This wasn't a man. Just a spoiled boy who'd never grown up, living off daddy's money and getting off on hurting women.
I shoved the sock into his mouth. He sputtered, tried to fight. I grabbed his throat and dragged him to the glass coffee table, forcing him down. His hand splayed flat against the surface.
I pulled the hunting knife from my pocket—polished steel, worn leather handle, handed down through generations of Ivanov men. The blade gleamed, razor-sharp.
"Is this the hand that touched her?" I asked. He tried to jerk away.
My grip became iron. I pressed the blade to his throat. "I'll ask one last time. Is this the hand you used to touch my girl?"
Tears carved tracks through the blood on his face. Snot mixed with crimson. He nodded.
That was all I needed.
I lifted the knife and brought it down in one clean stroke.
The blade cleaved through skin, muscle, bone. Peregrine's hand separated from his wrist with a wet thump.
He screamed into the sock, the sound muffled but raw.
My phone buzzed. I ignored it while I threaded the silencer onto my pistol's barrel.
Peregrine writhed on the floor, clutching his spurting stump to his chest.
Cutting off his hand was excessive. I knew that. But Anna had suffered because of him, so he would suffer. Fair trade.
I crouched beside him, forcing his coked-out eyes to meet mine. "I am going to let you live this time. But if you ever comenear my girl again, or if I hear that you have raised your hand to another woman, I will come back. Do you understand?"
He nodded, his face a grotesque mask of tears, blood, and mucus.
"Good boy." I patted his cheek and stood to leave.
Then I saw it—the revolver in his shaking left hand. The sock still gagged him. Hatred burned in his eyes, bright and feral.
I sighed and shook my head. "Peregrine, Peregrine. I was going to let you live. But now..."
He tried to yell through the sock. The gun trembled violently in his grip.
I moved like a viper, ripping the revolver away before his finger found the trigger. If he had the balls to try this now, he'd try again later. And I couldn't allow that.
At least this way, Anna would never have to fear him again.
I grabbed a pillow from the bed and pressed it to his face. He thrashed, kicked, fought like I was suffocating him. Maybe he thought I was.
He wasn't worth the effort. Wasn't worth the price of a bullet.
But her safety was worth everything.
I pressed the suppressor to the pillow and squeezed the trigger. One shot. The thrashing stopped instantly. Red-tinted feathers drifted through the air like snow.
I unscrewed the silencer and holstered my weapon, then checked my phone.
Gregor: The senator voted no.
CHAPTER 32
ANNA
Ipaced the aisles of vinyl like a caged animal.
