He stops in front of me and crouches, grabbing my jaw in his hand. His fingers dig into my cheek until it hurts.
“You failed,” he says softly. “You are always such a disappointment.”
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stare straight at him. The pressure on my throat tightens when his thumb brushes under my chin. I want to look away, but I don’t. Because weakness is what he wants to see.
And I will die before I give him that.
But his words hurt deeper than the whip. Deeper than the burns on my chest.
He turns to Anton.
“And you.” He scoffs. “Have I taught you nothing?”
Anton freezes, but he doesn’t speak.
“You have to stay strong. You look death in the face and smile. Do you understand?”
Anton nods fast, tears streaking down his face. Father straightens, adjusting his cuffs like we’re beneath him.
“Take them home,” he orders one of the men. “I can’t stand to look at either one of them.”
Then he’s gone. Just like that.
The room is silent except for my brother’s uneven breathing and the sound of someone cutting through the zip ties.
They drag us back to the van, and I can’t feel my legs. My skin still burns, but it’s nothing compared to the deep, rotting pain in my chest.
I sit beside Anton, staring at the window, but seeing nothing except the way my father looked at me.
After a minute, Anton’s hand snakes to mine, but I pull away.
Love is weakness. It hurts you. Destroys you.
And when you find it, you tear it apart with your teeth before it tears you apart first.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FIONA
It’s beena couple of hours since he dropped me at home. The drive was utterly silent, like he regretted coming into the room and holding me.
Being in his arms felt strange. Wrong. Like some twisted form of comfort after everything I’d just witnessed.
It wasn’t the blood that haunted me. It was his face. The way he looked while hurting that man. Like he enjoyed it. And the way he stopped the moment I got sick, like he actually cared. That was…unexpected.
I’ve always known who Aleksei Marinov is. His name alone sends ripples of fear. I’ve built a career chasing men like him, spent years believing I was immune to that kind of darkness.
But there was something different in the way he looked at me tonight. Something possessive. Final. He didn’t just punish that man for what he did to me. He claimed me with every blow.
And part of me—some sick, buried part—actually felt…protected.
None of this is right. Not how I sat there and watched. Not how I understood it.
But what scares me the most is the question I can’t shake.
Would I ever go that far? If someone I loved was in danger, could I kill for them?
God, I hope I never have to find out.
