Chapter Six
Slava
My butterfly was a bad girl tonight.
Having to watch her kiss another man. Let him put his hands on her like she belonged to him—when she has always, only, belonged to me.
It was hell. A personal hell, built just for me.
I'm a man who's been shot more times than I can count on both hands.
Ambushes, war zones, darkness that would make lesser men beg to die.
None of it compares to the sight of her tongue slipping past her lips to meet another man's.
When his hand slid down to grip her ass, I started counting the ways I could use his hands against him.
How many bones in a hand. How long it takes a man to stop screaming once you start removing them one joint at a time.
I could use his severed arms to hang him from the nearest tree.
His intestines would hold better, actually. Rope always frays. Intestines don't.
I'm going to make him regret every second he spent touching what's mine.
And even though I can't lay a single finger on her—my hand has never once been raised against that girl and never will be—she'll get her own punishment.
I let myself into the cabin. She kept the door unlocked behind her, like she was subtly inviting me in. Did his mouth on hers make her forget to think like mine?
I need to stop following that train of thought, or I'll paint this entire town red before the sun's up. The same red I can feel behind my eyes.
The little shit looks up from his phone with a scowl on his face, pants still tented, hard—for my girl.
In one small act of mercy, for both of them, they're not tangled up together when I walk in. If I'd caught that, I would have lost myself completely. Irrevocably. There would have been nothing left of him.
"Hey, man, who are you?" he asks, and the entitlement in his voice, like he has any right to ask me anything in this house, makes my fist move.
I put him on the floor with one punch. When he opens his mouth to cry out, I feed him a second.
Where the fuck is my Nora?
Is she in the shower? Washing up so she can go back out there clean for him?
When we were together, she always wanted to rinse off first if we'd been out anywhere before I touched her, and I never once let her.
There's nothing about her body I find anything less than perfect.
I've had her in car seats, in the back of restaurant kitchens, against kitchen counters covered in flour.
We don't have room in this relationship for her insecurities. I've told her that a hundred times.
Is she in there right now, getting ready for someone else to have what only I've ever had?
I need to cut that thread off too, or he will not survive the night, and I still need him breathing a little longer.
I make quick work of it—zip ties from my jacket around his wrists and ankles, tissue balled up and shoved into his mouth to keep him quiet, a fresh knuckle to the jaw every time his eyes roll toward the hallway looking for her.
When I finally step back, I let my eyes drag over him properly. What did she see in him? Did she think he was handsome? Did she get wet for this? I need a drink before I answer my own question and kill him. I still need him breathing for now.
The cabin's cozy, which is good—I want both my girl and her sister comfortable. It's strange how much tenderness I can hold for her in one hand and this much rage in the other and not have either one cancel the other out.
I find the fridge, pull a bottle of whiskey from it, pour myself two fingers, and drop onto the couch, spreading out. I light a cigar and wait for my Nora to come find out exactly what she made me do.
I blow smoke straight into his face, studying him one more time, trying to work out what it was about him that had drawn her in. So I know exactly what to mutilate.
Soft, hesitant footsteps sound down the hall before she rounds the corner into the living room, eyes going wide as saucers at the sight of me on her sister's couch, helping myself to their liquor, and the man she let touch what's mine sitting bruised, bleeding, and tied to a chair three feet away.
Her mouth drops open on a scream. She catches it with her own hand, glancing toward the hallway. Doesn't want to wake her sister.
My good, selfless girl. Even now.
I stand.
She takes a step back.
I take one forward.
"Slava," she breathes. "What did you do?"
"What you should have done yourself," I say, voice even, though nothing in me feels even right now. "You should have called me before you let him in this house, butterfly. Tell me that you made a mistake and you need me to come get rid of this fucker. That you regretted letting him near you."
"He's not—this isn't—you can't just—"
"Can't I?" I take another step. She matches it backward. "You kissed him. Let him put his hands on you. On my ass, Nora."
"I'm not yours anymore."
"You keep saying that." I'm close enough now to smell her perfume under the smoke and whiskey. "And every time you say it, I believe you a little less."
She turns and runs. I let her get three steps before I move, and I reach the bedroom door right as she throws her weight against it, blocking it open with my boot before the lock can catch.
"Slava, please—"
"Let me in, butterfly," I growl. "You don't want to do this the hard way."
When she doesn't comply, I put my weight against the door—gently, because I'd never risk her falling. She's still gripping the wood with both hands, so when it gives, she gets dragged along with it. Gently. Always gently, with her.
She finally lets go, flinging herself backward into the corner of the room.
"It's over, Slava. You know that. You need to leave."
"And who decided that?" I tilt my head.
"I did."
"Is that why you kissed him?" I hiss through my teeth, fighting to stay in control of my rage. "Is that why you brought him here to spend the night?"
"Yes, Slava. I wanted to make it clear we're done. I can't live like you. I can't live in violence."
I bend forward and laugh. Done. Us. Done. There isn't a version of this world where that word applies to her and me.
"Wrong answer," I say once the laughter finally runs its course. I pluck the key from her bedroom door and slide it into my pocket.
Then I turn my back on her and walk out.
"Where are you going?"
I glance over my shoulder. "My, my. Is that disappointment I hear, little butterfly?"
She scoffs, arms crossed. "You're imagining things. And you seriously need to leave."
Sure. As if there's a single universe where I walk out of this cabin without her on my arm as my queen.
I head to the living room, where the little shit is still tied to his chair, and drag him—chair and all—down the hall toward her bedroom. It scrapes loudly against the wood floor, but I've watched this cabin long enough to know her sister sleeps like she's actually dead.
I angle his chair to face the bed directly. Through the gag, he tries to squeal something. Beg something.
I'm not interested in anyone's tongue tonight. Well. Not his, anyway.
"You have that look in your eyes," Nora says, backing further into the corner. "The crazy one. That's exactly why you need to go."
I close the distance in two steps and put a hand on her shoulder, pressing just enough that she loses her balance and lands on the bed beneath me.
I follow her down, catching her mouth with mine before she can finish whatever protest she was building up to, and I feel it die somewhere against my tongue instead.
God, I've missed this. Missed her. Two weeks of watching her from a car parked in the trees, and now here she is, underneath me, tasting like whiskey and someone else.
The second I put even a fraction of my weight on her, the second my tongue is in her mouth, she forgets every single thing that isn't me. She always has.
We are exactly what we've always been. Hers and mine.
She kisses me back with the same starved ferocity clawing through me, nails catching in my shirt.
Then the man in the chair grunts, and her whole body goes rigid under mine like she's remembered where she is. Who's watching.
She turns her face away, offering me her cheek instead of her mouth.
I lick a slow stripe up it anyway. "No, Slava. He's—he's right there. We shouldn't be doing this."
"Hmm." I drop my voice. "Don't get shy on me now, butterfly. You made him believe you wanted him tonight. Only fair we make sure he sees exactly who you actually belong to."
The expression on her face when she realizes what I mean will be burned in my mind forever.
"No. No. No-no-no-no," she says, shaking her head against me.
I bite down gently at her temple, and that's when her eyes flick sideways to the tied man. "I'm sorry," she mouths at him, and he stares back at her with wide, round eyes, silently begging her to do something to get him out of his predicament.
I hate that she's talking to him at all. I hate this whole silent little conversation happening right under my nose.
"Eyes. On. Me," I hiss, gripping her chin and turning her face back to mine. "Don't push me tonight, Nora. I'm already barely holding it together. Don't look at him. Don't talk to him. Don't even think about him."
She lets out a long breath and drags her gaze back to mine, finally where it belongs.
"You need to let him go," she mutters. "Both of you need to leave. I mean it, Slava. I've had enough."
"No." I tighten my grip in her hair. "You need to stop talking about him, or I can't promise what happens next."
"What you do next?" She arches a brow. "Worse than tying the man to a chair and dragging him into my bedroom? Just let him go. Please."
"No," I say again, dragging my mouth down to her neck.
"This is—" she starts, then gets distracted as I work a hickey into the side of her throat. "This is exactly why I want to leave. You're a—" She sucks in a breath as I bite down over the same spot. "You're a violent man."
"I know what I am," I murmur against her skin. "But you’re always safe with me."
"You can’t guarantee that. Not in the world you live in."
"Yes I can."
"You tied a stranger to a chair in my sister's house."
"You just let one put his hands where only mine have ever been. I'd say I’m justified," I hiss.
Her mouth opens—to argue, to fight, to tell me I'm insane, probably all three—but I don’t give her the chance.