He searched my face, curling and relaxing his fist beside his body, trying to gain control over his fury. His pulse fluttered overthe side of his neck. I licked my lips, trying to think of something comforting to say.
“And don’t worry, I won’t bring him home or anything…when it happens.”
“You want no surveillance and to hook up with a random?” He bared his teeth. “You better know you’re bringing him home, so I can save you if shit goes south.”
My heart skipped a beat. How ironic it was that this man was going to finish me with his kindness after trying to destroy me for years with his malice.
“Does this mean you’re game?” The only reason my jaw wasn’t on the floor was because I was positive I was hallucinating.
He ran a hand over his jaw, tilting his face to the sky. “I swear to fucking God, Tierney, if this is some ploy to get me to lose my mind…” He didn’t finish his threat, his jaw clenching tight. “Fuck. One time. One time. I can do it.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Could he?
“And I want to be there when it happens,” he growled.
“That’s a terrible idea,” I whispered, transfixed.
“You’re a terrible idea.” He patted his pocket, just to find out his cigarette pack was soaked and ruined. “I don’t fucking care if it kills me. I’ll always put your safety first.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Achilles
I glanced at my Rolex.Five thirty-five. About half an hour until my brothers arrived for our meeting. Still plenty of time. I checked my phone again to see if Tierney had answered my last text. My heart did that weird stirring shit again when I realized that she did.
Tierney: Fine.
Fine? That’s all I got? Jesus, she was cold.
I should’ve known she wouldn’t let me breeze back into her life and put a ring on her finger the minute I finally succumbed to my Greek-tragedy-sized obsession with her.
It was inconceivable that a woman so beautiful, so bold, so sophisticated would deign to be with someone so scarred, so ugly, and as monstrous as me. She could marry a Tate Blackthorn, a Wolfe Keaton, a Baron Spencer. A dark, smooth stallion, gently bred, with billions in the bank. But no Blackthorn, no Keaton, and no Spencer would ever treasure her the way I would. If ever I could have her, I’d worship her so thoroughly, no man would ever fucking measure up.
My broken soul found her broken soul, and for the first time in my life, it felt whole.
Now I was on a mission to kill everyone who’d ever hurt her.
Well…except myself, obviously.
I was making good progress. In fact, the only asshole on my list I hadn’t pinned down yet was Tristan Hale. Fucker fell off the face of earth before I had the chance to punish him.
But I was going to find him.
And once I did, I would suck out his intestines with a fucking straw.
I reached for the portable faucet in my parents’ basement, turning the valve all the way. It was linked to a dispenser. A stream of water turned into a one-drop leak.
The man tied horizontally under it ceased his tedious screams, darting his tongue out to lap the drops thirstily. What he didn’t know was that after the waterboarding came the water torture. Which was a slower, more painful way to die.
“Hey, wanna hear some mad shit?” I cupped my cigarette, lighting up a smoke.
Apparently, Dmitri Pavlov did not, in fact, want to hear some mad shit. Because he started sobbing like a little bitch, like he didn’t deserve it.
I spoke over his cries. “So I sent my soldiers to help my fiancée pack up, and when I texted her to ask how it was going, she said ‘fine.’Fine. What does that even mean?”
“Pozhaluysta,” he begged, eyes squinted shut, the water drip-dripping down from his forehead into his ears. I made sure to change the rhythm and frequency of the pattern, as well as inserting a small amount of acid into the tank, for shit and giggles. “I’ll do anything,” he said in Russian. “Please, let me go.”
“Can’t do that,” I answered back in his native tongue. Good thing I learned some Russian when Tier and I started out, so I could get to know her better. “You hurt my fiancée.”
