"PLEASE! SHE'S JUST A WOMAN! JUST A FUCKING—" He chokes. Sobs. "JUST A WHORE! A CRAZY WHORE WHO—"
I turn. Fast. Pull my gun. Aim. Fire.
The shot cracks through the warehouse. Oliver's scream is immediate—high, animal, the sound of agony beyond comprehension. I shot him in the dick. Direct hit. Blood blooming through his expensive trousers.
"AHHHHHHH! FUCK! FUCK! OH GOD—"
I walk back. Slowly. Deliberately. Stand over him while he writhes and screams and bleeds. Look down at him with complete calm.
"Mate," I say quietly. "I've been killing people left and right for two years. Tortured men. Broke bones. Burned flesh." I crouch down. Press the gun barrel against his forehead. "But I never—NEVER—disrespected a woman like that."
"Please—" His voice breaks. "Please I didn't—I'm sorry—"
"Too late."
I pull the trigger. The shot echoes. His head snaps back. Blood and brain matter spray across the concrete. Then silence. Just the ringing in my ears and the smell of gunpowder and the body slumped in the chair.
Dead.
I stand. Tuck the gun back in my waistband. Look at Konstantin. "Clean this up. Make sure he's never found. If anyone asks about Oliver Sutherland, he went on holiday. Extended trip. Lost contact. Family can speculate all they want."
Konstantin nods. "Understood, boss."
I wipe my hands on a cloth Konstantin gives me. Blood—his and mine—staining the fabric. The metallic smell clings to my skin. Good. Let it remind me what I'm capable of. What I'll do to anyone who disrespects her.
I walk to the door. Don't look back at the body. Don't need to. The image is burned into my mind—Oliver's terrified face, the hole in his forehead, the justice delivered.
Outside, the night air hits me. Cold. Clean. I breathe it in. Let it wash away the gunpowder smell.
Walk to the car. Get in the back seat. Alexei glances in the mirror. Sees the blood on my face, my hands, my clothes. Says nothing. Smart.
"Drive," I say. He pulls away. The warehouse fading into the night behind us.
My phone buzzes. Text from Dmitri at the house: She tried to leave. We stopped her. She has a gun. Pointed it at me. She's back inside now.
I read it twice. Then I smile. Of course she has a gun. Of course she pointed it at someone. That's my girl.
I text back: Good. Keep her there. I'll be back in an hour.
Then I lean back. Close my eyes. And let the city carry me home. To her.
Always to her.
Because she was mine before she knew it.
And she'll be mine long after she remembers.
42
ALENA
I'm kneeling on the kitchen floor with a loaded gun in my hand and absolutely no idea what the fuck to do with it.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps that fog in the cold air. The temperature dropped again—ghosts or panic, I can't tell anymore. Everything's blurred together into one nightmare I can't wake up from.
What the fuck should I do? The men are still outside. At every door. Every exit. Trapping me in my own house like some kind of—what? Prisoner? Protection detail? Hallucination?
How can I escape? The gun is heavy. Heavier than I remember. My hands shake so badly the barrel wavers, drawing invisible patterns in the air.
