Page 81 of Nemesis

“Nope. Probably back to hiding in her room, or screwing around with the Morozov boy.”

Ice trickles down my spine. I straighten, feeling all of my irritation from the call redirected to a new source.

“Don’t say that.” A third voice. Boots draw closer, steps crunching against the walkway. “Boss would clip you on the spot if he overheard⁠—”

“Maybe he should hear, though. She’s his only heir, and he’s letting her sleep around with the enemy in our own compound, knowing full well she’ll be promised to one of us.”

“Is that so?” I ask in a low rumble, stepping around the corner onto the path. The group of guys freezes in their approach the moment they see me, and a few have the good sense to look frightened.

“He wasn’t…” One starts, but the other cuts him off. His long, dark hair is vaguely familiar from my surveillance of Siderov’s men, but it’s usually pulled back into a tight bun, rather than flying free around his shoulders like it does today.

“The boss should have gutted you before allowing you to step inside the gates,” he says, doubling down with a glare. “You stay here, eating our food and fucking our women, all while giving us nothing in return. He’s clearly lost his mind⁠—”

“Paxton,” another man snaps, running a ragged hand through his blond hair.

“No. Please, do go on.” My arms cross over my chest. “Where were you? Fucking your women, was it?”

Your women. It’s comical that he thinks he has a chance with my girl in any universe. She’d destroy him in a single breath, and then I’d feast on his fucking remains.

The idiot squares up, stepping closer while flexing his knuckles. A wild grin overtakes my face. I wonder how mad Sasha would be if I deleted a few of his guard dogs off the face of the earth.

His arm lifts, announcing the attack before he can even begin to land it. The attempt is easily blocked. I’m guessing the mature thing to do would be to get a few hits in and walk away, assuming shit-for-brains had learned a lesson. That’s not exactly what I do.

My jaw rattles in the collision as I tackle the guy to the dirt, not wasting a single second before slamming my fist into his skull. On my second hit, a rewarding red gush opens up below my knuckles.

“You will not talk about her again,” I grind out between punches. “You will not think about her again. As far as you’re concerned, that girl belongs to me.” He tries to roll away, but I lug him back, securing him with my legs so I can continue my leisurely assault.

“Get off of him,” someone calls out from behind, but I keep slamming my fist into the kid’s face until it’s so bloody and swollen that Octavia wouldn’t even manage a passing glance in his direction without hiding her wince. The next hit knocks him unconscious. My heels sit back as I take a moment to appreciate my work.

Huh. I’m feeling much better already.

“Up.”

I groan, patting my hand across the bed until I grasp the edge of a fluffy pillow. I fling it in the direction of the offending voice without cracking open my lashes. My head doesn’t even need to turn to know my ammunition never met its mark.

“Nice try. You’re getting better at that,” the voice drawls. “Get up. Now.”

“No.” I curl up tighter, bemoaning the sore pull of my muscles from yesterday’s training session. I used to consider joining the army for the housing and warm meals. Thank fuck I never did.

“You agreed. One hour every day.” The blanket rips off my limbs, revealing my rumpled sleep shorts and bare legs. “Come on.”

“I never agreed to the hour being at the ass-crack of dawn,” I groan, flipping my face back into the pillow. “I need a break today. Not feeling it.”

Understatement of the year.

I’ve been thinking about the act of brushing my teeth for a few hours now. There was a time in my life when I’d have been horrified by the prospect of not brushing my teeth the moment I woke. A toothbrush used to be one of my only earthly possessions, after all, and I was incredibly determined not to fall into the filthy and unwashed stereotype expected of those at the foster house.

If only that child could see me now, surrounded by luxury, and yet, somehow struggling to climb to her feet to complete the simple act.

I’m so sick of feeling absolutely nothing.

I feel nothing.

It’s better that way. It’s the feeling that tugs the memories to my consciousness like a stitch pulling taut. I’d much rather keep my tired eyes trained on that smooth slab of wood than feel all there is to fucking feel.

I hear Vasiliy step closer. “First of all, it’s nearly one in the afternoon. Hardly ass-crack of dawn.”

Oh.