Chapter 21
KIR
The impulse is to kill.
To go directly back to that fucking place and free all the innocents before chaining the doors shut and setting the whole thing ablaze.
Or perhaps something more personal. Something I can savor .
I only stopped myself—somehow—from killing that piece of shit who was trying to put his dick in her because I remembered that The Mirage is owned by Dimitri Moskovic and is one of his money laundering operations here.
Whatever the agreement is between us, it’s fragile at best. I feel that murdering the manager of one of the places he’s cleaning his money before our deal forces him out of New York would throw a wrench into the works.
I’m not through with that motherfucker I left bleeding and unconscious in a puddle of his own piss and shit in that office, though.
Not by a fucking mile .
However, the impulse to murder, maim, and seek revenge is on hold for now.
She’s my only focus.
Brooklyn’s been silent the entire drive back to my house—wrapped in my jacket, curled up in the passenger seat, staring out the window.
I don’t blame her.
When I pull to a stop at the back door of my home, I walk around to her side, open the door, and kneel down to look her in the eye.
“I’m going to pick you up again and carry you inside. Is that all right?”
She nods quietly, dazed but slowly focusing her eyes on mine. Her brow knits.
“Why do you keep asking permission?” she whispers.
My jaw grinds at the question and what it suggests about the current—and probably past—state of her life.
“I’m not one of the monsters you’ve apparently been around,” I growl tightly.
My brow furrows. “You need to understand something. When I take you in there, you’ll be in my world.
I may touch you. I may push you, figuratively.
But I will never do a single thing to you that you do not consent to. Is that clear.”
Her lip slips between her teeth, her blue eyes hazy as she nods. Then I start to reach for her, but she tenses sharply enough that I stop.
“Why…” Her browns knit. “You told me we were done,” she croaks. “That you wanted nothing to do with me.”
My eyes narrow. “That is not?—”
“ Why are you helping me like this? ” she blurts in a hushed little voice.
My jaw sets as I slip my arms underneath her and lift her out of the car.
“Because I give a shit. That’s why.”
Inside, I carry her upstairs. I won’t lie: there’s a strong impulse to take her to my bedroom, and my reasons aren’t remotely pure.
Because I’ve tasted her mouth and felt the soft touch of her tongue. I’ve heard her whimper and moan. I’ve felt the hot flush on her skin and seen the subtle arch of her back when I spanked her bare ass.
…Felt the tight, velvety strangle of her cunt around my fingers as she shattered and came for me.
All those memories are waging flat-out war on the part of me that is trying to help her right now. The part that wants to protect and shield her from the world.
And I’m honestly not quite sure which side is going to take the battle.
Somehow, I resist the urge to take her to my room, opting instead for the guestroom where I had her before, since it will be a little familiar to her.
I sit her on the edge of the bed and step away.
“Don't move. I’ll be right back.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, I put the kettle on and grab a bottle of water. After the kettle boils, I pour it over a bag of chamomile tea before I head back upstairs.
Brooklyn is exactly where I left her. On the edge of the bed, wearing… that .
My eyes darken as I replay the moment I walked into that fucking place and saw her on stage: dressed like a fucking teen porn star, hair in pigtails, bent over and showing her ass split by a thong to a room of lecherous, whistling men.
It’s genuinely a miracle I didn't kill anyone.
I want to rip the goddamn costume from her body. But first, I need answers.
It’s partly self-serving. Even if I’m trying to convince myself it’s so I can better help her, the truth is it’s so I know how deep the chasm is that I’m in with her. Because I am in there with her. No question.
I need to know how far of a climb we have out.
Is it just stripping? Or something worse? I mean, Caroline was pretty confident that Brooklyn was homeless and living out of her fucking car. If she’s been taking her clothes off and swinging from a pole, maybe giving motherfucking lap dances, is there… shit …more?
I hand her the bottle of water and watch as she opens it and takes a small sip before handing it back to me.
“More. Hydrating will help with the shakes.”
Her throat works. “I don’t have…”
Her eyes drop to the trembling hand holding the bottle of water.
“ Oh ,” she says quietly. She takes another few sips.
I set the tea on the bedside table and drop to my haunches in front of her.
“I’m going to ask you some questions now,” I say quietly. “I’d like you to answer them truthfully.”
Her face caves a little as she looks down.
“Look, I… I really do appreciate this. But it’s fine. You can just drive me to the nearest subway and?—”
“ Stop .”
There’s a cold firmness to my tone that makes her flinch.
“I believe I told you a while ago that you wouldn’t lie to me again.”
Her eyes snap to mine, hardening a little. “That was…” She swallows and looks down at her hands.
“That was what .”
“ Before ,” she whispers.
“Before what, Brooklyn.”
“Before you cast me aside!” she cries out, her voice shaking. “Before…” She exhales, squeezing her eyes shut. “Forget it. Just?—”
She flinches when I reach out and cup her jaw in my hand, holding it firmly as I lift her face up to mine.
“I didn’t cast you aside ,” I rumble. “I was trying to save you.”
She looks at me with defiance in her eyes. “ From ?”
“ Me .”
She blinks quickly, taking a shaky breath. “So… Why am I here now?”
“Because I've seen that there are people out there trying to get their hands on you than are even worse than me.”
Her lips twist wryly. “Are you calling yourself the lesser of two evils?”
“More like ‘better the devil you know’,” I murmur.
Brooklyn smiles just a little, her eyes finding mine.
“What were your questions?”
“Do you promise not to lie to me? Because I’ll know ,” I rumble, my grip tightening on her chin.
She nods. “Okay. Go ahead—no, wait.”
I shoot her a scowl. “Excuse me?”
“Before you…question me, or whatever…”
“You’re not on trial, Brooklyn, I’m merely?—”
“Yeah…no shit.”
My brow arches. She smiles quietly, biting her lip.
“I know,” she says, blushing. “ Language, Ms. Ellis, ” she huffs out with a stodgy, Winston Churchill-ish accent.
“Was that supposed to be me?”
“O bviously .”
I feel a smirk pull on my lips. “What were you going to say.”
“How long will I be here?”
You’ll never LEAVE.
I let my eyes drift over her, searching for words that aren’t, well, that .
“There is no end date.”
Something squeezes inside my chest when her lips curl into a small smile.
“ Okay ,” she says quietly.
“Was there anything else.”
She nods. “Yeah.” Brooklyn’s face warms as she looks down at her lap. “What does…I mean, me being here, and us, and… I mean, you pushed me away…”
“I’ve explained that.”
“Still,” she shrugs. “Now you bring me here and basically tell me I’m not allowed to leave.”
I nod. “And?”
Her throat bobs up and down. “What does that mean ? Like, for…you know…”
“For us,” I finish. “That’s what you were going to say, isn't it.”
She lifts a shoulder, looking away.
“I believe we’ve already established that I’m simply the devil you know, Brooklyn. And lest we forget, I’m, what, twenty years older than you?—”
“I’ve never felt what I feel when I’m with you.”
The words tumble from her lips. Instantly, her eyes widen, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as she stares at me with a mix of horror and shock.
“I—that wasn't supposed to come?—”
Suddenly, I cup her face, lean close, and inhale deeply, pressing my forehead to hers.
“The only reason,” I growl, “that I’m not kissing the absolute fuck out of you right now is that I need to ask you these questions first. And if I start kissing you, that’ll never happen, because I won’t ever stop .”
She lets out a small gasp as her hands slide up to wrap around my wrists, her thumbs rubbing my skin as she exhales slowly.
“ So why ask them ?” she whispers. “What difference does it make?”
“I need to know who I’m going to be fucking burying, babygirl.”
Our eyes are barely inches apart, locked.
“I’m scared of what you’re going to ask me,” she says.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I hiss. “And nothing to worry about.”
She nods, closing her eyes. “ Okay, just ask ,” she whispers.
I pull back, my hands dropping from her face, my fingers tangling with hers.
This time, I’m not worried about “what this is” or “what it means”. All I give a fuck about right now is finally allowing myself to accept that what I feel when I’m even near this woman is unlike anything I’ve ever felt with anyone.
“Where have you been living recently. The truth.”
Her eyes squeeze tighter shut.
“My car.”
Jesus .
“How long?”
“A year.” She swallows. “Maybe a little more.”
“And besides the Zakharova, you’ve been working at The Mirage.”
She nods again, her eyes still closed.
“Tell me what you actually do there.”
Her face falls.
“I don’t mind ,” I continue. “But I need to know.”
I need to know how deep a hole she’s in. Not for my fucking ego: it’s not about me. It’s about her , and seeing if there’s damage above what I can fix.
…To be blunt, I need to know if stripping has devolved into turning tricks.
Even if the answer may rip me in two.
“I…” She takes a breath. “I dance. On stage. Her eyes are still closed as her brow furrows deeply. “I strip,” she finally chokes out.
“On the pole.”
She nods. My jaw tightens.
“Do you give lap dances.”
She tries to pull away, but I hold her hands tightly, keeping her right where she is.