Anyone but me.
I’ve seen it in her from day one. I just needed the head on my shoulders to overrule the tattooed one between my legs. Thank fuck not even a tire wrench to the skull stopped that from happening, otherwise, if Achim had it his way, K would have his ring on her finger, and his spawn in her gut.
The thought alone has me planning a trip to Jim’s so I can piss on Achim’s face. It’ll be my third trip this month alone. What can I say? I’m an unforgiving prick who can’t be as compassionate as K. You could fuck her over backward and she’d still find a way to forgive you if you said you were sorry.
You won’t get the same response from me.
I’ll watch you snivel like a bitch to my woman until she finds it in her heart to forgive you, then I’ll knife you the instant she’s out of earshot.
You don’t fuck with my girl and live. Lester found that out the hard way. He’s still in my trunk, dickless and nicked up. I’ll take him out to Jim’s in a few. Celebrating our nuptials with K is more important than worrying about the pigs being fed a rotting corpse. They’ll take Lester anyway they can get him—kind of like me with K. Grubby, polished, or deliriously happy like she is now. I’ll take her anyway I can get her.
After waiting for my brothers to stop humping my leg like a bunch of dogs on heat, Eight says, “Let’s say a few words while we have a round of drinks to celebrate.”
“Do you mean a toast, fuckface?” Mikhail ribs Eight, laughing. Their relationship is better now than it was nine months ago. They still get into the occasional fist-to-cuffs, but for the most part, they tolerate each other.
The platinum black metal circling the ring finger on my left hand clinks against a glass of God knows what Eight hands me. He’s a shit mixer, but since I’m not planning to hang around long to celebrate, I’ll stomach the injustice.
Before passing K a can of sprite, Eight takes a swig out of it to ensure her it’s safe for her to drink. If it were anyone but him taking up the role I was born to play, I would have smashed his teeth in by now. Alas, even someone as possessive as me knows there will eventually come a time I can’t be at K’s side twenty-four-seven. I’m just really fucking hoping it isn’t any time soon.
I raise my glass of frothy pink shit into the air along with thirty or so of my brothers when Eight says, “To Trey and K. May they fuck like champion thoroughbreds, breed like rabbits, and get a less soundproof door so my brothers and I aren’t squashed against each other every night while stroking one out.”
He sprints to the other side of the living quarters during the last half of his sentence. It’s for the best. If he was still standing across from me, he’d be dead by now. It took months for K to learn it’s okay to moan when she comes. If Eight’s rile causes her to backstep on that even a smidge, I’ll fucking gut him where he stands.
“I’m joking, man. I swear on my Ma’s grave.” He crosses his heart like a punk ass moron before locking his eyes with K’s wide pair. “You know I’d never let anyone hear you, Sis. You’re like a sister to me. They’d be dead before they made it halfway down the corridor.” The truth in his comment lowers my annoyance. Eight does treat K like his sister. It’s why he’s the only man I trust with her.
Noticing the untightening of my jaw, Nero says, “ To Trey and K,” before he clinks his glass against mine and throws down his drink. After swallowing Eight’s idea of a cocktail, he screws up his face before pivoting toward the bar. “Anyone need a chaser after that rat-shit?”
I swear nearly everyone surrounding me puts up their hand. Only K remains quiet, happily sipping on her can of sprite as if it’s a bottle of Dom Perignon. Real duchesses know crowns aren’t just worn on your head. They’re also imbedded in your soul.
“What’s the matter?” I lean in closer to K to press my lips to her ear, ensuring my words are only for her. “Is your stomach playing up again?”
K stops pushing her food around her plate to lock her eyes with mine. Although she doesn’t say anything, I can see her answer in her expressive gaze. Her food is fine. She’s just lost her appetite, which is very unlike her. Once I’ve proved her food is safe, she usually polishes off her plate before anyone else. She isn’t upset I rushed her down the aisle within minutes of her saying yes, she’s smiled at her ring too many times for that to be considered. It could be the whores. They’re prancing around fully naked tonight with the hope they’ll nab their own husband-to-be from Nikolai’s crew. However, K is use to their antics. If they stay away from me, she barely gives them a once-over.
That can only mean one thing. One of the many men enjoying the feast the once-whores now-cooks made to celebrate our nuptials is pushing her buttons. Eight is seated on the opposite side of her, so I know it isn’t him. It must be coming from someone across from her.
When my eyes stray to the three men directly across from K, Eight, and me, my jaw gains a tick. One of the men I’ve known as long as Nikolai. He’d never say a bad word about neither K nor me, but the other two are from Vladimir’s debunked crew. They’re older than my brothers, and badly trained. Vladimir let them get away with far too much for way too long. Nikolai is in the process of shortening their leads, but I’m open to the idea of giving him a hand.
“Which one, K?” I only speak three words but the violence roaring through me is heard in my voice. I’m about to maim for my girl, I’m about to kill, and I’m not the least bit deterred its occurring on my wedding night. I told K I’d eradicate the world of the scum who hurt her, so events worth celebrating won’t factor into it. “Which one hurt you?”
The obvious sticks out like a sore thumb when the man directly across from K mutters, “Držte ústa zavrená.” His narrowed eyes aren’t on me. They’re on K. That infuriates me more than anything he could possibly say. “Nebo odstraním váš poter pomocí ramínka.”
When a chair scraping across polished floorboards sounds through my ears, I assume Eight is responding to the menacing gleam in West’s eyes, he’s forever on point when it comes to protecting K, so you can imagine my surprise when K makes it halfway across the table before my brain registers the fact she’s moving.
West howls like a motherfucking baby when K stabs her fork into his hand resting on the table. Before his free hand can do any of the murderous thoughts in his eyes, Nero pinches his temple with the barrel of his gun while Mikhail squashes his knife against his jugular.
Their quick thinking ensures West’s hand gets nowhere near K’s face. She’s untouchable.
The same can’t be said for West.
He’s a dead man no matter what.
I’ve just got to decide if I should punish him or let my brothers take care of business on my behalf. If K wasn’t screaming in West’s face, calling him a pig and the many other derogative words she’s taught me in Czech the past nine months, I’d blow his brains out where he stands.
Regretfully, I have issues killing when my cock is knocking at the zipper of my jeans, begging to be released. K is upset, but the light inside of her is roaring brightly. The Duchess is at her coronation service, ready for proceedings to begin.
Since I’m right there with her, I band my arm around K’s waist, yank her away from West, then commence walking her down the corridor to my room.
K fights me all the way. She digs her nails into my arm, kicks out her legs, and tells me to let her go in more ways than one. Her fight loses some steam when the undeniable noise of a bullet cracking through a skull barrels down the corridor. Nero prefers quick, clean kills over gruesome ones. Eight and I give him hell about it all the time.
