a green flash from the panel next to my private elevator. That’s what happens when the key card is read, and the elevator’s called. Sure enough, a moment later, it returns, and that smell I wasn’t sure of is suddenly crystal clear.

Someone was here. Someone might still be here.

I pull the gun back out as I slip through the house. I’ve only known Marta for a few years, and people who have been around half my life have turned on me. How the hell she got that key card is my first question after where the fuck is Katya? I’m half waiting for an ambush as I move through the apartment, but one never comes.

The sound of running water spilling onto the floor reaches me as I approach the room where Katya is staying. It wouldn’t be a problem if she decided to bathe, but it doesn’t seem like a leisurely bath as the spilling sound continues. I pick up my pace, unlocking her door and heading inside as quickly as I can.

I quickly scan the room for intruders and find it empty. I lock it behind me so I have some advanced warning if that changes and keep the gun pointed forward as I head into the bathroom, where the light is on, the door is open, and the water is soaking into the carpet.

“Katya?” I speak loud enough that she can hear me, but it’s not a shout.

No response.

When I step into the bathroom, I don’t see anything but the full tub at first.

“Katya?”

The water ripples on top of the tub as it overflows. The jets pump on high speed, creating a thick white whirlpool I can’t see through. My hand settles on the knob, stopping the water pouring out of the tub. The jets go next, and then I see her.

Katya lies at the bottom of the tub, blond hair fanned around her like a siren. She looks like a mermaid, beautiful and peaceful, with blue goddamn lips because she’s already dead, and if she’s not, she’s dying.

“Fuck, fucking hell!” I shout at the top of my lungs as I reach in and pull her out of the water by her shoulders. She’s not cold or anything, but neither is the bath so that doesn’t mean shit. Water pours all over us and the floor. I’m soaked through as I drag her onto the floor in front of me and immediately perform mouth-to-mouth.

She doesn’t respond, and I switch to chest compressions just in case. I have no idea how long she’s been in here. She might already be gone, but I have to try. If this is a lost cause and I’m breathing life into a corpse for the second time in my life, I’m not sure how I’ll stand it.

Images of my wife as she died fill my mind. How I tried to revive her even though I knew it was too late and she was too sick to bring back. How much I loved her and simply couldn’t stand to let her go. That’s not Katya, though. She’s twenty-two, broken, but has her entire life ahead of her. Who gives a shit about Pietro or a damn dance career? I care about her.

I pour all of that into Katya now as I try to force her to breathe and bring her back to life. I wanted to see her healthy and see her dance again. Sure, I wanted to fuck her too, but seeing her die? That was never part of my plan. And as I work as hard as I can to save her life, I’m forced to confront that this feeling in my chest has nothing to do with what I’ve spent.

I don’t know when I started loving her, perhaps while she was still dancing on that stage. But even if it isn’t soul-deep or earth-shattering, my heart has undeniable love for this beautiful, broken girl. I flip her over so she’s face down and pound on her back. A stream of water comes out this time, but she’s still not breathing. Thumping her back three more times, I watch as a little less water emerges each time.

I flip her over and perform mouth-to-mouth one more time. To my incredible relief, she takes a breath, but I quickly realize it’s not enough. She’s fading back out, and she’s not breathing again. Glancing around the bathroom for any sign of how to help her, I notice an empty syringe lying on the floor.

Oh fuck, no .

I run to the closet and pull out one of the many Narcans I have stashed around the house. You could be a soccer mom, and carrying Narcan is a good idea in case you find some poor bastard overdosing, but for me? Someone who works and lives in organized crime has sold drugs and seen more overdoses than I can count? I thank God it’s easily and readily available now, and I keep it everywhere.

I open the package and shove the applicator up her nose, a squeeze, and it’s rushing through her system, neutralizing the opiates that are surely going to kill her since the drowning didn’t do the job. Her breathing actually steadies this time, and I gasp as I try to steady my own. I can’t remember the last time I was so scared.

What the fuck would I have done if I lost her?

She lies on the white tile, hair spread around her, and I’m not sure what to feel. Terrified, relieved, angry. I watch her chest rise and fall, and after a few minutes, her eyes open. She looks at me, confused and out of it. I know the drugs aren’t doing it with the Narcan, but maybe drowning killed a few of her brain cells.

“I thought I would see Pietro. I didn’t think our souls were connected like this.” And then her eyes close again as she passes out.

It takes me some time to find the willingness to pull us both off the floor. When I do, I bring her back to the bed and lay her down, strip her out of her clothes, and cover her in a blanket before moving to the closet. I filled it with clothes for her, nothing fancy, all comfortable and suited for healing, but as far as I’ve seen, she’s not touched anything.

I pull out a soft and warm pair of pajamas, grab a clean towel, and return to the bed to dry and dress her. She stays more or less out of it, and a dirty part of me remembers when I fucked her unconscious and wants more of that, but something more important is happening inside me, a war of the heart and the mind.

I dress her without doing more than touching her a little more than I should. The part in her little cunt especially didn’t need a finger trailed up it, but I couldn’t fully resist.

Once she’s fully dressed and warm, I head back to my room on the other side of the apartment and change into my bedclothes—a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt I’ve had for so many years it’s threadbare and so soft.

I need to figure out how I feel and what the fuck I meant when I told myself I loved her, but that’s not why I lift her into my arms yet again and carry her back to my room. It’s because there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m going to let her out of my sight now. No way she’s going to get away with what she did without punishment.

I need to keep her safe. I need to figure out why the hell that bottle and syringe were left in her room and why Marta left in such a hurry.

The door to my room sits open when I return so I don’t have to juggle her, and I lay her on the side of the bed I don’t use. Draping the silk sheet over her, I can’t help but look at her features with longing. She’s so incredibly beautiful, so young and innocent, and my cock feels better in her pussy than it ever has in my life.

That truth brings me more guilt than moving drugs and nuclear bombs. No matter how much I loved Sne?ana, and I did, Katya’s pussy is hands down the best I have ever felt. I want to fuck her now to punish her for what she did and myself for feeling the way I seem to about her.

I lock the door behind us, sure that if there is someone in the apartment, they won’t get in here. I’ve spent a lot of money to make sure of that. I climb into the bed beside her.

Wrapping an arm around my ballerina, I pull her tight to my body so I can hear and feel her breathing. If she were to stop, move from this bed, or whimper, I would hear it. If she’s so dead set on leaving me and this world, I’ll have to make sure she’s never alone again.