I’ll probably still have to share her with that little shit Jeremy, but ultimately, nothing will get in our way. Not Maxim or Mikhail. And they’re going to know it.
As I drive away from her house, every voice in my head is telling me to turn around and finish what Bella and I started in that shed.
But our first time isn’t going to be with that seedy Marcus in the other room, or on the floor in a decrepit, abandoned shed. There will be flowers and candles and pretty things everywhere, like in those romantic movies she’s made me watch. She’s my delicate princess.
Tonight was meant to be perfect. There were meant to be no tears—the unhappy kind—and the only thing she was supposed to do today was smile, laugh, and be happy. But those two idiots ruined everything.
Mikhail and Maxim Androv.
Never heard of them, and I don’t care to know more than just their address. The only thingtheywill need to know is not to be in the same vicinity as Bella ever again. After I’m done with them, they may need to get wheeled out of any place where she is.
I asked Damien for their address, since Lord knows he owes me for all the times I’ve given out favors for him and the cartel he’s running with. I re-check the GPS on my phone. The blood roaring in my ears increases. They only live a few blocks from her.
And she sleeps with the fucking window open. Anyone could climb in.
Fuck it. I’m going to install bars on that window.
The thought only unsettles me more as I park my bike several houses down from where they live. I take a couple of steps away, then glance back at my bike. My only other love. It could be the last time I see her. She might not be in one piece by the time I get back. It’s a shitty neighborhood, and she could get sold for parts.
I stole those wheels from someone who owed me money. Someone else might steal the same set of wheels because they need money. It’s almost like the circle of life.
I check that she’s locked tight one last time, give her a pat, then I’m off on my merry way to fuck up those two pricks.
My body buzzes with anticipation. I can already imagine what their blood will look like on my riding gloves, and I hear the sounds of them begging me to stop. I don’t care how old they are; I’m putting them in their place. They didn’t pick on someone their own size, so why should I?
After the high of kissing Bella and all the built-up frustration that came with it, this is going to be the cherry on top. I thought I’d have to reach out to Damien, my contact, and find a place to let off some steam tonight, but I guess everything works out for me, eventually.
The street is dimmer with the helmet visor down, but there’s no missing their duplex and the two lookalikes sitting on the deck, smoking a joint. They look like idiots.
The twins look like their names sound: short, blonde with a number two cut, and brawny.
Cold sweat gathers down my spine from excitement. I’ve met their type before. Guys like them wouldn’t be sitting outside in this neighborhood without carrying a gun. My lips twitch up at the corners. No one in this area would care if one goes off, but guns mean cops. I’m not in the mood to deal with pigs.
Clad in black, I creep along the side of the house, sticking to the shadows and keeping my footsteps light. I don’t do many of theseoutingswhile wearing a helmet. The anonymity is great, but it fucks with the senses. I won’t be able to see or hear as well.
The twins are completely oblivious to the intruder in their midst. I can smell the weed through my helmet, and I might not be able to see their bloodshot eyes this far out, but I’m sure they will be.
Shielded by the darkness, they don’t see me coming, too spaced out to hear me stretch my neck from side to side before the firstcrackfrom my fist carves through the night. Fucker Number One tips to the side, bringing the chair with him. Fucker Number Two scrambles for his gun behind his back, but not fast enough to avoid being hit in the jaw by my riding gloves.
God, that felt good.
His head snaps back, hitting the wall behind him. He groans as his hands instinctively snap up to stop another assault.
“What do you want?” Fucker Number one recovers in time to draw his gun, but it flies out of his hands before he has a chance to use it. Then, someone from inside the house starts screaming, raising my hackles.
An old woman comes running out of the house with a baseball bat, tripping over her slippers and nightie as she goes.
Fuck.
I don’t hurt old ladies.
Goddamnit, I have to somehow take her down without laying a hand on her.
“This isn’t about you,” I yell at her.
Fucker Two suddenly remembers he has a gun, and Fucker One uses the distraction to launch himself at me, hitting me square in the chest. “You cunt.”
A laugh rumbles out of me right before I bury my fist into the prick’s ribs and swing my head forward, using the helmet's weight to connect with his forehead.
