I stand there, watching her go, blood pooling on the floor beside me, Jackson groaning in agony behind me. "Ah, fuck," I mutter, rubbing my forehead.
She left her luggage in the trunk. From the way she ran, she probably went straight to her apartment. I want to chase after her. And I will. But not before I finish what I started.
I crouch down next to Jackson, who's pale and shaking, his blood soaking into his expensive shirt. He looks up at me with fear in his eyes. "Now, since all this has happened," I say quietly, keeping my voice conversational, almost pleasant, "it's not my fault you decided to be stupid. I would've killed you. That first shot?" I gesture to his shoulder, pressing the gun to the bleeding wound. "That was just because you touched her with that hand. Unfortunately for you, you might not be able to use that arm properly ever again. A shame. A pity, really. But at least you still have the other one." I lean in closer, close enough that he can see every promise of violence in my eyes. "But just because my beautiful wife, will hate me if I kill you, I'm going to let you live. On one condition." I let the words hang in the air between us, heavy with threat. "You never contact her again. You never see her again. You never breathe the same air as her again. Hell, I shouldn't even see you anywhere near Moscow again. Do I make myself clear?"
I press the barrel of my gun to his forehead, right between his eyes. Jacksons body shakes, weak from blood loss and terror. At this point, he'd agree to anything. "Yes, sir," he mutters, the words barely more than a whisper. "Good. Good. Good." I smile with no warmth. "That's really good. I like it when dogs are obedient. Now be a good little dog and run along. And don't forget what I said—I spared your life today. Tomorrow, I might just kill you. Depends on my mood."
I stand, holster my gun, and walk out of the cafe without looking back. She probably thinks the worst of me now. Probably sees me as nothing but a monster, a beast in expensive clothing who shoots men in restaurants and threatens innocent people without blinking.
I mean, she's not wrong. I am a beast.
But I don't want her thinking that. I want her to see me in a different light. I want her to see the man underneath the violence, the one who would burn the entire world to ashes just to keep her safe.
But how the hell do I paint myself as a saint when I just shot a man in front of her? When I made her cry? When I proved every terrible thing she probably suspected about me?
I rub my jaw, exhaling sharply heading for the car.
Chapter 14
?
IRIS
Running. I seem to keep doing that lately. My heels hit the pavement hard and I don't slow down, I cut down a side street, then another, weaving through people who jump out of my way when they see my face. I must look insane, running in the crowd with tears and snot mixing together on my chin, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except putting distance between me and Ilay.
I stumble into the alley and the moment I'm alone, my knees buckle. The wall catches me as I drop, sliding down until I'm sitting in dirt and old rainwater. I don't even care. I fold in on myself, hands over my face, and the sobs break loose. They come deep and violent, shaking my whole body. I cry until I'm empty, until everything inside me feels scraped raw. All I can think about is what just happened.
He shot my friend right in front of me like it was nothing, like pulling that trigger cost him absolutely nothing at all. And then he had the nerve to order me around.Move behind me. Now. Like I'm just another one of his soldiers.Like I don't get a say in any of this. Is this how I'll be treated if I say yes to being his? like some property he can move and order around?
I'm so angry I can barely see straight. Heavy footsteps tap down the alley, and i know it's him before I even look up. "Leave," I choke out. Nothing. He makes no move to go when I ask him to. "I said to FUCKING LEAVE!" My voice cracks and I hate how weak I sound.
Still nothing, not even a hesitant step back. Well, if he won't leave, I will. I shove myself to my feet and spin around. "Get the hell away from me!"
He stands, watching me with a calm expression that makes me want to scream, why is he calm? Why is he fucking calm!? "What, you're just going to stand there?" I try for a reaction. "Making me look crazy yelling at nothing?"
His voice comes out low, trying to calm me down. "You need to breathe. You're spiraling. Your body's in fight or flight right now."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "And whose fault is that? Every single day since I met you has been chaos. Danger. Fear. And today you crossed a line you can't come back from. You hurt someone I cared about." Hot liquid spills down my face, but I don't care. "So don't you dare tell me to breathe when you're the reason I can't."
He gives no response, and I'm not surprised. I can't expect him to care about what his actions do and how it affects me, or the people around me. "You want me calm? Then disappear. I'm done. Done with your cases, your games, your blood money. Keep it all. Just stay the hell out of my life."
I turn and walk out of the alley, swaying from stress. Behind me, I hear a long and heavy exhale. I keep walking. I'm almost at the street when two loud gunshots crack through the air, echoing off the brick walls around me. I freeze. My heart slams into my throat and I spin around, scanning the alley. Did someone follow us? Did one of his enemies find him? Is there a shooter somewhere I can't see?
I brace myself for the next shot, for someone yelling, for anything that tells me what's happening. But the alley goes dead still. "Ilay?" I call out panicking. I don't get a response.
I take a step back toward the alley. Then another. My brain is screaming at me to run the other direction, to get away, to call for help. But my feet won't listen.
"Ilay!" still nothing. I break into a run, rounding the corner back into the alley, and that's when I see him. He's kneeling in the dirt, swaying slightly, his gun limp in his hand. Smoke drifts from the barrel, curling upward in the cold air, from the angle the guns pointed at, I can already deduce he pulled the trigger and was already planning on taking a third shot. So much blood, spreading across his shirt, blooming from both of his shoulders like dark wet flowers. He sees me and a smile blooms on his pale features.
"What the fuck?" The words tear out of me as I rush forward and drop to my knees in front of him. "What did you do? What the fuck did you just do?"
He looks up at me, his face pale, his eyes glassy with pain but still so focused on me. "You said I hurt you."
"So you shot yourself?" I scream, my hands hovering over his wounds, not knowing where to press, where to touch, or how to stop the bleeding. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"Fair trade." He tries to smile and it's the most unsettling thing I've ever seen. "You were in pain because of me. Now I'm in pain because of me. We're even."
"That's not how this works! That's not how any of this works!" I finally press my hands against his left shoulder and he hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away. "Why would you do this? Why?"
