Chapter 6
Mikhail
She’s actually here.
In my club.
She’s in my arms, limp against my chest, and I’m filled with the deepest rage I’ve ever felt in my exhausting, minacious life.
The feeling takes on a physical pain; the twist of a dull knife in soft, pliable skin.
It’s like I’m strapped to a chair, helplessly enduring the decimation of my own body.
The sensation is quite unusual. Foreign.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look she gave me, hurling towards my arms on wobbling legs, a single tear carving its path down her cheek.
She moved to me like I was her salvation.
And I have never been anyone’s salvation.
The deadweight of her body settles meaningfully in my arms as I look down at the useless piss-stain my men hold flush to the floor.
One thing’s for sure. I won’t be his salvation.
“This is a mistake! My girlfriend just got a little loose with her liquor tonight. I’m just gonna take her home, we won’t cause you any more—”
The heel of my shoe pressed to his cheek silences the incessant speech, and I gradually increase the pressure, devouring a sick joy from the gasp of pain that falls from his mouth.
Joy.
Damn. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this many emotions in my entire life. Father would roll in his shallow grave.
“Take him out back. I’ll meet you there.
” I instruct my second, dismissing the dead-man-walking as an issue for later.
One I’ll deeply enjoy resolving.The boy tries to yell out as he’s pulled away, but my men are faster.
Barely a squeal escapes the fool’s lips before he’s shoved out the guarded back entrance.
Finally able to provide my undivided attention to the woman gracing my arms, I carefully maneuver one arm beneath her legs and lift her to my chest. Unease flickers through me as I recall the last words she spoke before allowing her eyelashes to drift shut.
Drugged. Me.
I had been trying my hardest to give her the space she seemed to require after our moment in the back hall.
I’ve never been the best with people. Sure, I was born like this to a certain degree, but I’ve spent my entire life being trained, broken, and reshaped into the role of the family’s enforcer. My brother was the one trained to be the diplomat. The people person.
It never occurred to bother me.
With my particular temperament, I was better suited to my role in the darkness, obtaining information and taking care of our less honorable issues.
Yet, these days, with what’s left of Nikolai rotting ten feet under alongside dear old dad, I’m realizing I might not be the best equipped for the more social aspects of leadership.
In the hall, she seemed so damn scared. The last thing I wanted was for her to run from me.
I’m still not quite sure what I want with the little spitfire, but I know for certain that I’m not willing to let her disappear once more into the streets of New York.
I thought, perhaps, a bit of distance would make her feel more secure. Then I could try to approach her again.
When I saw what I had thought was harmless flirting between her and the piece of shit I just kicked out back, I was suddenly overcome with anger.
The response was contradictory to everything I am. I’m not a guy who does jealousy. I can barely stand the feeling of physical touch on my skin, and I don’t ever get attached to the few sexual partners I entertain here and there.
Why the hell would this girl be any different?
The odd reaction brought me a source of discomfort I hadn’t wanted to examine.
So, I turned.
I turned my back on her.
And though this is the one place where she should have been safe, I couldn’t even save her from one low-baller threat.
I gather her long curls over her shoulder and readjust her against me. Her head lolls onto my chest, relaxing into the new position with the vulnerable trust of unconsciousness. Steady puffs of air blow against my shirt collar, calming the unusual tempest of emotions flowing through me.
It’s strange how someone can go through their whole life feeling little to nothing, yet face an onslaught of panic, horror, and relief at the collapse of this small woman. I guess I’ve finally gone mad.
To be fair, it was a long time in the making.
Paying no heed to the lingering crowd of onlookers, I stroll out the side entrance, making my way to the parking garage.
As expected, Ivan lingers in the lot, awaiting my next order.
He happens to be the only one of my staff who knows who exactly is cradled in my arms right now, and just how hard I’ve been trying to find her.
He’s sat beside me, going through stacks of useless PI reports into the late hours of the night.
His familiar gaze pinches with concern as he takes in the two of us.
“Bring the car around. Inform Dr. Griffin that he’s needed at the city compound. I don’t care if he’s off-call, He’s got thirty minutes.”
My second nods and walks into my periphery, but my gaze has already returned to the flutter of lashes against too-pale cheeks.
Arms tensing around her curled body, the shock of holding her hits me all over again.
I’m touching her.
I’ve been in contact with her this entire time, yet somehow the visceral discomfort I’ve grown to anticipate is absent. I feel…nothing. No prick of distress. None of the anxiety or disturbance that has plagued me for the last thirty-one years.
All I feel is awareness and heat searing the skin that wraps around hers. My mind runs a quick scan of every inch of surface area where her body touches mine: my arms, chest, neck.
The same thing happened earlier tonight, though I was too preoccupied to examine it.
Now, I recall catching her in the hallway at the club.
The way the very tips of her fingers brushed my chest, revealing the intimate knowledge of the scar lying beneath.
And I felt nothing. None of the pain and panic that an external touch typically summons.
Utterly oblivious to my shocked realization, the small, limp woman cradled to my chest lets out a heavy sigh before tilting her chin into my shirt. It’s adorable.
Adorable? Why would a drugged-out, vulnerable woman be cute? If anything, it’s an inconvenience.
Tires squeal, the car pulling up beside us, and yet, I still can’t seem to look away.
“Pakhan, want me to take her?” Ivan asks, hovering just a few feet away. Peeling my eyes from her soft features takes a herculean effort.
Ivan’s curious gaze drifts between where my arms tangle around her legs to the soft cheek pressed to my chest, and I can tell he’s just as disarmed by my unusual behavior as I am.
I shake my head, clinging to Cassandra like she’ll disappear from my grasp. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“I owe her my life.”
The excuse is bullshit. We both know that. I’ve taken bullets for Ivan, and he for me. That hasn’t been enough to alter my inability to so much as shake his hand, let alone hold him to me as I do with her now.
I gently maneuver us into the back of the dark SUV, laying her across the seats.
The little freckles lining her nose are stark against the unnatural pale color of her cheeks, and I have the overwhelming impulse to do anything possible to bring back that soft blush she wore earlier.
I gaze at her closed eyes for a moment before pulling out of the car.
How could anyone fathom hurting someone like that?
Rage, sharp and grounding, fills my veins. I straighten to my full height, turning to Ivan.
“Watch her.”
I wait for his sharp nod of confirmation before spinning on my heel towards the back hall.
As promised, my men are waiting in the dark corridor, arms wrapped around a wriggling body with a choking hold.
The air thickens with deference and fear, my guards’ expressions lowering to the ground.
The man goes slack in their arms once I breach his line of sight.
“Look, I’m sorry! I’ll just go, I won’t say anything—”
I don’t have time for this. The words click off like a tape recorder when I reach for my gun. At the sight of the weapon, his fight renews, kicking, screaming, begging. I only smile.
“Please! I’ll do anything, please!
I take a few deliberately slow steps forward, relishing the pleas like a complex dessert melting on the tip of my tongue. I don’t give him a single word as I raise the barrel to his temple. The stale smell of piss fills the air right before I pull the trigger with a satisfying click.
Once I return to the car, I brush my palms against my dark pants before climbing back in, settling her so she lies sideways across my lap. I’m not quite ready to part with her small breaths brushing my neck.
The car rumbles down the city roads as we make our way through the familiar maze of buildings, but I still can’t find it in myself to look away. I’ll consider whether I’m having some sort of mental breakdown later.
Increasing worry builds in my gut with every pothole and sharp turn she sleeps through, drugged into an unnatural state of sleep. I’m not used to feeling this—helpless?
Is that what this is? Guilt and concern grow inside my gut like a fucking tumor as we zip through the streets at a speed only Ivan could manage.
I try to focus on the steady pattern of breaths that cause her ribs to lift and fall.
The habitual pattern has me zoning out, remembering how lively she was just hours before.
When a low-level bouncer informed me he’d just admitted a girl with a small dragonfly tattooed on her wrist, I was sure it was just another dead end, but one look at the security tapes confirmed the reality.
One glance. That’s all it took.
After months of searching with PIs and utilizing every single one of my connections to locate what seemed like a dying man’s mirage, here she was. Walking right into my club. A cool glass of water to quench my sickened thirst.
I was reasonably suspicious of the coincidence. That is, until I intercepted her in the hallway. Until I met those panicked, gray eyes.
Honestly, I had started to wonder if the events of that unfortunate night were even real.
Maybe that’s why I was so adamant in locating her.
A tangible whisper of proof in a storm of blurred sense and pain.
I wasn’t expecting her insistence on discretion, like she feared my retribution for leaking the events of the night.
I couldn’t help but rush to tell her she was safe.
The urge was strange.
She should be scared of me. It’s logical.
Everyone is scared of me. In fact, I prefer it that way. Reputation is quite a useful tool in my particular career path.
But for some reason, the idea of her being scared of me overwhelms me with visceral disgust.
A horn blares into the night, and the car lurches when Ivan slams his foot on the brakes.
The asshole who cut us off speeds away, but I have to brace when we’re hit with the ricochet backward, and my grip around Cassandra tightens when we’re shoved back into our seats.
Naturally, Ivan loses a string of curses in our native tongue, but I’m instantly captured by the pair of wide, terrified eyes that peer up at me. She’s awake.
“It’s okay, it was just a car. We’ll be there soon.”
My placation is a calm, direct splash of logic. Exactly what I’d appreciate were I in her shoes.
But, fuck, it’s clearly not the right thing to say, because her breathing starts to increase. My heart races, matching the same tempo that jerks her ribs up and down as she fights for more air. That feeling of raw helplessness races through me for the second time tonight.
“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. I promise.” I brush her hair back from her face, wishing like hell I knew what to say to calm her down.
Her mouth opens slightly, as if mouthing a word she can’t seem to form. I watch aptly. After a few fruitless attempts to get something out, her lips close with a huff of defeat.
Fuck. I look over her motionless body, the realization hitting me like a stone to the head.
She can’t move. She can’t even speak.
No wonder she’s freaked out.
“Menace, I know you’re scared, but I promise, I’ve got you. I need you to breathe slowly. You think you can breathe with me?”
It strikes me that our positions have been reversed from that first night. Her, slumped in my arms. Me, whispering encouragements into the shell of her ear. She was so much better at this than I am.
Her gaze meets mine, tears flowing freely down the side of her face. Her head raises slightly in a delicate nod.
It melts my charred heart.
“That’s a good girl. In…out. We’ll breathe together, okay?”
Her pale throat convulses with a swallow, chest spasming as she tries to match my breaths. After long minutes of effort, her hyperventilation eases to a more sustainable rhythm.
I brush my thumb in what I hope are soothing circles over her shoulder. “Okay, sweet girl, blink once for yes, twice for no. Understand?”
Her eyes press shut before opening back to me, and I give her a gentle smile, brushing the wet streaks from her cheeks.
“Can you move your fingers?” My own reach to enclose her small palm.
The look of fear that overtakes her gaze provides me with an answer, but she confirms my worry with two quick blinks. The second pushes another wobbling tear over the threshold of her lid.
“It’s just temporary, I promise.” I want to clear the stricken expression off of her soft features as quickly as I can. “It’s just that shit pumping through your system. The doctors will have it out in no time, promise.”
Her face still holds the terror from before. Like everything in her wants to be screaming. Like her agency has been stolen and used against her.
Desperate to ground myself, I hook onto the one thing that has always steadied me through the years.
My fingers tangle in her curls as I replay the beautiful sound of my bullet entering that fucker’s brain.
Digging through bone and tissue, the sharp tang of his piss filling the air.
The comfort of retribution. The sweet tranquility of death.