Chapter 10
I sit in the unlit kitchen, surrounded by the scent of stale coffee and looming retaliation. My elbow rests on the table, an ankle propped on my knee, my eyes glued to the blue glow of my phone.
The grainy feed flickers, scattering pixels before the image steadies again.
I’ve hacked into every camera worth hacking into across Sitka—convenience stores, traffic signals, ATMs, residential security systems. I tapped them all, establishing a network of eyes, never blinking, always searching.
And there she is, my burdensome baby Dove. Working earlier today at the mechanic shop. Her stubborn independence and resourcefulness never cease to amaze me. And piss me off.
I’ve watched her every step since she started walking. Every stumble, every victory, every quiet moment when she believed herself alone.
She was never alone.
As she crouches to repair a tire on the recording, the two fuckheads who hired her stop what they’re doing to stare at her ass.
Add them to the list of dead men walking.
I scowl at my broken wrist, irritation crawling through my veins.
And Wolfson Strakh.
I’ve been balls-deep in research, digging through every database, every dark corner of the net, finding horrifying secrets about his family. But Wolfson himself? Almost nothing. That’s more terrifying than any file I’ve opened.
Something happened to him. Something sick and unspeakable in an off-grid cabin in the Arctic. A cabin that no one knows how to find.
His family knows.
His bloodline is tied to the old-world Russian mob. The real deal. Soviet-era executioners. Men who ruled from the summits of mass graves.
The Strakh family doesn’t just disappear. They hide in plain sight, fortified by fear and an ancient code of conduct that this world could never understand. Scary shit.
Wolfson isn’t just dangerous. He’s fucking mesmerizing. Ethereal beauty with a predator underneath. Dove is vulnerable to men like him. Broken, beautiful, seductive men. She’ll fall. She always does.
Which means I have no choice. He goes on the list. Another problem. Another threat. Another mess to clean up.
This was supposed to be Gavin’s responsibility. If he’d kept his mouth shut and his dick in his pants, Dove wouldn’t have followed me to Alaska and entangled herself with the Strakhs.
A soft moan rises from the adjoining room, followed by a muffled laugh and a deeper grunt.
Gavin is in there with another man, getting his donut glazed, their groans seeping through the thin walls.
I clench my jaw, annoyance twisting into rage.
He had one fucking job.
But like everyone else, he’s a goddamn disappointment. Sex blinds him. Makes him careless. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the only eyes I can trust are my own.
To think, I studied him for months, sharing his bed while digging through his secrets. He needed a bride and a better financial standing to appease his conservative family, and I saw an opportunity.
When the feds discovered me a year ago, I paid Gavin to watch Dove so I could vanish to Alaska.
Convincing him to marry her was easy.
He hides his sexuality for appearance’s sake. Unbeknownst to her, she was to be his cover, and as a bonus, he would make some money to fund that lavish lifestyle he can’t afford.
Tricking Dove to take the bait was the challenge.
I knew she would be attracted to him. Every man and woman with a pulse finds Gavin sexy. He’s a real Matt Bomer type. Impossible to resist with his chiseled jaw, bedroom-blue eyes, and pretty-boy smile that could sell salvation to a sinner.
She didn’t know he’s gay to his core. Not until his confession yesterday. He’s masculine as hell, physically fit, perfectly groomed, and smells like expensive things.
Hitching her to a gay man was a calculated risk.
I don’t want anyone—gay or straight—touching my sister.
Of course, I know she slept with him. I had to coach him through it, step by fucking step, so he could fake his way into her bed. I told him what she likes, how she moves, what makes her unravel. I crafted the whole unholy performance like a director coaching an actor, and he nailed it.
The knowledge that his hands were on her, that his mouth touched her skin… Fuck, it boils my blood. Just picturing his lips on her—his filthy, lying mouth—makes me want to gut him right here and now.
Did I watch them together? Yeah, I fucking did. Through a camera lens, of course.
No one knows her like I do. Every trigger, guarded thought, and freckle on her body—she’s etched into my brain like scripture.
I shaped Gavin into her perfect distraction, taught him how to talk to her, move around her, and disarm her with carefully planted charm. I built him like a weapon, tailored to break through her armor.
I did it all for her.
She needs structure and guardrails. She needs protection from our enemies. She needs protection from me.
Now I’m back in Cali because no matter how much I trusted Gavin to be her babysitter, trust is always broken.
I shift my weight, tapping impatiently on the phone screen, cycling through dozens of recorded camera feeds.
Inside the mechanic shop, Dove wipes her hands on a rag and walks to the corner of the garage where the only camera is mounted. She looks directly at the lens, flips off the camera, and mouths, Fuck you, Jag.
Real mature.
My good hand twitches to smack all that rebellious metal out of her pretty face. When it comes to her, my resentment battles with my infatuation. She doesn’t know the lengths I’ll go to keep her locked down.
The grunting from Gavin’s room crescendos and quickly fades into whispered conversations. They’ll be finished soon, basking in their fragile afterglow.
Weak.
Gavin’s indulgence makes him utterly useless.
I remain seated, slipping the phone into my pocket. If I want something done right, it always comes down to me. Dove is mine to watch, and Gavin was a temporary solution.
The bedroom door opens, spilling soft light and whispered laughter into the hallway. Footsteps approach, and Gavin appears in the kitchen doorway, shirtless and flushed, his eyes widening when he spots me sitting in the dark.
“Send your hookup home,” I say for his ears only.
His face reddens because he knows he fucked up. After an awkward hesitation, he hurries back into the bedroom.
Murmurs float through the door, followed by rustling clothes and the shuffle of feet.
Moments later, Gavin reappears, ushering a man toward the front door. The stranger leaves without noticing me.
Gavin closes the door, lingering there a minute, visibly bracing himself before turning to face me again.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers, marching into the kitchen. “Let me explain.”
“You did the one thing I told you not to do.”
“I… I…”
“You told her about our arrangement.”
“Fuck, Jag. I tried. I did everything you said. But I missed you. You weren’t answering my calls. I haven’t spoken to you in months. Don’t you get it? I’m in love with you.”
“Were you in love with me while getting rammed ten minutes ago?”
“I know how it looks.” He winces. “It was just a little NSA fun. It meant nothing.”
“It’s been less than a day since your wedding to my sister was canceled.”
“She canceled it! I begged her to stay, but you know how she is. Impossible to control, emotionally withdrawn…” He throws a hand out, gesturing helplessly. “It’s like talking to a wall.”
Hard to argue. But more than that, she’s fiercely self-reliant, crazy smart, and possesses an unbending moral code.
“You fucked up,” I say calmly, rising to my full height. I step close enough to smell the sex on his body.
“I’ll make it up to you.” His lashes lower as he tentatively reaches out, trailing a finger down my chest.
He was a terrible fucking lay, tedious and quick to finish. Every encounter with him was a chore, one I’m happy never to repeat.
I already emptied his bank accounts and took back every penny I gave him. There’s just one thing left to do.
His gaze follows the path of his finger, down, down, down to my zipper. Then he gasps. “What happened to your hand?”
“Smashed a mirror.”
“I’m sorry. I know you’re angry.”
“My broken wrist has fuck all to do with you.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, let me take your mind off it.” He lowers to his knees and rubs the front of my pants.
As if he has any chance in hell of charming the cobra. The only thing that will make me hard right now is his last breath.
With my injured wrist cradled against my chest, I reach into my coat pocket and remove a thin piano wire fixed between two short wooden dowels.
Gavin’s focus is so transfixed on freeing my cock, he doesn’t track the movement.
In a fluid motion, I sweep behind him, loop the wire around his throat, and pull.
His eyes bulge, realizing too late the cold finality in mine.
He jerks and claws at the garrote, mouth gaping as the wire bites deep.
I anchor one dowel against the counter with my forearm and pull with my good hand, using leverage instead of strength.
His heels scrape the floor in a desperate, violent dance.
“Shhhh.” I rest my brow against his as life drains from his eyes.
His body convulses and fights for an eternity before finally falling limp. I hold for ten seconds more.
Silence.
I release the tension, pocket the wire, and carefully lower his body to the floor. No blood. No mess. No fingerprints. Just clean, silent revenge.
Standing over his lifeless form, I feel nothing.
Without another glance, I slip out the back door and disappear into the night. I already took care of the cameras.
I was never here.
Dove waits for me in Alaska, and once again, it’s my responsibility to keep her under lock and key.