Chapter 25
KATE
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Tarasov says.
Gage rallies before Cole does. Waving back his security guards once again, he says, “Games are over for the night.”
“This is not a game,” Tarasov says. “This is an investment.”
“What the fuck are you investing in?” Cole spits.
“My marriage, of course. I will give you one hundred thousand dollars to prove the bitch I am to marry has been tamed.”
“Fuck you,” I growl, which lacks originality but covers everything I have to say to Nikolai Tarasov.
Instead of answering, the pakhan snaps his fingers.
Antonov leaps forward like a trained dog, pausing only long enough to sweep up the jagged chair leg he used to threaten Gage.
Before anyone can react, his thick fingers close around my hair, yanking hard enough to force involuntary tears to my eyes.
Once my head is pinned against his shoulder, he presses the splintered wood into my throat.
Tarasov’s voice is deceptively mild as he says, “Katya, I must say this is not a promising beginning.”
I’m afraid to swallow. I can barely breathe. Cole is frozen halfway into a martial-arts crouch, his wide eyes ordering me not to move.
Of course the night has come to this. Collins clearly told Tarasov where to find us. I don’t know if all the business with Antonov was a delaying tactic, buying time for Tarasov to arrive from Baltimore. Maybe it was just a warm-up, intended to break my spirit.
The thought of Tarasov watching me get myself off with the vibrator makes me want to boke.
But I’m proud that he saw Cole cane me. I took the beating.
I managed the pain. Somehow, that makes it easier to stand here, naked from the waist down and arse burning like it’s been scored with acid as a broken-off piece of wood presses hard into my throat.
“Let her go,” Cole says.
Tarasov ignores the demand. “Of course, you do not have to prove my Katya is tame,” he says. “But if you do not, I will have Antonov put her down like the feral beast she is.”
The people around us have no idea how to react. Some whisper. Others edge toward the doors. A few draw closer to the stage.
“Rider,” a man calls from the back. “This is in poor taste.” A woman’s voice quavers: “I want to go home.” They think this is some sort of show, a filthy little play acted out for their supposed enjoyment.
Gage attempts to follow that script. “Kynk is a members-only club.” He speaks reasonably to Tarasov. “I’m afraid you have to leave.” He sounds like the shitehawk is guilty of nothing more than crashing the gate.
Tarasov doesn’t blink. “I am a guest of Evgeni Federov, pakhan of Brighton Beach. I do not choose to leave.”
“Then let me buy you both a drink,” Gage says. “I keep a bottle of Beluga Epicure for my most special guests.”
“I am not here for drinking.”
“Why don’t you just let her go?” Gage crumples for a moment, but then he’s back to managing his club. “I suspect at least one member here is willing to engage in whatever safe, sane play you have in mind.”
“I will not just let her go, because she is a fucking mick whore. Because she killed my son Pyotr. Because she is mine. And just so we understand each other perfectly, there is nothing safe and there is nothing sane about how I intend to play.” He extends his hand toward Gage. “Your phone, Mr. Rider.”
Gage snaps, “No phones are allowed inside Kynk.”
Tarasov jerks his chin toward me. Antonov changes his grip, crushing his forearm across my throat and shoving the chair leg into my side. I struggle to breathe as tiny crimson petals bloom through my sweaty silk top.
Tarasov seems not to notice. Instead, he says to Gage, “You manage a club where accidents might happen, despite the best intentions of everyone involved. You must be able to reach the authorities at all times in case of an emergency. Your phone, Mr. Rider. Do not make me ask again.”
Gage glares as he reaches into his breast pocket, the one where he’s stashed the club’s winnings from tonight’s fundraiser. He produces a slender matte-black mobile.
Whispers ignite the crowd. They’ve been told that absolutely no one enters Kynk with recording devices. They’ve been lied to. More than one person’s shout is obscene.
Tarasov ignores the outcry. Eyeing the phone, he says, “Wolf. You will take my money. And you will prove your whore is tame. Fuck her up the ass. No lube. No mercy. Make. It. Hurt.”
Of course that’s what Tarasov wants. That’s what Pyotr did to me when I was eight. That’s what I’ve never allowed any man to do since. If Antonov’s grip wasn’t keeping me on my feet, I would crash to the floor.
“This is fucking bullshit!” The shout comes from an unexpected ally—Master Jonathan from the earlier game. He bulls his way toward the exit.
“Stop!” Tarasov barks, and he nods once more toward Antonov. My captor shifts his grip again, jamming the chair leg into the tight V at the top of my thighs. I close my eyes, waiting to feel its deep bite.
Jonathan stops. The milling crowd behind him freezes. These people came to the club for a party. No one ever expected to deal with a madman. They’re sheep now, paralyzed by the predator in their pen.
“You,” Tarasov says, pointing to Master Jonathan. “To the stage. Now.”
Antonov tightens his grip on the chair leg. Despite my fiercest intentions, I whimper. No lube. No mercy. Make. It. Hurt.
Master Jonathan trudges to the front of the room.
Tarasov turns back to Gage, who is still grasping his phone like it’s a magical torch that can beat back every demon in the night. “Unlock it,” Tarasov commands.
Gage raises the screen to his face and passes the open device to the pakhan. Tarasov hands the phone to Master Jonathan. “You will record everything that happens.”
“I will not—” the Dom objects.
At Tarasov’s silent command, Antonov forces the chair leg between my thighs. My cry is half a shriek, half a sob. I jackknife at the sharp pain, even as Cole gathers himself in a suicidal launch at my captor.
Before he can move, though, Tarasov shouts, “Hold!”
Antonov retracts the broken wood. Cole freezes. Tarasov’s eyes are lifeless moon rocks as he tells my husband, “I promise you she can bleed out faster than you can stop my Dima.”
Slowly, with barely controlled fury, Cole extends his hands from his sides. He looks like he’s trying to prove he isn’t carrying a weapon. Tarasov allows himself a single satisfied nod before he says to Master Jonathan, “You will record everything.”
Gage has to unlock the mobile again. The phone shakes in Jonathan’s over-size hand as he trains the lenses on me.
Tarasov nods again with satisfaction before he says, “Dima?”
For one glorious heartbeat, my throat is free of the Russian’s arm. I stagger a full step forward, sucking in a deep breath. But by the time I straighten, I see that Antonov has leaped off the stage.
He’s standing at the edge of the crowd, another woman locked in the iron vise of his forearm. It’s Clarissa, Master Jonathan’s sub, and her horror-film scream is cut off as Antonov jams his weapon into her side.
Jonathan looks over his shoulder, but he doesn’t stop recording.
“Please,” Clarissa pleads. “Please, please, please.”
Her eyes are darker than Breagha’s. She’s taller, too, or maybe that’s just the stilettos beneath her shuddering ankles. But that face… That hair… In a different timeline, she could be my sister.
I’m responsible for her. I’m the reason Tarasov is here. I wanted to come to Kynk, and now people are screaming, people are begging. Antonov is twisting his jagged piece of wood, digging it deeper into helpless Clarissa’s side.
I pull myself to my full height. “Go on,” I say to Cole. “Do it.”
Cole groans like a dying man. But before he can move, the room is filled with the sound of two heavy hands clapping. The applause comes from the darkness on the edge of the room. “All right, Nikolai Pavlovich,” booms a deep Russian voice. “That is enough.”
Tarasov’s face twitches in annoyance.
“You have made your point,” says the voice. “Your bitch has accepted her punishment. She shows she is tamed. Now take Mr. Rider up on his offer. His Beluga Epicure truly is superb. Let these people go to their homes.”
Tarasov hisses, “Tishina, Evgeni.”
The man in the dark must be Evgeni Federov, New York’s pakhan. We’re on his territory. His word should control.
But Tarasov shouts, “No one will leave! Not until my game is done.” He turns back to Cole. “I am tired of waiting. Yes or no. Will you fuck my lisichka? Will you prove she’s tame? Or does Dima kill that whining blyad, then put down my bride?”
It’s not fair to make Cole choose. I was born into the Irish mob. I let Pyotr Tarasov past the gate. I killed the feckin’ shitehawk.
I made a choice eighteen years ago, so I could protect my sister. And I can choose to protect Clarissa now. To protect her, and also to protect the man I love. I can keep Cole from making this impossible decision.
“He’ll do it,” I say.
“Kate—” He starts to protest.
“He’ll make it hurt,” I say, because nothing can stop what has to happen. “I promise.”
So with Jonathan recording, Tarasov hands Gage an obscene stack of money. When Rider refuses to take it, Tarasov stuffs the bills inside his cummerbund. Then he says, “Special request. That is how the game goes, yes? I get to make a special request?”
Gage turns his back on the pakhan.
Tarasov snorts in amusement before returning his attention to Cole and me. “Both of you. Naked. Now. And remember. Dima can move very fast when he wants to.”
It only takes a moment to pull off my blood-stained top. There’s a raw wound on my side, like rats have gnawed on my ribs. My fingers slide off the clasps of my pretty lace bra, but on the third try, I get it off.
Cole is more efficient even though he’s wearing more clothes. We finish at the same time.
He stares at me, helpless. His hands hang at his side. His cock is limp.
I do what has to be done.