Chapter 3
Three Years Later
“Doch’, is it done?”
Of course it’s done, asswipe. Why else would I be covered in blood?
Father’s grimy sausage fingers grip my chin, digging into my flesh and bruising the traitorous fair skin.
The curse of my Russian genes means each of his vile touches mar my skin in a mural of purples and greens.
What a glorious reminder of this shit life.
The royal douche, aka the Pakhan to the Bratva, can’t help but lay claim to his stolen prize as he smirks, proud of the monster he created.
Despite Alexey Romanova calling me daughter and forcing me to call him father, we do not share genetics, thank fuck.
Nope, this Russian bastard killed my parents, and if it weren’t for my unique heterochromia, I’d be dead in a ditch with them. Instead, he raised me to be a killer, and one day, I’ll laugh as I slice him from ear to ear.
Until then, I’m their Belaya Sova. The protector and personal assassin for a man who exasperates me daily, but who I love more than anything, also known as Ilya Romanova—my not by choice but fucking obsessed with me brother.
Being the White Owl has its perks, though. Lavish shopping trips, manicured nails and trips to the salon, hot men fawning over me…what more could a girl want?
Sike.
While other teenage girls were getting mani-pedi’s, I got each nail ripped from its bed ten times over. Fun.
My life, thanks to this pig staring at me like I’m simply a weapon to wield, has been brutal hand to hand combat training with men three times my size, gruesome and maybe a little erotic, torture sessions, and killing—even when I didn’t want to.
All with the goal of creating a lethal weapon and obedient pet.
At least they got one thing right, I am a lethal weapon… but I sure as hell am no one’s pet.
Jerking my chin away, I grit my teeth and resist gutting him right now. “Don’t doubt me, Otets.”
Dominic Prescot now sits in the middle of his massive, ostentatious living room, tied to an overpriced leather chair with his penis shoved down his slit throat and a feather left on his lap.
His men will know the Romanovas pressed the delete button on their boss, and not even one of them will retaliate.
I was technically supposed to take out his wife and children too, but I don’t kill innocents. Killing innocents is a big fucking no-no. Unbeknownst to my father, I work with an underground contact to get them new identities.
“Otlichnaya rabota, Katya.”
One day, I’ll show you well done, when I fry your ass over a fucking fire and feed you to the bears.
Calm down, bitch.
Instead of acting on intrusive thoughts, I nod, placating his massive ego. More so to get myself out of here so I can shower. I smell like greasy sausage dick and blood.
“You’re excused. Clean yourself up and meet with Ilya. He has your next assignment.”
My steps echo off the ornate, pearlescent walls of the Romanova mansion as I head for the west wing.
The white walls and decor remind me of an insane asylum.
It just needs locked doors and a perverted psychiatrist. For some inexplicable reason, white seems to be our school color.
What would our mascot be? Probably a white owl.
Wait? Am I merely a glorified fucking mascot?
Fucking bitches.
My feet pad up the grand staircase toward my quarters, my stained fingertips trailing along the pristine walls as I hum along to a random song from my playlist which is now stuck in my head.
I can’t wait to hear our bitch of a cleaner, Marianna, moan about the mess. I know the psycho witch gets off on a good Mr. Clean scrub down. She should thank me for providing her specific type of erotica.
She’s a vile little thing, but I can’t help but fuck with her. Watching her go beet red when she has to clean up the unnecessary trail of chaos I leave in my wake lights my numb soul on fire.
I wonder what would happen if I lit her feather dusters on fire…Fuck. There go my intrusive thoughts again.
Hey, a girl’s got to get creative in a house where she’s barred from screwing any of the men and isn’t let off her leash long enough to frolic with men outside the house. Those restrictions leave me with two options: fucking myself or fucking up Marianna’s day. Gotta get my kicks in somewhere.
Spoiler alert.
Thanks to this depressing life, I’m now eighteen and a virgin…also with an almost constant kink in my right shoulder and tinnitus in my left ear.
Entering my room, I lock the door and toe off my boots.
Unclipping one leg holster, then the other, I remove my short blades from their sheaths.
The gleam of the metal on the sharp edge calls to me like a phantom siren.
My thumb presses into the edge, the skin indenting then splitting.
A drop of blood slides down the pad of my thumb before I press it to my lips.
My lungs fill and as I exhale, the darkness inside my brain crawls back inside its locked box.
I free my two long blades from my back scabbard, setting them aside to clean later.
Dominic’s blood coagulated against the steel makes me giggle.
God, he cried like a little bitch. The image of all the children he had sold to Alexey flashes in my mind, and I close my eyes, bringing forth instead the image of me slicing my swords over his jugular veins and through his trachea as he choked on his own dick.
I unzip the all-white—well, now red-splattered—bodysuit and let it drop to the floor.
My head tilts as I appraise my body, admiring and loathing the bruises covering my flesh.
Peeking over my shoulder, I spot the feather-shaped brand Alexey burned into my skin as if I were fucking cattle being claimed for slaughter.
I wonder what I would look like as a blank canvas—no scars, no burns, no vivid colors painting my skin.
I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind and cram it into the little box of things I’ll never know.
The desire will have plenty of company along with the thought of being made love to, being taken on a romantic date, braiding hair with a girlfriend and watching chick-flicks, going to college, having children of my own, being able to go out into public without looking over my shoulder.
That’s not my life.
My life is serving as Ilya’s Owl.
Alexey’s wife died five months after giving birth to Ilya, and Alexey never remarried or had other children.
My father worked for Alexey as his financial advisor, when he wanted out, Alexey couldn’t stand the idea of my father spilling his secrets.
He killed him while my mother watched, then he killed her.
But when he saw me, an innocent nine-year-old little girl, he saw an opportunity, deciding I would be the perfect gift for Ilya’s eleventh birthday, his very own Owl.
One would think Owls would be revered, adored. But nope. Alexey’s Owl, his own sister, abandoned her duties, falling in love with an Alessi. Now Alexey has a sick sense of paranoia, inflicting his revenge and hatred on me.
He thinks it will terrify me into loyalty, but to feel fear, you must be afraid to die.
I’d welcome death…
But I want to take the sick fuck with me.
So, I bide my time in the shadows until the perfect opportunity presents itself. I don’t want it to be quick; I want to drag it out, let him feel the sharp sting of my knife, and carve his flesh as many times as he’s forced Ilya to carve into my own.
I want to hear him beg for his life, to laugh in his face when I deny him mercy, and when he goes, so will I. Ending his life is my sole purpose.
The thought lifts my lips into a rare smile as I step into the steaming shower, the hot water coloring my pale skin red. My fingers trail through the two braids dangling down my back, smoothing them out as the water washes from clear to pink.
What a pretty color.
Once I’ve washed, saturating myself in my favorite amaretto and caramel body wash, and the water runs clear, I step out and dress in an all-red pantsuit, with only a black lace bralette under the jacket.
I slip into red heels, adding height where I can since God only made me five-foot fucking nothing.
My heels clack against the marble floor as I make my way across the mansion toward the east wing.
When I push open the door, Ilya stands in a grey three-piece suit with vodka over ice clutched in his grasp.
He’s studying some files when he hears the door open and glances up, ice-blues meet mine, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
You’d never be able to tell we weren’t related. Except for our eyes, we mirror one another. Platinum blonde hair, fair skin, a straight nose with a bump in the center, and full lips.
“Sestra, you look ravishing as always.” His honeyed voice calls the word sister like a prayer, in perfect Russian.
The relationship between Ilya and I never has and will never venture into intimacy.
He views me as his sister, as much as I view him as my brother, but an appreciation for each other’s appearance lingers, always edging the line of inappropriate.
“I’m aware.” My fingertips trail along the bookshelf, not a speck of dust to be seen.
I pull out a single book, flipping it upside down and replacing it.
I wonder how long it will take Marianna to find it.
I bet it’ll drive her up a pretty white wall questioning how long it had been out of order and how long she had missed it.
“One of these days, Marianna will suffocate you in your sleep, you menace.” Ilya hums with amusement.
He knows what I’m doing, leaving small little details out of order for her.
I've been doing it since I was young. My own special little fairy dust I like to sprinkle around to make her fly off the walls.
“She can try.” I grin, turning toward him. He reaches up, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear as he tucks his other hand in his suit pants pocket. “Father said you had another assignment for me?”