Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I let out a humorless laugh.
"I don’t know," I admit. "The Irish are pretty fucking brutal. We lose the privilege of our tattoos."
She cringes.
Her eyes widen. "Oh my god. So you… you remove them? I’m guessing that doesn’t involve a laser.”
"Yeah."
I don’t tell her how.
I don’t tell her that, in my brother’s case, it involved a blowtorch.
The smell of burnt flesh still makes me retch if I think about it too long. I can’t even grill anymore.
I force a smile. She looks at me like she understands exactly what I mean.
"Oh, Jesus, Matvei."
"Yeah." My throat tightens. "That was just the beginning."
I drag a hand through my hair. "I made him state the code while he was dying. Semyon had already beaten the shit out of him. He was conscious when I finally got to him." I swallow. "I told him I loved him. But I was loyal to the process. And I was the one who pulled the trigger."
She doesn’t speak for a long moment.
"You shot him?" she finally asks.
I nod.
Rafail didn’t make me dispose of the body.
I was a fucking wreck after that.
I couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t eat.
My mother tried to have me committed, but Rafail intervened. She didn’t know the half of it.
I shake my head, laughing bitterly. “Started smoking then.”
“Did it help?” she asks quietly.
I look in her eyes. “Took the edge off.”
A flicker of something like understanding passes through her expression.
“Took years to find you,” I continue. “You know that.”
She swallows. “I know.”
“And it wasn’t until Semyon needed help and I went through Anya’s brother’s computer that I finally did.”
Her lips part slightly. “Because of the Irish.”
“Yeah.” My jaw tightens. “The Irish.”
I thought telling her this would be brutal. And it is. But somehow, saying it out loud makes it a little easier to bear.
I exhale. “Your turn.”
The memory of what I had to do has me fired up.
I need another target—one that ends in victory instead of crushing devastation.
For a moment, she doesn’t speak. Then she lets out a slow breath like she’s bracing for impact. "I think I need a shot. Or drugs."
I smirk. "I can arrange that.”
"That… would actually be really good," she says.
I nod, walk over to my desk, and pull out one of the joints I keep for special occasions. I don’t smoke often, but sometimes, it helps. I like sharing one with her.
I light up, take a slow drag, and bring it over to her.
I pass it to her, watching as she presses it to her lips. She inhales deeply, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly.
Tendrils of smoke curl through the air. The sweet, smoky smell is the only one I can handle.
We pass it back and forth in silence.
The flicker of fire.
The ring of smoke.
The sweet, earthy scent.
The pressure in my chest eases just a little.
I lean back in bed.
"That’ll make me horny," she murmurs.
I smirk. "Is that supposed to be a warning?"
She exhales another slow drag.
"Rafail wasn’t the first person I was promised to," she says suddenly.
I blink.
That is not where I expected this conversation to go. I’m already ready to murder someone, and I don’t even know the story yet.
“My father had a friend,” she says, her voice quiet. Controlled. Too controlled. “He was old and gross. He had a reputation for hurting women. Easily twenty years older than me. And when I found out my father promised me to him, I ran.” She swallows hard. “That was the first time.”
She stops and closes her eyes for a second. I hold her hand, pushing beyond the need to hear everything now. “He caught me.”
Her voice is flat. Devoid of emotion. That makes it so much worse.
“He said he wouldn’t have an ungrateful brat for a wife. So he had his men… beat me.”
My hands clench into fists. The room feels too small, the air too thick. “They laid me down. Kicked me. Broke my ribs. Stomped on my abdomen.” She exhales shakily. I blink to clear the red in my vision. “Two black eyes. A busted lip. Four broken ribs.” A pause. “I didn’t know I sustained those until my father brought me to a doctor a month later because he was sick of waking up to the sound of my coughing.”
I can’t fucking breathe.
This is the only time in my life I remember wishing that someone was still alive only so that I could have the privilege of killing them all over again.
She doesn’t react, just stares past me as if she’s still locked in that room. “My father said I was an ungrateful little bitch, and I deserved what I got.”
Something inside me snaps. My vision tunnels. The entire world narrows to her.
“So after I healed,” she says bitterly, “he arranged to give me to someone else.”
I force the words through gritted teeth. “Rafail. Who was the man who hurt you?”