Chapter 43
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
DINARA
The last knot cinches tight around Abram’s ankle, and I step back to survey my work.
He’s secured to the chair with his wrists bound behind his back, legs spread and strapped to the chair legs, black silk blindfold keeping him in darkness.
His cock is hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow with anticipation.
He thinks he’s about to have the night of his life. He has no idea what’s coming.
The flogger waits on the table, soft leather tails that promise pleasure and pain in equal measure. I pick it up, letting the weight settle in my hand before dragging it across his shoulders.
“You’ve been such a good boy for me,” I murmur, walking a slow circle around him. “So patient, so obedient. Are you ready to let me play with you?”
“Yes, mistress.” The words come out hoarse. “Please.”
Disgust coils in my stomach. I force myself somewhere far away, somewhere cold and detached, to keep playing this role.
I let the flogger cut across his back, hard enough to sting. He gasps, muscles flexing, arching into the sensation like he’s been starving for it.
I strike him again, red blooming across his skin in delicate patterns.
“Just relax and feel everything I give you. I’m going to take my time with you tonight. I’m going to make sure you get exactly what you deserve.”
The door clicks open behind me and Kirill’s heavy footsteps carry as he enters the room.
Abram’s whole body goes still, his head turning to catch the source of the sound.
“Mistress?” His voice holds a thread of uncertainty.
“Don’t worry,” I say, trailing the flogger across his shoulder blade. “I invited someone to join us. You don’t mind sharing, do you? I thought we could all have fun together.”
Kirill’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging Abram’s naked, vulnerable position, the restraints, the flogger in my hand. When his gaze meets mine, something dark and approving flashes in those pale depths, sending heat curling through my stomach.
I drag the flogger over Abram’s chest, teasing, circling his nipples while Kirill moves to stand behind the chair. Abram can’t see him, doesn’t know who’s entered, and his body relaxes back into arousal as I continue the game. Men are so predictable when you give them what they think they want.
“You’ve been very patient,” I tell him, stepping closer until my thighs brush his knees. “I think you’ve earned a reward.”
My fingers find the knot holding his blindfold in place.
“Let’s see those eyes.”
The fabric falls away, and Abram blinks against the light, pupils adjusting. I set the flogger on the table, then reach up and remove my mask.
His eyes lock on my face, bewilderment flickering across his features as he tries to reconcile what he’s seeing with what he expected.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to place me outside the context of Velour, but when it clicks, his entire face transforms. Confusion bleeds into fury, lips pulling back from his teeth in an ugly snarl.
“You.” The word comes out strangled and disbelieving. “What the fuck is this?”
“Surprise.” I smile sweetly. “And I brought my husband.”
Kirill pulls off his own mask, stepping into Abram’s line of sight.
“Hello, Abram,” Kirill says, his voice arctic. “How’s that hand feeling?”
Abram’s eyes narrow with rage. He thrashes against the bindings, the chair scraping against the floor. “You sick fuck. Is this your idea of a game? What kind of perverted shit are you into?”
He can scream all he wants. The reinforced walls of the club’s basement are soundproof.
I glance down at his lap. His cock has gone soft, shriveled against his thigh. Fear is a hell of a mood killer.
“A naked man with a limp dick shouldn’t be throwing around insults,” Kirill observes dryly. “It’s not a good look.”
“Fuck you.” Abram’s face is a mottled shade of red, veins bulging in his neck.
“When your father finds out about this, he’s going to destroy you.
Do you understand that? I’m his oldest friend, he’ll never stand for this…
humiliation. And for what? Because this whore you’re fucking lost her shit during our poker game! ”
Kirill’s fist connects with Abram’s jaw in a blur. The crack echoes through the room and Abram’s head snaps to the side, blood spraying from his split lip.
“That’s my wife you’re talking about, so I suggest you watch your fucking mouth,” Kirill spits. “This isn’t about the poker game. This is about something that happened a long time ago, something you were part of. You have information we need, and you’re going to give it to us.”
“I’m not telling you shit,” he snarls.
Kirill moves to the table and unrolls a heavy leather toolkit, the clink of metal instruments filling the air. He picks up a pair of solid steel pliers to make his point. “You will. It’s a question of how much you suffer first.”
“Even if I did, why the fuck would I tell you anything?” His bravado is cracking at the edges, but he’s clinging to it. “You think tying me up in some sex club is going to make me talk? I’ve been through worse than whatever amateur hour bullshit you’re planning.”
“Amateur hour, huh?” Kirill cocks a brow.
“Your generation is soft, you don’t know about real pain,” Abram sneers, trying to regain some semblance of control.
“You’ve never dealt with anything real, never been broken down by men who know what torture is.
You think you’re tough because you stabbed me at a poker game?
You’re playing dress-up in your father’s world, boy. ”
Kirill doesn’t acknowledge his words. “This is going to get ugly. You don’t need to be here for this.”
I start to protest, but he steps closer, cupping my jaw. The gesture is tender, so at odds with the violence thrumming through the room, that it steals my breath.
“You’ve been searching for answers for so long, carrying this weight by yourself. What I’m about to do here is going to stain your soul. Let me be the monster so you don’t have to be.”
Something cracks open in my chest. This man, this brutal, dangerous man, is offering to shoulder the ugliest parts of this for me. Not because he thinks I’m weak or incapable, but because he wants to protect me.
I’ve spent my entire life learning to be strong, to need no one, to handle everything myself. And here he is, telling me I don’t have to. That he’ll walk through hell so I don’t have to follow.
“Okay,” I whisper, and relief crosses his features.
“Turn away. I’ll tell you when it’s done.”
My legs feel unsteady as I pivot to face the far wall, squeezing my eyes closed to go somewhere else.
The next twenty minutes are brutal. There’s the sound of choking, gagging, desperate animal noises of someone fighting for air.
Slitting Spider’s throat was one thing, but this is different. My lungs ache even though I can breathe fine.
There is something merciful in not having to watch, in letting Kirill shield me from the images that would stay with me forever.
It feels never-ending. Abram was wrong. Kirill isn’t soft. He knows exactly how to break people, how to find the pressure points that make strong men crumble. He’s methodical, precise, relentless.
The smell of copper hits me, thick and metallic, coating the back of my throat. I breathe through my mouth, trying not to gag. My hands are shaking, nails digging into my palms.
More sounds. The scrape of the chair. The sharp clink of metal instruments. Wet, choked sobbing. Begging. “Please, please, I’ll tell you what you want to know, just stop, please stop.”
Kirill’s voice, rough, pushed past the edge of his control. “He’s ready.”
I turn around and open my eyes.
Abram’s face is destroyed. One eye swollen shut, the other barely visible through the mess of ruined tissue and broken skin.
His nose is twisted, and dark crimson leaks from his mouth, dripping onto his chest with each labored breath.
The fingers on his right hand are bent at wrong angles, two of them missing.
Kirill stands over him like death incarnate.
Blood covers his hands, his forearms, his shirt.
Spatters across his jaw, his neck. His pale eyes are empty, cold, focused entirely on the broken man in the chair.
I don’t recognize him right now. He’s primal and violent and terrifying, and even though it’s sickening, he did this for me.
I tear my gaze away from Kirill and focus on the broken man in the chair.
“Tell me what happened to Marina Voronina,” I say, my voice raw. “Tell me what happened to my mother.”
Despite his damage, Abram releases a bitter laugh. “So you’re the daughter of that bitch. Thought you looked familiar.”
Kirill grabs Abram’s broken hand and squeezes, grinding the shattered bones together. Abram’s scream is high and feral, echoing off the concrete walls until Kirill releases him and he slumps forward, gasping.
“Try again,” Kirill growls. “And this time, show some fucking respect.”
“The Network sent men to get her,” Abram rasps. “She had a marriage obligation to fulfill.”
My pulse roars between my ears. “What obligation?”
“Marina Voronina was engaged.” Abram coughs, spitting blood. “But she drowned before she could walk down the aisle. At least, that’s what everyone believed until one of our guys spotted her years later in Moscow, very much alive, with a new name, a new husband, and a little girl.”
The floor tilts under my feet.
“I don’t understand,” I say, dread settling into my bones.
“It’s not complicated, girl. Marina was supposed to marry the pakhan to unite the families through blood. But she didn’t want the marriage so she faked her death.”
The pakhan. Ruslan was supposed to marry my mother?
“When word spread that she was still alive, Ruslan lost his fucking mind,” Abram continues.
“She’d made a fool of him, rejected him, and here she was living like he didn’t exist. He blamed her parents too for being weak enough to let her slip away.
For losing control of their own daughter and destroying the alliance in the process. ”
My heart climbs into my throat. “What did he do?”
“Killed them all. Those Voronin idiots didn’t deserve to live. Then he sent men from the Network to take Marina in the middle of the night. Brought her here to fulfill her obligation. As his wife.”
Kirill freezes. The kind of stillness that comes before a cataclysmic event.
“That’s impossible. My father was already married.”
There’s a heavy beat before Abram chokes out, “Every problem has a solution.”
“Kirill,” I whisper, but he won’t look at me. His attention is laser-focused on Abram, his entire body coiled tight.
“Say it,” Kirill hisses. “Say it to my fucking face.”
Abram meets his gaze, hatred twisting his battered features. “We cut the brake lines on your mother’s car. Made it look like mechanical failure, a tragic accident.”
The words hit like a physical blow and Kirill staggers back.
The terrible, bitter irony isn’t lost on me. Ruslan killed the Voronins because my mother ran. Then he killed Kirill’s mother to make room for a forced marriage. Two families destroyed because my mother didn’t want to marry a monster.
“Marina was never auctioned,” I say slowly. “Was she?”
“Auction the pakhan’s bride? Are you stupid?
Your mother was valuable. As soon as Ruslan could prove she was a Voronin, he inherited the empire and the woman.
Except she ran before that could happen.
She was being held in the basement of Velour with the others to teach her a lesson.
She broke out and took everyone with her.
We tore the city apart looking for her, but she was gone. ”
A desperate spark of hope ignites in my veins. If she escaped, she could still be alive. But any relief is swallowed by the weight of Kirill’s grief.
He’s staring at Abram, his face stone, his breathing ragged, before he snaps.
Kirill lunges, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing, cutting off his air, making him sputter and choke and thrash uselessly.
The chair screeches against the concrete, tipping backward until the legs catch and it rocks back upright.
“Kirill!” I grab his arm, solid as granite. “There’s still more to learn.”
But my words don’t get through to him. He’s lost somewhere, and he needs this. He’ll never find peace without it.
The old man’s face is turning purple, his one good eye bulging, but Kirill doesn’t let go. His fingers dig deeper, knuckles white with the pressure.
“This is for Tasha,” Kirill grates. “This is for all of them.”
Abram’s struggles weaken, his thrashing turning to twitches, his eye rolling back. Kirill holds on, steady and relentless, until Abram’s body goes limp and the wet rasp of his breathing stops completely.
Kirill’s hands remain locked around Abram’s throat, chest heaving, staring at the corpse like he’s waiting for it to move again.
I lay a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone.”
He finally lets go, stumbling back from the chair. When he looks at me, his eyes are hollow.
I pull him against me, trying to drag him back from wherever he’s gone. His skin is cold under my palms, his muscles rigid. When his ice blue eyes focus on me, what I see breaks my heart. Grief and rage and betrayal, all of it surfacing at once.
“Use me. Channel everything you’re feeling into me,” I tell him.
“I’ll hurt you,” he says, his voice cracking.
“I trust you. I want this. Let it go. Let me feel this with you.”
He stares at me, searching my face for doubt or fear.
I let him see everything. The heat, the need, the absolute certainty that this is what I want.
“Use me,” I repeat, pressing into him. “I’m yours. All of me. Take what you need.”