Cruel Kiss (Akov Bratva #2)

1. Cali

CALI

But it's kind of abstract. You don't really grasp all the implications of it right away.

That's very, very real.

I turn around.

He's big. Bigger than the number on the scale made me picture, all of it concentrated in the shoulders and the chest. He's on the step below me, close, so close I can smell him, cigarettes and musk, like he just came in from outside.

He reaches for me.

I don't think.

I just swing.

The knife catches him somewhere on the arm, I feel it drag and stick, and he grunts low in his throat, more surprise than pain.

His hand closes on my wrist and squeezes harder than I ever thought possible.

Instantly, my fingers go numb, and the knife almost drops, but I don't let it. I will not let it. I cannot let it.

Because this man wants to hurt, kill, or capture me.

And if I let him do that…

What will happen to my children?

So no, I'm not fighting to win. As much of a warrior as I like to believe I am, there are some laws of physics that simply cannot be denied. This man, whoever he is, is twice my size and he does this for a living, whatever "this" is.

What I'm fighting for is to stay between him and the top of the stairs. That's the only thing left that matters. Keep him away from my kids.

I plant my feet on the landing and swipe at him with my free hand, nails extended like talons.

He yanks my wrist, but I go with it instead of against it.

That shift of my weight is enough to surprise him, and we both stumble sideways into the wall.

A picture frame comes off its nail and cracks on the floor.

I cringe, wondering how long until the mayhem wakes Hayden or Isabella.

It's the most terrifying thought of my life to picture them opening their bedroom door, sleepy-eyed and confused, only enough time for a brief, "Mama…

?" before this stranger's dead eyes slide from me to them, and then he—

No. Can't think that.

Just stay asleep, my babies.

Please stay asleep.

Please, God, let them stay asleep.

He hooks an arm across my chest and drives me back into the banister. The wood bites into my spine and all the air is punched out of my lungs. He's still clasping my knife-wielding wrist, so that's useless, and my other hand can't reach, so I fall back on my last resort.

I bite him.

I get a mouthful of his forearm through his sleeve and I clamp down like an animal. I rip hard, and I'm pretty sure I feel something give way, hot and wet. He swears—in Russian, I think—and his grip loosens for half a second.

Half a second is enough.

I bring the knife up blind, both hands on it now, and I shove it forward into the meat of him, his side, his stomach, I don't know.

I just push until it stops.

Whatever it is, it works.

He roars and shoves me so hard my head snaps back against the banister. The world goes white and starry, but at least the knife stays in him. My hands fall back, empty. I taste blood, mine or his, I can't tell.

He's clutching his side, which is good.

What's less good is that he's still standing and he's still between me and the stairs down.

But I'm still, still, still between him and my little ones' doors. I can almost breathe a sigh of relief. Until—

"Mommy?"

Isabella's voice. Small, whispered through a crack in her door. Sleepy and scared, just like I knew it would be.

Everything in me turns to ice.

"Stay in your room!" I scream. "Bella, stay in your room, do NOT come out, lock the—"

While I'm turned, the man hits me.

It's an open strike across the face, but it's like getting hit by the house itself. I crumple down onto the landing, ears ringing, cheek pressed to the runner. I can see his black boots, and just past the steel-toed tips, there's the yawning, shadowy openness of the staircase.

I grab his ankle with my feeble hands. I don't have anything else to work with. I can't reach to bite him again and the knife is still quivering in his side. All I have left is this weak grip and a decade of being told I was too small, too soft, too much, not enough.

I wrap both arms around his boot and I hold on like it's the last thing in the world, because it is. He can't get up the last two steps if I'm anchoring his foot to the floor, right?

I hope so, at least. He seems to disagree. He kicks. He drags me. My bare knees burn and peel open on the carpet like he's yanking me across a cheese grater.

"You stupid—" he grunts. He reaches down to pry me off, and as he does, I see that there's a wet, dark stain spreading across his shirt where the knife is still buried. I think, with a strange, floating calm, Good. Bleed, you bastard. Bleed out and die, right here on my landing.

Maybe it'll happen eventually, I don't know. I'm no expert on how much blood a 228.1 pound body contains or how fast it must escape him in order to stop him from hurting my children.

What I do know is that, before that hand can reach my throat, where he's aiming it, something else arrives.

The whole house shakes.

The front door doesn't merely open. That wouldn't be dramatic enough, I suppose.

Instead, it quite literally comes off. Wood and hinges exploding, a smoky bang that I feel in my teeth.

And then there are voices below, fast and loud and Russian, and feet on the stairs, a lot of them, charging up hard.

The man on top of me hears it, too. He freezes. I feel in his posture the exact moment he understands that whatever he came here to do, it's over, and the only undecided thing that remains is whether he gets out in one piece or several.

He lets go of me and lunges for the top step, toward the doors, toward the kids, because a hostage is a way out and he knows it—

But he never gets that far.

Because just then, Ronan appears over the top of the stairs.

I've never seen him move like this. I've seen him still. I've seen him slow and certain and unhurried, a man who makes the world wait for him.

This is nothing like that.

This is fast in a way that doesn't look human, a blur of dark suit and dark hair. He hits the intruder with his whole body, ripping him off the landing in a bear hug and then hurling him into the wall so hard that the plaster cracks and dust comes down.

I remember how scared I was of Ronan backstage at the opera, when he threatened that man in a monotone whisper.

That's maybe one percent of how much he terrifies me now. He looks like the Grim Reaper, hooded eyes and pale, violent hands. One of those hands goes to his side and comes back with something dark, metallic, and heavy. Two sounds follow, like champagne corks popping.

Then the man who attacked me puddles to the floor.

After that, it's quiet. My ears are still ringing from being slapped, and I'm still breathing hard. But no one speaks or moves.

From where I'm lying on the ground, I can see half of the man's face. A thin trickle of red blood leaks out of the corner of his mouth. He's dead. It's beyond obvious, even to someone like me who hasn't seen much in the way of corpses.

Slowly, frightened, I raise my eyes. Ronan is still standing over him.

He's once again the calm, composed Ronan I thought I knew, loved, trusted.

If it weren't for the gun in his hand glinting in the thin sliver of moonbeams coming through the hallway skylight, I'd think he was just there to check on us.

More shadows cluster on the stairs. His men, silent and watchful. They look to him for orders.

Someone else wants his attention first, though.

"Mr. Ronan?"

The sound comes from Isabella's door. I want to move, but my limbs won't respond, and even if they did, Ronan is much, much faster. He gets there first. Somehow, the gun gets tucked away so Isabella never sees it before he kneels in front of her.

I can see how careful he is to block her view of the dead man. All she will be able to see from that vantage point is Ronan, the wall of him, the trustworthy—or so she still thinks—mountain of him, there to comfort her from the scary sounds in the night.

"Hey, Bella." It's so soft, the way he says it.

It's his pancake voice. His caterpillar voice.

"You're okay. Everybody's okay. There was a big, loud noise, huh?

That was me. I'm sorry. I dropped something really heavy and it was very silly of me.

Go on back to bed, sweetheart. I've got your mom right here. "

I can't see Bella, but I hear her feet shift on the floor. "Is Mommy okay?"

I try to croak out an answer, but my voice isn't responding much better than my body is.

Two of Ronan's men are picking the intruder up off the floor, quiet and quick.

I understand that, in about ninety seconds it's going to be like all of this never happened.

Surprisingly, I don't have a single thought in my head about whether that's right or wrong, ethical or not. I don't have any thoughts at all.

"Mom's right here, Bella," I manage to splutter at last. "I'm okay, baby. Everything's okay. Go to sleep. I love you."

"...Okay." She shuffles again. "Goodnight, Mr. Ronan."

"Goodnight, brave girl," he whispers back.

We wait. All of us do, the whole hallway full of enormous men in dark clothes, all of us holding our breath, until we hear the little creak of her bed taking her weight again.

Then Ronan turns and looks at me.

"Hello, Calista."

I don't remember standing up. I don't really choose to, in terms of voluntary muscle movement. It's like I'm being levitated up by some force in myself that I'm not on speaking terms with, and brought over to him, and pressing my face into his chest, and shaking, shaking, shaking.

His arms wrap around me and pull me even closer. He's so much bigger than me, but I don't feel small in the bad way. I feel covered. Protected. Safe. Like he's the roof between me and a hurricane.

"I would never have let anything happen to you," he murmurs into my hair. "Never, ever, ever."

Against all that is holy in this world, I let myself take comfort in his promise.