46
Cade
Hugo Antonov dies tonight.
It’s been a week since I arrived in Moscow. The first three days were a much-needed break to re-screw my head on, and the last four were spent creating my access to Antonov.
Stalking, as Luna calls it.
I push thoughts of her away, as I have been doing in the last week, and focus on the screen in front of me. It’s the security camera feed from the Bolshoi Theatre kitchen, where I posed as the replacement chef last night.
The silent feed shows me gesturing confidently as I direct the staff. Their nods and quick responses tell me my Russian still passes muster. Last night was a test run, a chance to familiarize myself with the layout and the people.
Tonight is the real deal—a high-profile charity event where Hugo Antonov will be in attendance.
I s tudy my movements on the feed, analyzing the best angles to avoid detection. My hand moves to my neck, absently searching for the grounding weight of my rosary.
It’s not there, of course. I left it behind, wrapped around Luna’s wrist.
The absence of my rosary has forced me to make changes to the plan.
No slipping into Antonov’s hotel room for an intimate kill. It’ll have to be out in the open now, right there in the charity dinner. I pick up the vial from the coffee table, rolling it between my fingers. The clear liquid is especially tailored to Antonov.
Most people would just feel dizzy, maybe short of breath. But for Antonov, with his cocktail of usual meds—blood pressure pills, prostate medication, Viagra—it’s a death sentence. The beta-blocker will shut his heart down like a switch.
Simple. Clean. The kind of kill that used to center me.
Used to.
A soft beep from my watch pulls me back to the present. It’s time to report to the theatre’s kitchens. My eyes drift to the crisp white chef’s uniform laid out on the hotel’s bed, but my feet feel like they’re encased in concrete.
“Move your fucking ass,” I mutter to myself. Still, I don’t budge.
The words echo in my mind, reminding me of that final morning when Dante dragged me out of bed. At the time, I had no clue my life was about shutting down.
“It may have shut down, but Luna and Scar are still trapped in it,” a voice needles in my brain, impossible to shut out.
Scar.
He thinks I’m still in Harmony. He’d taken the blow surprisingly well. All he asked was if I could come and talk to him in person.
Of course, I promised. I just have no clue when that would be. He’s likely self-destructing right now, but I can’t let myself think about him.
Luna, though. Nico and Dante will look out for her, and so will Phoenix. She’ll be more than fine. No doubt loving her life as a biker chick.
I stare at my phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flames. It’s around five in the morning in Harmony right now. She’s still asleep.
Or maybe she’s lying wide awake the same way you have for the past seven days.
Don’t do it, Cade. You’ve done well so far. Don’t screw it up now.
I pick up the cell phone and dial. As the phone rings, my fingers trace the tattoo on my chest.
Druids till the reaper takes me
The words of the Reaper Druids etched into my skin, into my very being. My eyes drift to the kill list spread out beside the tablet. Names crossed out, lives ended by my hand. Only a few left and one less tonight.
I tell myself this is not caving. I just need a minute to see if she’s really okay.
“Luciana.”
Her voice comes through, warm and sleepy. “Oh wow. The Moscow Strangler has a moment to spare? To what do I owe the honor?”
I fight the laugh rumbling in my chest. “That’s a terrible name, princess. Make it classier.”
“Oh? Like what? The Kremlin Killer? The Red Square Reaper?”
Her snicker fills my ear, and I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. For a moment, I’m back in Harmony, her head on my che st, the world quiet and safe.
“How’re you?” I clear my throat, trying to shake off the longing settling in my bones.
“Missing you,” she says softly.
I swallow hard, my free hand clenching into a fist. “Luciana—”
“Hey, just stating cold hard facts,” her tone lightens. “So, guess what I’ve been up to while you’ve been gone?”
“What?”
“Working on Phoenix’s manners.”
I scoff. “Good luck with that.”
“I know, I’ll need it. My God, Cade, he’s so grouchy he winds me up all the time. But I’m confident it’s doable. Take you for example. You’re practically neutered.”
My laugh comes easier this time. Talking to her feels so damn good. Normal. Like I haven’t spent a week avoiding her and digging my own grave. Like I’m not about to kill a man—
“Speaking of winding,” she purrs, “I’ve been wondering about something you did.”
“What did I do?”
“Your rosary,” she says softly, all playfulness gone. “Did you leave it on my wrist on purpose? Like . . . like a stupid promise ring or something? Because that would be lame—like ‘ick’ territory lame.”
I think of the rosary—of all it represents. My past. My vengeance. My pain. And yes, I deliberately left it with her.
“I agree. It was pathetic. See, I left in such a hurry, I didn’t have time to yank it off you.”
“I noticed. You literally couldn’t wait to go and die.”
There’s a long pause where all I hear is her breathing. Soft. Even. So fucking sweet.
“Do you want a promise ring, Luciana?” The words leave my mouth without permission, and I almost drop my jaw in shock.
Did I just fucking say that?
The silence that follows is thick. I can hear her breath hitch, like she’s trying to process what I just said.
My heart pounds, rapid and unsteady, as I wait for her response.
Finally, Luna’s chuckle rumbles through the phone. “Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of a collar. You know, the kind that fits into nipple piercings. I’m all set up for that, you know.”
Nicely deflected. I sigh in relief, but it’s short-lived.
Her playfulness grates against my raw nerves like sandpaper on an open wound. I’m three thousand miles away, vomiting words I’ve never uttered aloud before—words that taste foreign and terrifying on my tongue—and she’s... what? Taking it all in stride? Playing games? Toying with me like a cat with a wounded bird?
“What’s the matter, princess?” I inject as much ice into my voice as I can muster. “Suddenly, you can’t say what you really want?”
Silence. Then, softly: “Alright. I want to know how you feel about me.”
Her teasing is gone, replaced by a vulnerability that makes my chest ache.
“You don’t know?”
“I thought I did, but the past week made me question everything.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose so hard I see stars. “Modesty doesn’t become you, Luciana. It’s like putting a muzzle on a lioness.”
It feels like I’ve been plunged into icy water. My breath falters as the words escape me in a whisper. “You’re right. I’m desperate for you, Luciana. Completely wrecked by you. You’ve dismantled me piece by fucking piece, and I have no clue how to put myself back together.”
Silence.
I don’t know what I expected. Shock? Joy? Maybe for the world to stop spinning for a moment. Instead, Luna’s voice comes back cool and collected, like we’re discussing the weather instead of the wreckage of my usually controlled mind.
“In that case, Caden, I suggest you pack up and come home. We both know you’re not going to kill Hugo Antonov.”
“You’re so sure about that?” I challenge, thrown off balance by her sudden shift.
Luna chuckles, “I’m becoming something of a you expert.”
“Right, here we go.” I lean back on the seat and let her smugness pour over me like honey. “Tell me.”
“I know that when you’re frustrated, you pinch the bridge of your nose.”
“Go on,” I murmur.
“And when you’re getting turned on, like now?” Her voice dips into a whisper. “You make this deep animal sound—like a purr. You try to cover it up by clearing your throat, but it never works.”
Heat floods my body, and I have to stifle that very sound rising in my throat. She knows me too well.
“And when you’re afraid? That’s when you retreat into old, trusted patterns. You were terrified a week ago when you returned all banged up. You practically ran to Moscow . Screaming.”
“Smart mouth.”
“That’s how I know, Cade,” Luna finishes softly. “That you won’t go through with it. Because I see all of you, even the parts you try to hide. You didn’t go to Moscow to kill, baby. You get off on revenge too much to leave your weapon wrapped around my wrist.”
“Enough, Luciana.”
I sink further into the chair, overwhelmed by the precision of her words. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I want to be angry at her giggle of triumph, but again, she’s fucking earned it. She’s gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever has, burrowing deep into my heart like a beautiful parasite.
As I listen to her voice, the room around me fades. The kill list on the desk, filled with names I’ve hunted for years, suddenly looks like chicken scratch. The poison in my pocket feels as useless as a child’s toy gun. They’re relics from another life. A skin that suddenly feels too tight.
All I want is her. Now.
My cock throbs with an insistence demanding immediate relief. Running the flat of my palm along my length, I just listen to her breathing while pleasure washes over me.
I want to watch her sleep. To see her across the breakfast table with the smell of burnt toast lingering in the air because she still can’t work a toaster to save her life.
Luna’s breath hitches, and then I hear the not-so-subtle hum of vibration. The sound goes straight to my balls.
“What the hell are you doing?” I unzip my fly and fist my cock, slowly stroking up and down. The friction is exquisite torture.
“Giving my Bliss Xtra a workout. For what feels like the fortieth time, I might add.” Her voice is husky, dripping with sin.
“What?”
“ Oh yeah. Between me and the girls—let’s just say the local store has run out of batteries. Your hometown will become something of a Sodom by the time we’re through. Think of bow-legged residents.”
I snort. “Seven days. And you’re already cramming toys in those tight holes.” I stroke myself faster, unable to stop the low growls pouring out of me.
“Well, you took off without notice. What’s a girl to do?” She moans. “I’ll withdraw however I choose, thank you.” The defiance in her tone makes me want to spank her ass raw.
“How does it feel?”
“Bliss Xtra? Fucking overhyped. There’s so much it can’t do.”
“Like what?” I’m panting now, my hand a blur on my cock.
“Can’t talk to me. Kiss me. Spank me. Fuck, Cade—your heat, the sheer girth of you, the way you sound when you sink inside me . . . oh, God—”
“Keep going. Slide it in deeper.” My voice is a guttural command.
“Cade . . .”
“Touch those hard nipples for me. And don’t stop talking.”
I’m close, so fucking close.
“Ah . . . I need you to pin me down and fuck me until I’m screaming. I want you to come all over me. Inside me.” Her voice breaks on a whimper.
“My dirty little slut, I can hear how drenched you are.”
“Cade!”
“That’s it, scream my name. Let the boys hear who fucking owns that cunt. Fuck!” I erupt in my hand, lost in a haze of lust, her broken sobs pushing me over the edge of insanity.
I picture her back bowing, her body convulsing beneath me as I slam over and over into her tight heat, prolonging her climax, marking her as mine.
Her gasps eventually slow even as I ride the aftershocks of something that shouldn’t feel this real, not from thousands of miles away. My pulse skitters as it does for her alone, leaving me feeling raw and exposed.
I close my eyes, fighting the strange mix of satisfaction and frustration.
Then, her voice cuts through the haze. “So, you want to tell me when you’re coming back? Or am I to do permanent damage to my nerve endings with this constant vibration?”
“Better not let your loyal followers hear that.” I laugh, imagining those biker chicks and sweetbutts hanging on to her every word.
“I asked you a question, Caden.” Her voice is suddenly hard.
“I told you. When I finish.”
“Good to know,” Luna snaps. “In that case, I better call up my Parisian exes.”
“As long as you’re happy for me to break the neck of whoever so much as looks at you,” I growl.
“I’m rolling my eyes so hard my head hurts,” she says, and I can almost see her doing it.
“Have I told you how much I love you?”
“Save it, jackass.”
I don’t dwell on the heavy pause or the way her breath catches. I’m too busy grinning.
My watch pings again, and I straighten from my seat. I toss the tablet into the open backpack on the bed, followed by the chef outfit. Finally, I roll up the kill list and stuff it into the hidden side pocket.
“Alright. Showtime, baby. Gotta go make the world right again.”
“ Be safe,” she whispers, unable to mask the worry in her voice. “And, um, thanks for calling me. It meant . . . Cade, you mean . . . the world to me.”
And she’s back to being shy. The woman is lethal. Sweet fucking poison.
Ten minutes later, I’m swinging my leg over my rental bike and hitting the road that should take me toward the theater. To the charity event where Antonov waits, oblivious to the judgment coming for him.