Page 77 of Twisted Tyrant


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LUKA

I stand in the center of my kitchen later that day, staring blankly out the window at the still, blue waters of Biscayne Bay. Natasha walks over to me and puts a tentative hand on my arm.

The ginger touch is probably meant to offer me some comfort. Instead, it makes my spine stiffen, and causes the emotions coursing through me to bubble to the surface, channeling my hand to shove hers away.

Because her hand represents all of the things I’m not ready to acknowledge right now.

How I feel about my family being shattered without having been able to prevent any of the devastation.

How I can save them all from whatever faceless enemy tore us apart.

How I’m supposed to come to terms with the pent-up resentment I’ve harbored for Dima when there is no closure in my future.

I pick up a shot glass next to the half-empty bottle of vodka that is doing nothing to numb my mind and soul.

I’m the protector. Dima said it himself. That’s my job, the only one that matters. And yet, I didn’t protect a single one of us today.

I’m an idiot for thinking an excess of vodka would water down that fact.

“I shouldn’t have come back to Miami,” I mutter, shooting the clear liquid and slamming the glass on the granite countertop. “I should have left the day I was released from prison. Instead, I came back because of my fucking pride, and now my family is missing three people.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened today.”

“I can take blame for not being able to stop it,” I say coldly. “That’s what I’m here to do. Stop bad shit before it happens.”

“You went after the shooter.”

“It was too late at that point. And I didn’t even have the satisfaction of killing him myself.” I turn to face her. “I didn't want any of this, and now what? I’m left with everything — a toxic organization, a laundry list of enemies I didn’t make, and a death threat to everyone who’s left.”

I grab the shot glass and hurl it at the wall opposite us, a thunderous roar erupting from my lungs. Natasha cries out, jumping backward, colliding with the kitchen table.

Sharp shards of glass scatter across the tile floor. My chest heaves, the vein in my neck throbbing relentlessly. Natasha’s stricken look tugs at my heartstrings.

I didn’t want her this way.

Not by default.

Not because I need her to save my family from who or whatever hunts us.

The fear in her eyes tells me she doesn’t want me this way, either.

“I’m here right now because of you,” I hiss.

“No, you’re here right now because of you,” she whispers. “Because you knew your family needed you.”

“I let revenge consume me.” My voice shakes with pent-up fury. “I lost control of myself. That’s why I’m here.”

“You needed to be here,” she says, gripping the back of a nearby chair as if she’s ready to use it as a weapon to hold me off.

“I missed everything,” I growl, closing the space between us. “And now my brother and father are dead, and my sister is gone. My family expects me to fix it all.”

“Because you’re the protector, right?” Her voice quivers with fear, her knuckles white from clutching the chair. “So do your job. Protect them.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I reach out as if she hadn’t spoken a single word, fisting the back of her hair and eliciting a gasp from her lips. “You’re the only thing I have control of right now, Natasha. The one fucking thing.”

She yelps when I tug it backward, a red haze coloring my vision.

Christ, I’d wanted her from the second I saw her months ago.

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