Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Copper’s deep voice filled the air before he announced, “Ask me if I care.”
I’ve been single for four years. Please congratulate me for my bachelor’s degree in singleness.
—Dima to Shasha
DIMA
“You’re too dangerous to be allowed back into the military.”
That wasn’t even a fucking thing.
“What?” I asked, wondering if I’d heard correctly.
“Highly trained individuals like yourself can’t just go back into the regular military. Rank and all that will be questioned, and it’s never going to work. It’ll be too frustrating having to take orders from people that you feel aren’t as qualified as you. Trust me,” he informed me.
Years ago, I’d joined the military because I wanted to fly.
I did fly, for a bit.
Then someone who knew someone who was connected to another someone found out that I was Shasha Semyonov’s brother, pakhan of the Russian Bratva. From that moment forward, my military life had changed.
Gone were my dreams of flying, though I still did it, just not nearly as often as I’d liked. In the place of my flight career had been a new, not wholly unwelcome, path in life.
Killing for the United States government.
But, like my handler had just informed me, taking orders had rankled, and I was tired of the bullshit.
I didn’t want to kill people they deemed necessary.
I questioned everything and wanted proof.
I didn’t care that I killed.
I cared who I killed.
And today’s kill order, a member of government in a country that was loyal to us, had been my last straw.
I wasn’t willing to kill a pregnant woman.
I certainly wasn’t going to kill a pregnant woman with no information as to why I was killing her.
I didn’t just kill without thought.
And my handlers were tired of me pushing back.
Today I’d pushed back, and I’d gotten the ‘do it or else.’
I’d chosen ‘or else.’
I’d quit.
They’d threatened.
And I’d told them in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t one to be messed with.
My brother knew everything I did.
He knew where I was, what I was doing, and who was pulling my strings.
The moment that they fucked with me, they fucked with the Russian Bratva, and they wouldn’t like the consequences if they did the ‘or else’ they threatened.
“You’re dismissed from the US Military,” my handler said. “Don’t fuck this up.”
I caught my papers and headed for the door, but not without my last parting shot.
“That woman y’all wanted me to kill?” I announced. “She knows that you’re wanting to do it. You send someone else to do it, and you’ll be getting a war you didn’t expect on your hands.”
The handler cursed.
I kept walking, heading for my car.
A smile was firmly in place on my face as I drove away.
Aggressive cuddler.
—T-shirt
KEELY
Present Day
“I, uh…” I hesitated, wondering if I was crazy enough to say what I had to say next. Then, without giving it anymore thought, I just blurted it out. “I want to be fucked by a stranger. Preferably one wearing a mask.”
My therapist didn’t even blink before she replied.
Damn, she was good.
“It’s very, very normal to have kinks, period,” my therapist explained. “You’re a healthy, well-adjusted woman despite your upbringing and everything you faced in your teens. It’s healthy to want sex. It’s healthy to crave sex that’s exciting. It’s even healthy to want sex with a man wearing a mask. Every red-blooded, straight woman craves the kind of sex that thrills her. Sure, not everyone has those kinds of kinks, but it’s highly likely that they’ve all considered it before.”
My therapist, Jenny, was a great lady. I liked her a lot.
I’d been seeing her since I was twenty-one, once or twice a year.
I’d started seeing her after my old one died—who I’d absolutely adored, too.
My brothers had felt like it was a good idea for me to start seeing a therapist after what my brother, Copper, had done, and what I’d experienced at the hands of my ‘father.’
The experiences at the hand of my father were something that I needed to talk to a therapist about. What Copper had done to my dad upon catching my father doing those things? That I didn’t care about. That had actually helped me.
Seeing my father suffer? That had been the best feeling in the world.
I’d felt loved and cherished. I’d felt protected again, like nothing could ever hurt me.
And the sick sense of dread and fear no longer dominated my thoughts.
My father hadn’t raped me.
Not fully, anyway.
But he had touched me inappropriately. He’d tortured me by making me think he was going to rape me. He’d beat me. He’d mentally abused me.
But he hadn’t raped me.
Not that the rest of it wasn’t bad enough, but I’d never had that particular violation happen to me.
Even if my brothers didn’t believe it never happened. They thought that I was trying to make them feel better for not noticing. I hadn’t been, but nothing could convince them otherwise.