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“You think he handles giving money and keys to the help? You think theVolkdoes such things?” He laughs. “Someone else will give you what you need.”
A burn of bitter resentment ignites in my gut, but I force myself to ignore it.You’re getting paid. Who fucking cares who it is that hands over the rubles? You’re not Vladimir’s left hand, as you once were to Viktor, and you’re better for it. You don’t want to be so close to a man like that.
The building I’m taken to is dim, dank, the concrete walls bare and forbidding. I can smell the ripe stench of unwashed bodies coming from far away, hear faint screams from some room hallways away, and a cold shudder ripples down my spine.
I know what place I’ve been brought to and why.
It’s no mistake, no accident, that I’m going to be handed my money and keys here. Vladimir did this on purpose, to remind me of what could happen if I don’t hold up my end of the bargain. To remind me that if I cross him, it will be my unwashed body peeled of its flesh in some filthy room here.
As resentful as it makes me, I can’t deny that it’s a reminder I could use after last night.
Don’t lose yourself in your revenge. Take it, and go, or else you’ll find yourself in this hell with no way out. No pleasure is worth the pain you’d find here.
“Here.” A stocky man approaches, shaking me out of my thoughts. “Kasilov?”
I nod, feeling my throat tighten with nerves. “That’s me.”
He hands me a thick envelope and a keyring. “The address is inside the envelope. It’s tucked away, just outside of the city. No one will bother you. The money is half for now, half to be wired to an account of your choosing when Vladimir is satisfied that the girl is dead.”
“That’s all? Proof that she’s dead?”
The man shrugs. “Information will please the Wolf. But he cares only for her life. The Obelensky line must not survive.”
“Fair enough.” I take it, shoving the envelope into my waistband and the keys into my pocket. “Anything else?”
The man smirks, an evil glint in his eye. “Don’t take too long, Kasilov.”
A scream punctuates the air as I turn to leave, faint and reedy in the distance, reminding me once again of the dangerous bargain I’ve made.
—
I tell myself that there’s no need to see her tonight. That tomorrow will be enough. But as I drive back from the Syndicate compound, I feel fidgety and unsettled, the creeping need of my obsession with her crowding into my head. I haven’t heard fromher, and by now, she should have received my gifts and apology–allof it.
By now, she’ll be on her way home.
I haven’t watched her through her window again. I haven’t needed to. But now, thinking of her standing in her bedroom, thinking of me, I feel my cock twitch and a shudder of need run through me, a craving to see her, even if only for a moment. To be reminded of my power over her, that she can’t be free of my eyes, even for a night.
Before I can fully make the decision, I find myself driving in the direction of her neighborhood. I park a considerable distance away, not wanting to risk her spying the car if she’s walking back from work, or to see me as I walk through the shadows, avoiding the pools of light left by the streetlamps.
I stop on the other side of the street from her building, waiting to see the lights go on in her bedroom. When they flick on, I feel a thrill of adrenaline, watching for her.
The moment she steps into the room, I feel my cock stiffen, and I crouch near the spot I’d hidden in before, waiting to see what she might do. The thought of seeing her touch herself again, lost in willing pleasure, makes me feel nearly feral with lust.
But what I see catches me off guard.
She stands there in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, looking around with an expression that I recognize clearly. It’s the same look she’d worn last night when she appeared on my doorstep, frightened and upset and confused, and I see her press one hand over her mouth, her shoulders hunching as if she’s fighting back the tears.
Did she not see what I did for her? What I did to make up for hurting her so soon?Something knots in my gut, an uncertainty, and I feel something else, too, something not unlike the guilt I felt last night.
What if this isn’t what I should be doing at all? What if she had nothing to do with–
I see her shoulders shake as if she’s crying now, and I feel my heart twist in my chest. This woman, standing here broken and frightened, doesn’t look like the Natalia Obelensky I’ve been chasing. She doesn’t look like the spoiled daughter of a cruel Bratvapakhan, a woman capable of knowing that her father is torturing women and children while doing nothing about it, while continuing to enjoy her status and power. She looks like a broken woman herself–cowering in the face of men who want to hurt her, and I realize with a shuddering impact that I’m one of those men.
I hurt her. I did that. I’m part of why she’s standing in her bedroom, sobbing.
My arousal fades, forgotten. For one brief moment, I feel my world spinning like a top, all of it threatening to topple. And then my rage comes back in a flooding, hot rush that nearly knocks me flat.
What the fuck are you thinking? Because she cries a few tears that she’s not at fault? That she knew nothing? That she’s not an Obelensky, the only way you have remaining to avenge what was taken from you?
