I squeeze my eyes tighter behind the blindfold. His fingers pump. His tongue circles my clit. The mechanics are right—he clearly knows what he's doing. But I feel… distant. Like I'm watching this happen to someone else. Nausea builds in my stomach.
"Oliver—" I gasp out.
"Yeah, baby?"
Wrong. Everything about that is wrong. Not "babe" like Drogo used to say it—rough and possessive and mine. Just… baby. Generic. Practiced.
"I need—" What do I need? "More."
He stands. I hear his belt. His zipper. Then his hands on my thighs, spreading me wider.
I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold. Think of Drogo. Only Drogo. His hands. His mouth. His cock. The way he'd filled me that last night, the way he'd looked at me like I was everything, the way he'd whispered "I love you" in the dark when he thought I couldn't hear.
"Relax," Oliver murmurs.
The nausea intensifies. My body tenses more. I'm not wet enough for this. I know I'm not. But I force myself to breathe, to keep my legs spread, to let this happen.
Because maybe if I just get through it, I can finally move on.
Maybe if another man fills the space Drogo left, I can stop being a ghost haunting my own life.
Maybe.
37
DROGO
The basement smells like piss and copper. Concrete walls. Single bulb swinging overhead. The kind of place where sound doesn't travel and neighbors don't ask questions.
The target—Mikhail, mid-forties, accountant who thought he could skim from the Bratva—is zip-tied to a metal chair. Face already swelling. Blood from his nose mixing with tears and snot.
I've been at this for twenty minutes. Standard progression: fingers first—two broken so far. Then the ribs—three cracked with the bat leaning against the wall. Now we're escalating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Notification lights up the screen: MOTION DETECTED: Front Door
My chest tightens.
I swipe. Pull up the live feed. Tap in the earpiece. There he is. Oliver. 9:00 PM sharp. Standing at her door with that fucking smile.
She opens it. Black dress. Hair done. Makeup perfect. Smiling. "I burned the food." He laughs. Steps inside. Pulls her close. Kisses her.
My vision goes red.
Mikhail is still whimpering in the chair. "Please—I have children—"
I don't look at him. Eyes locked on my phone screen. On Oliver's hands sliding around her waist. On her kissing him back. I grab the knife from my belt. Seven-inch blade. Carbon steel. Sharp enough to split hairs.
Walk to Mikhail. Slam the blade down into his thigh. He screams—high, animal, the sound echoing off concrete.
I don't twist it. Don't move. Just leave it there, handle vibrating with his shaking. "I am short on time and patience, mate." My voice is flat. Cold. "Be fast."
He's hyperventilating. Words tumbling out in broken English and Russian. "The account—Switzerland—Credit Suisse—routing number—"
Not fast enough. I yank the knife out. Blood spurts. He screams again.
I hand the blade to Viktor, who's been watching from the corner with two other men. "Make him talk. All of it. Account numbers. Passwords. Everything."
Viktor takes the knife. Nods once. "How far?"
