Chapter 19 Lev
LEV
Where the fuck is she? She was with her friend, heading for the kitchen, and then were so many fucking people, and I lost her.
I circle the kitchen twice, spotting neither Serafina nor Amara. The back doors are open, but a quick scan reveals people around an electric fire pit, a joint being passed around, none of them Serafina.
I make another sweep of the kitchen before accepting she must have slipped out, so I turn back the way we came, scanning the expanse of rooms. Music vibrates the walls and floors, echoing the exact sensation inside my head.
The people make it difficult to breathe.
The noise makes it difficult to think.
Serafina’s absence makes it difficult to…be.
Halfway through the house, my phone vibrates, her name flashing across the screen. I answer it immediately, heart pounding a bit quicker, because she wouldn’t call unless something was wrong.
“Serafi—”
I’m cut off by a scream, followed by two words: “Up…stairs. Help!”
Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I rush for the staircase and take them two at a time, ramming people out of my way. At the top, there are doors everywhere, but before allowing frustration to take hold, I slam open the first, catching two women in bed, neither of them Serafina.
When my hand grips the second door, a scream erupts through the music from the third—a sound I doubt anyone else is sober enough to pay attention to. I throw it open, taking in the scene.
Serafina’s pinned to the floor, her dress ripped down the centre and bra discarded. My next victim hovers over her, one hand on himself, the other gripping her thighs open.
Both freeze when I enter. He rears up, but without giving him the chance to say shit, not even to plead for his worthless life, I lunge.
He hurt her. He’s touching her. She’s crying.
And I wasn’t here to stop any of it.
I tackle him, yanking him off her with a firm punch to his face, the crack of his nose echoing though the room. I shove him to the corner, giving me a chance to see Serafina scramble out of the way, her limbs clumsy and unsteady.
“This isn’t your business.” He rotates his jaw, rubbing where my knuckles made impact.
“She’s my business, yebuchiy kusok govna.” Roughly, it translates to fucking worthless piece of shit.
I slam my fist into his face. Again. And again, my arm whipping back and forth with a speed, a strength, that’s never, in any of my training and jobs, been necessary until now. Not because he’s putting up a good fight—his attempts to block are pitiful—but because he hurt her.
He dared think he could rape her, and there will be no mercy.
If I was a minute later…
If she didn’t call me…
My little curiosity would be a changed woman—and not for any right reason.
Twenty-seven years of a brain in constant overstimulation, and I’d live it all again to undo this moment for her.
I fist his shirt, hauling his slumped body closer. His head lolls, blood coating his chin and cheeks. One tooth looks broken, and blood streams from his mouth. It’s not enough to ease my rage, the static in my head, because he dared touch the only person who’s ever been able to calm the noise.
If only I’d brought my gun, I could end his life. The fact of my knife is a passing thought, the feeling of his blood on my knuckles much more victorious.
“What makes you think you have any right to touch her?”
His face is an utter mess, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Not until he’s a corpse.
Until one thing stops me. One thing erases the red over my eyes.
Her voice.
“…Lev…” It’s a mere croak, but it calls me to her nonetheless.
I throw him to the ground, head thumping against the windowsill, and he groans, unfortunately still alive. I straighten, but not before pulling out my phone and snapping a picture of my mess.
“If you’re who I think you are, her brother gets to decide what to do with your ass. And if you’re not, then you’re mine. I’ll hunt you the fuck down, and I promise, this is nothing compared to what I’ll do to you then. Touch her again, and I’ll start digging your grave tonight.”
Before turning away, I send my foot into his ribs. He groans before seemingly passing out. It’s not enough, but with the immediate threat dealt with, Serafina needs to get to safety.
I turn, finding her on the floor a few feet away, hair draped over her face. I drop to my knees, heart pounding quicker than I knew possible, before grasping her chin and forcing her head straight.
“Fina?”
Her eyes flutter, and she lets out a shuddered breath, quelling my head that’s seconds away from exploding. When her eyes shut again, I pry them gently open. Her pupils are disturbingly skinny.
Fucking asshole drugged her.
“Serafina, open your eyes.”
Nothing. I scan the room, searching for needles or anything to suggest what we’re dealing with. An empty cup sits abandoned. If he drugged her drink, it’s likely something she needs to sleep off.
I yank my shirt off and tug it over her, managing to slide her arms through the holes. She’s a doll, limp and occasionally letting out the softest of whimpers that just about destroy me.
“You’re okay. I’ll get you out of here. You did good.”
When my shirt covers as much as possible, I retrieve her phone discarded off to the side, slipping it into my pocket, and then her bra, stuffing that in my other back pocket.
I slide an arm beneath her knees and the other around her back and hoist her into my arms, casting a final glare towards her attacker, regretting when his chest lifts in a breath.
I leave the room, not bothering to close the door behind me, and push past the numerous of drunken students.
They can all die. Especially the ones who were only a few feet from where she was getting attacked.
Especially the supposed friend she came with.
There something isn’t right about that girl, and I’ll start digging as soon as I can.
Some toss us curious stares, but no one dares to stop me as I carry the passed out, drugged girl, which says enough about their shitty morals.
When we make it outside, the fresh breeze passes over her, and she whimpers again, turning her head into my chest. Something cracks inside me by that simple action.
I’ve carried her twice in one week, when I’ve never before with anyone else.
It’d mean getting close enough, to care enough about someone else.
But with Serafina, my arms clench her tighter, unable to imagine her anywhere else.
“You’re okay. We’re going home. Printessa, stay with me.” The nickname is my half-baked attempt to gain a response; maybe her hatred of it will overpower whatever he drugged her with.
The reminder quickens my steps. It makes me want to lay her on the grass and turn around and finish him with my bare hands.
If she didn’t call me, what would I have found?
If I didn’t get to her in time, what would she have been fighting against?
Against her thigh, my finger taps its one-two-one over and over and over as we walk, anxiety building to heights never before reached. Not even when locked inside prison. All those moments locked up, hating my father, and it’s nothing compared to the emotion clawing—clinging—to me now.
I manage to get inside the building, thankful no one’s in the hallways, making it to our dorm without further interruption.
I pass her room, not quite sure what I’m doing when resting her in my bed instead, wanting her not only closer, but without tainting her own space when she wakes and it all comes back.
After turning her head to the side in case she pukes, I rush to the mini fridge for a bottle of water to start rinsing out her system.
When I return, her head is over the side of the bed, the only warning before a wet splash of vomit decorates the floor.
She drops to sleep right there on the edge, her hair hanging over the side of the bed.
Reaching her, I roll her onto her back and slip an arm behind her head to lift her upright. “Drink. I need you to take in a little, okay? For me.”
Her lips part even as her head lolls, so I tip the bottle, letting a bit of water stream between her lips. Most slips over her cheek onto the bed, but some makes it inside, and her tongue moves on instinct. Her eyes flutter again, and she opens them. They’re dull, lifeless—a hit in the gut.
As are her next words. “L-Lev…I tried.”
“You did, Fina. You did good. But I need you to drink.”
She needs to be okay. I need her to wake tomorrow, well enough that we can talk about those stupid reality shows before she studies.
Something claws at my chest. In prison, the sensation was self-preservation kicking in, an innate fear for my life. This isn’t that. It’s worse. It’s fear for her. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve ever felt before.
She must be okay. She needs to wake up and bat her eyes at me and end the noise in my head. So. Much. Fucking. Noise. Noise since answering her call, uncertain how I’d find her. She needs to be okay, because I don’t have the answers to what it is about this girl yet.
Her nod pauses my anxiety temporarily. Her movements are sluggish, but when her lips wrap around the bottle’s spout and her throat works in tandem, things get a fraction better. She takes three solid chugs before her head falls against my hand, eyes shutting with a sleepy sigh.
“Atta girl.”
With her having puked some of it out of her system and taking in water, I rest her against my pillow, pulling the sheet some of her vomit hit out from beneath her to discard it in the corner of my room. Then, I position her head to the side in case more comes up.
“Rest now, printessa. Just rest.” She probably isn’t listening, but she should know she’s not alone.
I move to the end of the bed, reaching for her hips to remove the scraps of her dress so she can rest more comfortably. As I reach beneath my shirt, the light blooming of bruises on her thighs sweeps a tornado of rage through me.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling—the true desire to destroy, to leave her and go back to find him, Vitale or not, to end him.
That’s not what Serafina needs, and she comes first. So, watching for a sign of discomfort, I slide the scraps off, doing my best to keep my shirt in place. I wait for her to kick me, to believe I’m him. The fact she doesn’t pisses me off, because it’s the result of those fucking drugs.
Once she’s wearing only my shirt, I tug the blanket up, taking extra care tucking her in before backing away into the main part of the dorm. Assuming he used the classic roofie, Rohypnol, she’ll be knocked out for the night and will wake feeling hungover.
“Fucking fuck, this is fucked.”
After checking if she’s moved in the two seconds, I wander to the window, staring at the field, towards the party, wondering if anyone found him yet.
It’d be so easy to end him, to bruise him for every mark he’s left on her.
He’s lucky he didn’t get far enough to leave lasting physical damage, because, Cosa Nostra war or not, I wouldn’t have stopped.
I pull my phone out, flicking to the image of this guy. His face is majorly bloodied, but Zeno could make something of it—only after he loses his shit.
Fuck, this isn’t the call I wanted to be having, but it’s necessary. With weight in my chest, I click his name. My finger taps its pattern while the call goes through and quickens when he answers.
“Hey, Zeno. Something happened…”