Page 83 of Enemy of the Heart

It helps that Viktor and the Bratva have become an extended family. But where I’d take a hundred bullets for them, I’d take a million for the woman I love.

Gulping down one last breath of the autumn air, I yank on the mouthless mask before entering the dark house. Our home is modest, but large enough for us. When we renovated his place, Lou and I made sure we had everything we needed, though, including a built-out basement where my darkness is safe to show itself and Lou can scream all she likes.

I pass the dark kitchen where Louhi has had many a barefoot dance party while I watch her nearly spill her wine as she tries to imitate the guttural screams of the death metal she likes so much. She’s terrible at it, but it’s still fun to hear her try.

Slipping out of my boots, I leave them in the living room and pad quietly to our bedroom. There was a chance the job she took in New York might mean she’d get home after me, but the second I saw her bike in the garage, I knew I’d hit the jackpot.

It’s not often that I get back later than her—especially with her already asleep—so I plan to take advantage of the situation. Quietly, I twist the doorknob and step into our dark bedroom.

The room is swathed in a moonlit glow, thanks to the open curtains, outlining Lou’s slumbering form. She’s a light sleeper, so I keep my steps airy as I approach the bed.

Admiring her tranquil expression, I don’t bother resisting the urge to brush the few strands of sable hair off her beautiful face. We’ve been through so much, but spending the last few years together would have been worth enduring the rest of my life on that horrible fucking island on the other side of the world.

I’m proud of the trust we’ve built over the years. We’ve come a long way, and the hard days still happen, but they’re bearable when we face them together.

She doesn’t stir, but I’m certain she was aware of my presence the moment I parked my bike. She’s likely faking sleep at this point and waiting for me to make my move.

I smirk behind my mask and yank the covers back. Her eyes fly open and meet mine, an inferno of want ablaze in her amber gaze as she peers up at me through dark lashes. A tiny smirk twitches her lips. She’s trying and failing to fight the full expression. She loves this as much as I do.

I’ve only donned the mask a handful of times over the years, but she goes fucking feral for it every time I do, which means I should be reaching for it more often. But I prefer her to look into the face of the man devouring her, owning her, worshiping her, loving her.

I’m on top of her in an instant, my hand locking her delicate wrists above her head. My free hand cups her bare sex, and when she releases a needy whimper, I tighten my hold. Abandoning her cunt, I snatch the corded headphones sitting on her nightstand, wrapping them around her wrists and tying her to the rungs of the iron headboard. There’s no fucking way these headphones will be operational after tonight, but I’ll replace them.

She squirms, cursing, but now that I’ve got her at my mercy, I grip the collar of my worn t-shirt she’s wearing and rip it right down the middle. Her face scrunches as she pouts.

When she parts her lips to spit my favorite kind of venom, I place a hand over the bottom half of her face. “You’ll only open your mouth to accept my cock tonight, understand?”

I wait until she nods, albeit reluctantly, before removing my hand. Moving between her legs, I lick the grooves of the incredibly erotic scar I left there years ago, tracing each of my initials with my tongue. As she arches into me, I reach up and press my palm to her heart and murmur against her skin in Finnish, “Minun.”

Mine.

Jace

EIGHT YEARS LATER

Trapped in the haze between wake and sleep, I desperately try to cling to the better option. My head is perfectly cradled by the back cushion of the couch. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to shut out the sound of gulls cawing and the afternoon sunshine streaming through the glass French doors, along with the briny scent of sea breeze.

It doesn’t work. I’m awake. So much for my nap today. With a huff, I drag my head up and scrub both hands over my face, blinking against the bright light. I maybe dozed for ten minutes. Better than nothing. I’m about to reach for my phone on the glass coffee table in front of me when Louhi strides into the living room.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she says with a grin as bright as the sun outside. She dive-bombs onto the sofa, landing next to me. She’s wearing a black bikini with ivory trim that probably drives Digs fucking crazy.

She shifts, settling her head on my chest. I wrap my arm around her shoulders. It’s not romantic, just intimate and familiar. “I’m still on Melbourne time, and I haven’t been able to nap all day. I’m bored.”

Lou met Sean and I in Montenegro yesterday evening after she completed a job that I didn’t ask about.

“I’m surprised you didn’t wake Sleeping Beauty for some of your deranged recreational activities.”

“He is beautiful, isn’t he?”

I snort.

“But he’s not asleep.” She lifts her head and gestures toward the back deck, where I spot Digs pacing near the pool, a phone pressed to his ear.

“Viktor’s griping about something.” I’ll fucking bet he is.

I don’t answer. I know what my boss is complaining about, and there’s not much Sean can do about it from here. We’ve spent the last four days torturing some guy for information about a missing shipment of untraceable ghost guns. He’s insisting that he doesn’t know anything about it. Sean and I believe him; Viktor doesn’t.

I love this job as much as my best friend does. We spend our days talking about and playing with guns. When we aren’t doing that, we’re extracting information from whomever Viktor drags into our den of depravity. It’s far better than Ex-I. Viktor gives us total control over how we garner whatever details he seeks to learn. Then, we let somebody else—usually Sasha—pull the trigger.