“That girl is art, and you called her a slut?” I growled, smashing him again. “Who raised you? A pack of animals?”
Another crack. His skull was caving in.Blood sprayed—freckling my face, the wall, the floor.
“She’s sacred. You’re dirt. That’s why your eyes are going dark.”
I kept going until there was no resistance. Until his body went slack.
Instead of letting him fall, I caught the collar of his shirt and dragged him down the hallway to the nearest stall. The door creaked when I pushed it open. I shoved him inside, dropped him against the wall, and pulled the door shut behind me.
There was blood on the floor. Enough to make a mess. But it would still take time before anyone bothered to look in here.
“You don’t call my girl a slut,” I said to the corpse. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Then I stepped out of the stall and left him there.
I grabbed paper towels, wiped the blood from my face, my hands. Straightened my jacket andleft like nothing hadhappened—like any other man who’d just washed his hands.No one noticed the death echoing behind the door. He’s nameless until the forensics catch up.
I drove like a ghost with a deadline. Straight lines, no music, the windows down. Cold air flaying what was left of the heat in my skin. At least this asshole won’t bother her again.
Maybe—I don’t know—maybe I overdid it. Maybe I overreacted. Slightly. The plan was to scare him, not mash his face into the tiles like I was trying to install him there permanently. But apparently Kira’s reputation is where my patience draws the line.
I got to my place, stripped the clothes fast, shoved them into a garbage bag, and hit the shower. Then I put on a new black dress shirt and slacks. I didn’t bother looking in the mirror. I already knew what I’d see—a man trying too hard not to feel anything at all.
By the time I pulled up to Pakhan’s estate, the party was already unraveling.
Laughter cracked through the air, loud and drunk. The music was heavy enough to shake the walls. The front doors stood open to the night air. A girl in a thong and a diamond collar leaned against one of the pillars, smoking like she had nowhere else to be.
Inside, it was worse.
Perfume and sweat. Girls draped over armchairs and laps and each other, some topless, some fully naked, others laughing too loud, already drunk or pretending to be. A pair of them—brunette and blonde—were kissing on the couch, putting on a show for a red-faced guy with his shirt unbuttoned to his stomach. He leaned forward, grinning stupidly, one hand already grabbing a handful of one girl’s ass like it was part of the show.
I passed through the door like I had every right to be there, masking the disgust curling inside me. I hated everything about this place. But hate doesn’t matter—timing does. Showing up around the time of Stanislav’s death was a calculated move—an alibi dressed in decadence. No one could ever know I was the one who turned his face into pulp. I considered offing the drunk too, the idiot who barged into the bathroom mid-beating, but he was too plastered to remember his own name, and I didn’t have time to deal with him too.
In the far corner, Pakhan sat like a king on his throne, drink in one hand, the other gripping a girl’s thigh as she rode him like it was a stage and he was the main act. He met my eyes and raised his chin. Waiting.
I nodded back.
Fucking pervert.
He wanted a show. A reminder that I wasn’t above the filth he bred. That I was still one of them.
Fine.
If the bastard wanted to see my dick to keep his leash off my neck, so be it.
I scanned the room. A flash of dark hair caught my eye.
A brunette with grace and attitude. A weak echo of something my soul was already screaming for.For a half-breath, she looked like her. Moved like her. My pulse skipped for the wrong reasons.And fuck me, I almost fell for it. But then logic kicked in.
Kira’s not a type. She’s a fucking anomaly. And Pakhan was watching like he could read my mind. I couldn’t let him see the crack.
No.
I turned away, jaw tight, and found a blonde instead. She was busy entertaining two others—letting one feed her strawberries while the other sucked on her neck and slipped a hand under thescrap of lace between her thighs, fingers moving like he owned her. She moaned for effect, eyes half-lidded, mouth open in a drunken grin.
I grabbed her wrist.
She blinked once, surprised, then smiled—wide and curious, the way a woman smiles when she’s already imagining her mouth on you. The men looked irritated but kept their mouths shut. She came with me without a word, heels snapping against the floor while I dragged her to the side of the room like she was my property.
