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Red blinded me and scorching heat that wasn't from the fucking sun stung my skin. I drew my gun and cocked it. Gnashed my teeth and ran my fingers through my hair. She’d always tried to act strong, to pretend she had thick skin and would fight if she had to. Fuck, if only she knew she was no match for the fucking snake. Anton had set a record for gunning down ten men in ten seconds. He was fast and clever, apparently too smart for his own good.
There was no way she could survive him.
As the elevator descended into the basement, I braced myself for the worst and suppressed the growing pain in my chest as we came to a stop. But when our feet touched the concrete floor, the sight that met my eyes was anything but what I had expected.
Slowly, I tucked my gun between my belt, taking careful steps as I neared her cage.
The gate was open, and in the corner, she sat with her knees drawn up to her chest in a pool of blood. A lot of blood. I narrowed my eyes at the sight. Anton’s lifeless body lay close to her feet, an ugly gaping wound at his throat, her clothes were torn, and she was covered in blood. Her lips were moving inaudibly, almost like a repetition of incoherent babbling. Her shoulders shook and silent tears ran down her cheeks.
No further explanations were needed. It was clear what had happened.
When her eyes met mine, I frowned, and she cried harder.
“Viktor...”
It was the first time I heard my name on her lips, and it touched me in a certain way, like a soothing balm on a burn. My chest tightened and a strange pain shot through my heart.
She looked up at me through her shimmering wet lashes, with resentment and trauma in her glassy eyes and blood covering almost every inch of her pale skin. “I ... I swear, I didn’t mean to. It was... he wanted to … I had to fight.”
I clenched my jaw. If the asshole wasn’t dead, I would have killed him myself. “Get up.” My tone was harsher than I intended. “You’re coming with me.”
She flinched and broke into a loud whimper. “No, please … Are you ... Are you going to kill me now?” She hiccupped.
I ignored her question and motioned Fedor to help her up. He did and we made our way to the elevator. Even then, she didn’t stop crying.
I could hear her sniffling from behind. “You’re going to kill me,” she hugged herself and mumbled when the elevator doors shut with a dull ding.
Over her head, I exchanged a glance with Fedor, and when he deciphered the hidden message, the bastard had the audacity to glare at me before very reluctantly taking off his jacket and handing it to me.
I draped the jacket over her shoulders and her mumbling paused. She tilted her head back and I caught the reflection of the elevator light in the sea of emerald. My eyes flickered to her swollen, bloody lower lip. Without thinking, I stroked the soft spot with my thumb, wiped off the blood ... and the doors opened.
Fedor cleared his throat, I withdrew my hand, and we stepped out.
Chapter 7 - Ava
I should have been dead by now. Buried under the ground with bullet holes in my forehead and blood gushing out like a red stream, just as Anton’s blood gushed out of his throat and formed a pool that surrounded me. I traced another reflection of light on the white ceiling with my eyes and twirled a strand of my hair around my finger.
My mind wandered back to the moment I heard his footsteps in the room, precise and dominant. Before he entered the cage, his fine leather shoes soaking up the blood and leaving imprints, I had sensed his presence, and his familiar scent wafted through the small space.
I remembered the moment vividly. Sleeves rolled up. Black ink running up his arm and disappearing under his shirt. Broad shoulders. And intense dark eyes. At that moment, I expected the breath I’d taken to be the last. But he didn’t shoot me. Not there, and not on the way to his grand ultra-modern mansion.
I had been waiting for him to snap out of the eerie silent treatment and strangle me while I shivered like a leaf in the warm jacket he had practically snatched from Fedor.
His action was unexpected and surprising, to say the least. My spine stiffened as his fingers brushed lightly across my bare shoulders and an electric jolt spread a tingling sensation across my skin.
When we arrived at his house, I momentarily forgot my status as his prisoner.
I could hardly believe my surroundings. I would have expected a man of his caliber, who is in the mafia business, to prefer a house with vintage furniture, smoky cellars, climbing plants, and everything from the eighteenth century. But Viktor’s taste was impressive. He evolved with the times and technology, and he furnished his house as a normal person would. Only we both knew he was anything but normal.
And then he led me into a room. A real room. It had a bed that was softer than mine in my father’s house and smelled of lemon and lavender. There was also a bathroom. A bathroom! I had spent an hour washing the blood from my skin and hair, secretly hoping it wasn’t some crazy ritual that had to be performed before he snuffed out my life.
Another moment of waiting came shortly afterward.
I was dreading the barging in of men in black suits to take me to a dark room where I was supposed to be, but no one had come. They left me alone with my thoughts and served me borscht and pelmeni for dinner—at least that's what the quiet maid mumbled when I asked her to name the food on the tray. Immediately afterward, the brunette with the scattered freckles scurried out of the room as if she couldn’t stand to be in my presence for a second longer.
Staring at the ceiling became boring. I snuggled into the fluffy comforter and closed my eyes. All I saw were lifeless blue eyes and his throat with wide cuts from which thick red blood flowed. Blood, everywhere. On my torn clothes, in my hair... and the metallic taste in my mouth just wouldn't go away.
Again, the realization that I had murdered a man hit me with full force and my eyes watered. What would my father think when—or if—he found out? What would Declan say? The thought of my father and my part-time bodyguard triggered more tears and my head throbbed. I didn’t want to cry. As for my father, I liked to think he'd be proud of me for finally using that knife, but that wasn’t enough to get rid of the guilt.
