Chapter 23
Louhi
“I nearly died that day. It’s the only time I was completing a job where I thought I might not survive.”
I loathe admitting defeat, but as Sean tenderly strokes the raised skin, it reminds me that I’m not entirely on my own anymore.
If we’re together, he should see all my pieces.
“I’d only been taking jobs for a year and was eager to prove myself.
I wasn’t as good as I thought I was back then, and I accepted a hit that was reckless, even for me. ”
There’s a low hum as the heat cycles on, the only noise for a moment, as I take myself back to that night.
“Gabriel Santos was an international assassin with multiple hits out on him. I knew killing him would put me on the map, and I decided I was going to be the one to take him out. What I didn’t know was that Santos was formally trained in the Filipino martial arts of Latigo y Daga.
If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have posed as a sex worker, locking myself in such close bloody quarters with him, nor would I have agreed to being whipped when he suggested it.
I thought I was signing up for a mild caning or something, not being abused by a fucking whip fighter. ”
Shuddering, I close my eyes. I can still remember the taste of blood in my mouth as I bit my tongue, the smell of sweat filling the air, and the venomous sound of the snake whip cracking through the small hotel room in Cairo.
“He only got a few strikes in before my patience snapped like a twig. When I whirled around, I was able to embed my blade into his chest, but I missed his heart in the chaos. Latigo y Daga translates to whip and dagger in Spanish, and Santos expertly knew how to use every weapon in that room with us. He was more skilled than I was then. I managed to get the knife out of his chest, but he had the whip. I turned at the exact moment he struck me. The force of the blow split me open.”
The lazy circles over my scar deepen in pressure, but they don’t hurt. They’re just intense enough to keep me in the present.
“The blow took me to my knees, and he moved to strangle me with the whip. But intimate kills are the riskiest because unless your victim is immobilized, you make yourself vulnerable. It took seven stab wounds before he finally stopped breathing. It’s still my messiest execution.
“While that experience taught me plenty of reconnaissance lessons, it served its purpose. I was able to collect on all sixteen hits on him, and news spread of the person who had killed the unkillable. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t clean; I had an inbox full of requests by the end of that month.”
That’s how kuoleman jumalatar was born.
His reply is a soft kiss to the top of my head that makes my heart turn over, my stomach knot, and my skin feel warm.
I seal myself to him, sticking our bodies together with invisible cement.
Being with Sean is like seeing things in color for the first time.
He has this charming way of making me forget everyone and everything other than him.
My eyes fall shut, letting the tiredness claim me and swallow me whole.
Something drags me from sleep, and my eyes flutter open.
I’m on my side, and where I should be met with the sight of Sean fast asleep next to me, there’s nothing but cold, disturbed sheets.
Sitting up, I spot him perched at the end of the bed, bent over with his elbows on his knees, blatantly ignoring his shoulder injury.
At some point, he must’ve stoked the fire in the hearth because the sound of the burning wood crackles like crinkled paper being rolled into a ball, smelling faintly of forested pine and spruce as the marigold flames dance into oblivion, gently illuminating the room.
I’m trying to give Sean the space he obviously needs, but this is the fourth night in a row I’ve woken to find him staring at the wall. Sometimes he comes back to bed—always atop the sheets—but occasionally he leaves the room entirely, and I find him in the gym hours later.
I’m tempted to ask Jace about it, but something stops me every time I open my mouth. I worry that Sean is falling through my fingers like loose sand, and I desperately yearn to clutch the grains left in my fist.
“Sean,” I venture cautiously, my voice gentle. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t meet my eye. Instead, he stretches to his full height and moves across the room. I watch as he tugs on a pair of borrowed shorts and sneakers some Bratva soldier will likely never get back.
“I’m going to the gym.” Then, he leaves. I drop my head into my hands and dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets.
How much longer can I let this go on? What can I do to save him if he can’t liberate himself?