EIGHTEEN
Benito
T his bullshit makes no sense. The only way out of here, back toward the city, is to take the road in. Heading toward the Redwood-flanked community ahead makes no sense if they were outsiders.
I rest my hand on Nastasya’s shoulder to break her from her thoughts and gesture to the Land Rover. We’ve got all we need from here for now. I have new places I’d like to investigate.
She follows back to the car, silent while I hold her door and then make sure she’s safe in her seat before I spin on the inanimate forest behind me and drag both hands over my face. Somewhere out there—possibly close by—are two fuckers who thought they could take her life without consequence or remorse. And I have fuck all to go on.
How the hell am I supposed to keep her safe when I don’t know where her monsters hide?
I exhale a weighted breath and pace to the driver’s door, then climb in behind the wheel. Fingers tight on the leather, I force my grip as tight as possible before peeling one hand away to start the engine. Murder paces my veins, frustration hot beneath. The need to exorcise this energy fogs my thinking and clouds my vision. But there’s no way to get the rush free without scaring the woman I want to shield from this base depravity.
Lives are lost daily in our world, and not a single one of us gives a fuck about that fact. Death is as promised as new life. As revered and feared. Each has the power to shift the very fabric of our organization, but at least with birth, it’s often expected.
Death doesn’t give a fuck about common decency or social convention. The reaper will steal in unannounced during the night and throw chaos to the wind without a second thought. It’s that sudden shift in the world we know—the life we understand—that often throws us off balance.
We spiral down, unsure where or when the journey will end.
I hate not knowing how things will end. And this is one destiny I’m fucking determined to be in control of—unlike my own.
Stas will get her revenge, and I’ll be the man who stands by her side in awe of the woman she is. Her rock. The single fucking thing she can depend on when everything else in the world seems hell-bent on fucking her over.
It’s how it always should have been.
She sighs when I pull onto the road, sliding down the seat a little as we head toward the secluded community. The paranoid fuckers who buy into these over-planned suburbs are the type to have security at the forefront of their mind. Before driving the first street, I could guarantee that we’ve passed at least a dozen home monitoring systems that would have caught the car in question.
We pull up to the gate, and I lower the window before looking at my soon-to-be wife. My heart jumps at the word. Wife.
“Six-seven-eight-two-two,” she recites, unaware of the excitement warming my veins.
I punch the code in with a shaky hand, intrigued to find Caroline’s code still works.
A sign Nastasya’s family hasn’t completed the cover-up yet.
Interesting.
The streetlights pass across Nastasya’s face, highlighting her concern while I drive slowly along the perfectly maintained avenue. Focus, you fool. When I send Dion here to collect intel, the trees that stand proudly in the center of the road will present a problem for obtaining a clear view of the car. But the open front yards are what I’d hoped for. No plants to obscure the plates, no trees to shield the men’s faces.
“She lived three blocks in,” Stas murmurs. “Near the middle.”
My wife. I shake my head clear and frown at the darkened properties spaced down the wide road. We could drive the streets and look for the perpetrator’s car. But I’m equally as sure that the fuckers don’t live here as I am that we wouldn’t find the vehicle if they did; people around these parts keep their cars locked away in spacious garages. You don’t often see a car left on the driveway to muddy the image when the covenants likely extend to how many windows the fucking houses have.
When the street ends in parkland, I pull to the side of the road and stretch my arms over my head, fingers knitted against my scalp as I sigh.
“What are you thinking?” Stas twists in the seat, her closest leg propped higher with a bent knee.
I reach where my phone sits in the cradle and tap my reply.
That I want to kill someone.
She chuckles. “You and me both.”
I let my head fall back on the seat, rolling it to face her. She holds my inquisitive stare, fearlessly allowing me to search the depths of her soul. Thought so.
The difference is, you’d just shoot the fucker and be done with it,
I explain on the small screen.
“Perhaps. What would you do?”
Pull them apart piece by piece until I found the part responsible for their shitty decision.
She meets my impassive gaze, eyes widening when she finds nothing but sincerity.
I snort in amusement and add,
Told you I’m not the same anymore.
Stas pulls her full bottom lip between perfectly straight teeth. The movement sucks her cheeks in, accentuating those high cheekbones of hers. She stares for longer than what’s comfortable before letting her gaze drag down the length of me. “I think you’re just the same.” She lifts one hand to still me when I reach to type a reply. “Underneath, that is.” Stas extends an arm across the space between us and runs her fingertips in a caress along the line of my jaw. “You’ve simply added layers since I knew you last.”
Motherfucker… Turns out I still have a heart. My chest aches with pressure from the swollen organ.
Her attention stays on me as I turn my head and place a kiss on her lingering palm.
I hate having to talk to you this way,
I tap out afterward, trapping her hand when she tries to pull away.
Let me try another way.
A gentle nod. A simple gesture. It’s everything in the grand scheme of things.
I use my redundant right hand to pull her closer, my palm wrapped snugly against her nape. She fights the tiniest bit, the barest pressure against my hold. Yet, my bride-to-be allows enough give that I can manipulate her to sit exactly how I want her.
Closer.
Nastasya may say she doesn’t want to forgive me, but her actions speak louder when she allows me control in this way. I run the pad of my thumb across her high cheekbone, then shift to drag the digit down her delicate nose. She pulls a deep, fortifying breath; her eyelids slide closed at the touch. I continue the caress, fascinated by the changes over the years. Muscle memory makes me want to seek out the supple lines I remember, yet I force myself to continue the gentle trace of her features to commit new contours to memory.
I’m certain she’s the same underneath, but my gut tells me that the additions to her character aren’t as brutal as mine. Where I hardened to the life we live, adding armor to my soul to protect it from the betrayal and heartache that time as a made man entails, she allowed the blows to make holes in her shield. I see the pain, the confusion, and the resentment toward a life we didn’t choose. Nastasya didn’t opt for the underworld, nor did I. We were born into this without considering whether our personalities could weather the constant storm.
You harden to your surroundings, or you let them consume you.
I’m solid as a rock. But there isn’t much of Nastasya left.
Her breath whispers across my lips, my mouth so fucking close. I ache to taste her, to run my tongue across the swell of her top lip. It thickens my armor to know that I physically can’t.
She sighs when my mouth brushes hers, tilting her elegant chin slightly higher to welcome my affection. I may not be able to kiss her with passion and fire, but I can fucking well do it with conviction.
I ghost my lips across hers once more, my armor slipping at the memory of how she felt all those years ago. It’s bittersweet to do so, but I mix the memories with the present to fill in the missing pieces: her flavor, the pressure of her tongue against mine.
The erotic nature of two people engaged in an all-consuming French kiss.
Fuck, I’d give my right nut to be able to slide my tongue across hers again. For one more taste.
“What’s wrong?” She presses her forehead against mine after breaking the connection, hands encasing my face in her hold.
I pull away and face the side window, wiping away the singular trace of my humanity before it can reach my jaw. I thought kissing her would make Stas feel better—help her forget why we’re here.
All it did was remind me of what I lost.
I entertain the fantasy of killing my uncle one more time. Ironically, I can taste his fear; the vision is so strong in my mind.
“What did I do?”
I whip my head around at her whispered words. I never want her to blame herself for what I can’t provide—or receive. This wasn’t her doing, and it’s not her burden.
You did everything right,
I weakly tap out before shifting the Defender into gear.
I need to get her home. I need to put space between us before I do something stupid.
Like let love win.