"You fucking bitch," he sneers in a thick Russian accent.
I slip under his arm and race to the rickety stairwell on my right. Tears flood my cheeks as I fight to keep my hidden memories from ten years ago buried in the back of my mind.
My fast speed to the stairs comes to a halt when my ankle is snagged, and I'm yanked backward. I land on my knees, a harsh puff of air parting my lips. My mind is frantic, drifting me between the present and future. Kicking my way out of my attacker's grasp, I scamper across the wooden floor. I put up a similar fight the last time I was attacked, but this time is different. This time, I'm not at the mercy of a dark-eyed stranger.
I throw out my leg, kicking my assailant in his despicable face. I may not weigh half what he weighs, but I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl unable to defend myself anymore, I’m a strong woman who refuses to lie down willingly.
Any life left in my assailant’s hollow eyes vanishes the instant the heel of my sandal smashes into his crooked nose. Red hot anger lines his face when a trickle of blood dribbles out of his nose.
“Now you will pay,” he snarls viciously.
The back of my head hits the bottom step of the stairwell hard, temporarily dazing me when my legs are pulled out from underneath me. My vision blurs, melting the images that frequently haunt my nights with my newest nightmare. My confused state only lasts as long as it takes for my brain to register my attacker's filthy hands roaming over my body.
“No!” I scream, grateful my scared state has finally lifted when his hand slides under the hem of my skirt and inches towards my panty-covered core.
My head rockets to the side when the faintest, “Blaire,” comes sounding from the top of the stairs.
Before I have the chance to respond, just like in my memories, my attacker is brutally hit from the side. I crawl backward, pushing down the hem of my shirt as Rico and my attacker slam into the wooden floor with bone-crunching force. The hard impact does nothing to lessen Rico's fury; he pummels his fists into my attacker’s face repeatedly until his knuckles are covered in the same vibrant red coloring lining his face.
“Stop, Rico,” I mumble when the man he's attacking stops fighting against him.
I scramble onto my knees and crawl across the floor when his manic onslaught continues on the lifeless man. Just like in the bedroom, he's a machine, frighteningly unstoppable, designed to issue punishment.
Unable to inflict any more damage to the man’s bloody face, Rico’s lowers his fists to his body where he strikes him with blow after devastating blow.
I squeal and stumble backward when my hand touching his shoulder causes him to yank away from me violently. Like he can recognize my touch, he stops swinging his fists and cranks his neck to the side. The fury in his eyes vanishes the instant he sees me cowering on the floor beside him. His eyes roam around the room; he looks frightened and confused. He runs his hand down his face, removing a stream of sweat pouring down his cheek.
When he returns his eyes to me, the swirling of my stomach gains intensity. The same pair of eyes from my nightmares are staring back at me.
I stagger backward, my whole body shaking. "You're. . . you're. . .”
Panicked shock overwhelms me when Rico dismounts the man he has beaten into unconsciousness and slowly moves towards me. Blood drips from his hands more quickly than remorse fills his eyes. I stare at him, more confused than ever.
"Shh, Kitten, shh," he croons, his voice cracking with emotion.
Speaking through the sob in the back of my throat, I stutter, "Y-you're the man. . . T-t-the man from the alley.”
Rico’s eyes blaze into me, full of emotion and turmoil as he mutters, “Yes, Kitten. That was me.”
My entire world crumbles.
Chapter 25
Enrique
Blaire stares at me in shock, her pupils wide, her beautiful light green eyes glossed over. Her whole body is shaking, mimicking mine to a T. I'm generally fearless, but seeing the way Blaire is looking at me now, frightened and timid, I'm truly scared. I've once again become the four-year-old boy lying next to my deceased mother for three days waiting for my “uncle” to discover her death.
When I reach out to touch her, my heart stops, praying she doesn’t pull away from me. My prayers remain unanswered when she shakes her head, begging for me not to touch her. I can’t, though. I’ll never stop. I love her. I have from the moment I laid my eyes on her.
I've lived my life at a speed double the rate of everyone surrounding me. After the death of my mother, I lost contact with my sister, and was thrown into a makeshift family of servants and Popov whores. Everyone in the Popov compound hated me. At first, I thought it was because I'd shown weakness by crying when they laid my mother's body to rest with only three people by her graveside. Me, the priest, and my father, who stood three paces back from the unmarked grave her coffin was being lowered in. But as the years moved on, I realized my assumptions were wrong.
I wasn’t hated; I was feared.
I, Enrique Julies Popov, am the firstborn descendant of the world's most ruthless empire.
Although my father’s mistresses have birthed many children over the years, I'm Vladimir’s firstborn son, meaning I'm the sole heir to the Popov empire. My father’s values are traditional, based on principles that stretch back as far as the 1700s when the Popov empire was created by a short, stout man named Anatoly Popov. He started the Popov empire as a cloak and dagger business: killing for hire. As his reputation grew, so did his ruthlessness, and his crew. Over the centuries, the Popovs’ beliefs have rarely altered: men are powerful; women are weak.
Most kids my age grew up in households that encouraged their children to have their own beliefs. My upbringing was far from that. Discipline became a game to me. How many lashings did it take until the sting of the whip was no longer felt? How many droplets of my blood would spill onto the floor over the thirty minutes of my punishment? And how many ways could I exact my revenge on the man yielding the whip marking my skin. To others, it may seem cruel. To me, it was my life. I knew nothing different.
