Black Swan

by London Miller

  Black Swan

  The Kingmaker Saga #3

  London Miller

  LM Books LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by London Miller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Praise for London Miller

  “London Miller writes with both complex emotion, high paced intensity and a diverse cast of misfits that you can't help falling in love with.”

  Bestselling Author, Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “This series continues to play out much like a chess game with all the players being moved around but with no known end …”

  Amazon Reviewer, Sandy

  “The way the Den of Mercenaries and Wild Bunch series are intricately woven into each other is impressive.”

  Edgy Reviews, Lily

  Also by London Miller

  The Kingmaker Saga

  White Rabbit: The Rise

  White Rabbit: The Fall

  Red Herring

  Dark Horse

  * * *

  Volkov Bratva

  In the Beginning

  Until the End

  The Final Hour

  Valon: What Once Was

  Hidden Monsters

  The Morning

  Time Stood Still

  Down the Line

  * * *

  Den of Mercenaries

  Red.

  Celt.

  Nix.

  Calavera.

  Skorpion.

  Syn.

  Iris.

  Something Green.

  * * *

  The Wild Bunch

  Crooks & Kings

  Shadows & Silence

  * * *

  Seasons of Betrayal

  Where the Sun Hides

  Where the Snow Falls

  Where the Wind Whispers

  * * *

  Standalones

  Acquainted

  Newsletter

  Keep up with all things London Miller, including exclusive cover reveals, giveaways, and more!

  http://eepurl.com/dADuKn

  For H and BK,

  my people.

  Contents

  1. Comfort

  2. Lost

  3. Darkest Day

  4. Elsie

  5. A Reason

  6. Lies and Truth

  7. Avenge Her

  8. Determination

  9. Rebirth

  10. A Man Named Z

  11. The Next Step

  12. Embrace The Pain

  13. What Wasn’t Said

  14. Freedom and Punishment

  15. The Other Volkov

  16. Moving On

  17. Forward

  18. The Albanian Problem

  19. Nostalgia

  20. The Story of Kava

  21. Reflection

  22. Final Plans

  23. Torture

  24. Blackout

  25. Friends Don’t Punish Friends

  26. Moving Forward

  27. Dances With Devils

  28. Truth and Honesty

  29. Leave

  30. Red.

  31. Warnings

  32. Celt.

  33. Carmen

  34. Unexpected Meetings

  35. Roles To Play

  36. Reconvene

  37. Hurt

  38. In Check

  39. Checkmate

  40. Power and Information

  41. Permission

  42. Did You Miss Me?

  Curious About the Mercenaries?

  Red. Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  1

  Comfort

  Three years later …

  Shower. Garden. Sleep.

  Karina had found it was much easier getting through her day when she didn’t think too much about what she was doing or when she did it.

  She didn’t care how monotonous her routine was—if anything, she enjoyed it more. There was a certain comfort about an everyday routine that made it a little easier to breathe.

  Finally, after so many months of feeling as if she were drowning, the noise inside her head had finally quieted. There were no incessant thoughts to keep her awake at night.

  She was existing. Nothing more.

  Yet that thought didn’t bother her at all.

  With a pair of pruning shears in her hand, she finished trimming off the bits that needed to go from the flowerbed and set them aside before picking up the watering bucket and carefully dampening the soil. Before she had arrived here at her new home hours outside of the city, she had never gardened a day in her life.

  Truthfully, she had never thought she would be any good at this—it took a certain level of patience she had never thought she was capable of. But, before now, there were quite a few things she hadn’t known she would be able to do.

  Finished with her task, she took a moment to appreciate the field of poppies in front of her with their brilliant red petals and black seeds nestled in their centers.

  Nothing had ever brought her as much joy as they did.

  Or nearly as much pain.

  Heading inside, she toed off her shoes by the door, leaving her gloves on the table next to the door. She glanced at the time on the clock hanging above the couch in the living room before climbing the stairs and entering the bedroom down the hall.

  Despite how long she’d been living here, this place didn’t feel any more like home than it had when she first arrived. Everything was as her mother had decorated it to be before she arrived.

  Entering the bathroom, she sat on the edge of the clawfoot tub and reached over to plug the drain before turning on the taps. It wasn’t long before the water grew hot to the touch and steam billowed up, warming her skin that always felt a little chilled.

  She poured in a mixture of bubble bath, salts, and oils that were, according to the labels, meant to relax the mind and body. She couldn’t say whether it was actually true or not, but she had been able to stop taking the pills they had given her at the hospital for her anxiety, so it all worked well enough.

  Purposely turning away from the mirror, she refused to look at her reflection as she stripped out of her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. It was one thing to know something in the back of her mind—if the thought sprang up, she could simply push it away and focus on something else.

  But her reflection ...

  She couldn’t very well ignore that.

  Because mirrors didn’t lie. They shared the blatant, unadulterated truth—a truth that was reflected all over her body.

  A truth she still wasn’t ready to deal with.

  Stepping into the water, she hissed between her teeth at the sheer heat of it, but that didn’t stop her from sinking into the depths of it, the long, dark strands of her hair hanging over the edge.

  For a long while, she stared up at the ceiling. Not counting the crystals in the chandelier the way she had when she first arrived, or even tracing the intricate design work from one corner to the next.

  She simply ... stared.

  At least until she took a breath and sank beneath the surface of the water.

  It plugged her ears—warmed her eyelids.

  And right here, with silence all around her, Karina found some semblance of peace.

  Much later, after her bath and when she’d gotten dressed once more, she found herself lounging on the couch wrapped in her favorite fluffy blanket, a book tucked between her hands as she lost herself within the pages.

  She had forgotten how easy it was to escape into a reality where love didn’t hurt, and pain wasn
’t an old friend.

  Here, love was earned after trivial problems—offered so freely. She couldn’t think of a time when love had ever been so easy for her.

  Not ever.

  The sound of the front door unlocking made her perk up, her gaze traveling over in that direction as the heavy oak was pushed open a moment before she heard the rattle of keys and bags, then the click of heels.

  Karina didn’t move as her sister, Isla, walked in, sunlight spilling into the foyer behind her. As far as she could see from her vantage point, the weather was quite nice—the sun high and glowing. A gentle breeze swaying the leaves outside.

  Yet she had no interest whatsoever in moving from where she currently lay.

  Isla looked around, as if searching for something—perhaps wondering if Karina had finally taken an interest in making this place more of her own—but whether she was pleased or dissatisfied, she didn’t show it one way or the other.

  Instead, she did what she always did when she came over.

  She carried the few bags of groceries into the kitchen and placed the ingredients on the counter before shedding her coat and putting her hair up into a ponytail.

  Isla had to know she was lying there, especially when Karina sat up to see what she had brought along with her, but she didn’t acknowledge her in any way.

  Not like she had the very first time she had come over after ... everything.

  Since then, they had gone about this routine very much the same way as they were now.

  Karina wished she had something to say—or rather, she knew what to say—but every time she opened her mouth, no words came out, even as the tears were always right there, ready and waiting to spill over the moment her guard was down.

  At this point, she was surprised she had any tears left to cry. She’d been certain nothing remained, considering how dead she felt inside. If she minded the silence, Isla didn’t show it. She merely washed her hands before pulling out a baking pan.

  Resting back, Karina returned to her book as Isla made dinner for them, and before long, the aroma of baked fish hit her senses, making her breathe in deep even as her mouth watered.

  Nearly forty-five minutes to the second she had arrived, Isla brought over a plate of food along with a fork and knife, setting it down beside her before she went to retrieve her own.

  Another everyday ritual, one that Karina appreciated more than she could ever put into words.

  Isla didn’t attempt to make idle conversation or force her to talk about things better left unsaid—she let her presence do the speaking for her.

  Like every other time she had come, she brought over her own plate before stepping out of her heels and curling up on the couch beside her.

  And as she always did, she waited until Karina took a bite of her food first before she began eating her own.

  No words were spoken.

  The television was never turned on.

  There was just the scrape of utensils across the plates as they ate.

  Yet Karina looked forward to this moment of her day the most.

  2

  Lost

  Chaos and depravity.

  His old friends.

  Uilleam couldn’t remember the last time he’d drank to excess like this, but as he neared the bottom of the bottle he held, he also didn’t mind. Because in the end, he knew he would find the only thing he craved.

  Oblivion.

  He could almost taste the sweetness of it on his tongue even as he swayed on his feet, black spots winking in his vision. It was a far better alternative than what he would face if he wasn’t drinking the best whiskey money could buy.

  His mind was too sharp—he remembered things too well.

  And unfortunately, there was no other way to shut it all off unless he drank himself to early liver failure.

  A fitting end, he thought, considering what he had allowed to happen.

  For how bloody fucking ignorant he had been to believe he could have everything without consequence.

  Oh, how his father would laugh if he saw him now.

  He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to erase the image of his father in the back of his mind—that smug grin on his face as he shook his head. As if Uilleam had and always would disappoint him in the end.

  “Well,” Uilleam told the raging fire in front of him, swaying a bit before he caught himself with a hand to the mantel. “We can’t all be like you, can we, dearest Father?”

  They couldn’t all live in a world without any connections—without feeling anything for anyone. It didn’t matter that Alexander had had a wife and children, not to mention the number of mistresses he hadn’t bothered to hide.

  Alexander had cared for no one.

  Uilleam almost envied him that.

  Because if his heart had been as black as his father’s, he wouldn’t be in this wretched state—pining and aching and wasting away because the only love he would ever know was gone now.

  Karina was dead.

  And all too quickly, the image returned.

  He saw her, resting in a pool of her own blood—the wounds on her body too savage to even be believed. Whoever had done it hadn’t cared whether he would be able to see the fear or pain in her face as they brutalized her.

  They had only wanted to make sure they inflicted the most pain physically possible. She’d been beaten beyond recognition and left for him to find in the home they’d shared for too brief of a time.

  The thought made his breath seize, his chest aching so badly that, for a moment, Uilleam was sure his heart had stopped. But just as he was sure it had, he felt it beat once more, driving more pain through him—reminding him that he was very much alive while she was very much not.

  Overcome with rage, he threw the bottle he was holding into the fire, watching as the alcohol made the flames leap and grow, the glass splintering on contact.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Not nearly enough.

  He destroyed everything he could get his hands on.

  Priceless art? It meant nothing.

  Sculptures from earlier centuries? Left in piles of dust and porcelain at his feet.

  He didn’t stop.

  He couldn’t stop because he knew the moment he did, the pain would only come back—a pain so acute it would drive him to tears. To weakness.

  So he welcomed the anger—let it infect and fester inside him until it was all he knew.

  And only when his body was spent and his desire to destroy everything in sight waned did he finally collapse onto the floor, wishing they had taken him instead.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “Ninety-six days, twelve hours, and forty-two minutes.”

  Uilleam came to with a splitting headache that made him immediately wish he hadn’t woken up at all.

  Two voices filtered in, reminding him that not only was he very much alive, but he had also managed to find his hell on earth with the way everything in his stomach—what little there was—was threatening to come up.

  Attempting to sit up, Uilleam rolled onto his side, toppling over the glass bottle that had survived last night’s rampage resting beside him, spilling amber spirits all over the floor.

  As the migraine attempted to split his skull open, he moved very slowly as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get his bearings.

  At some point during his rampage the night before, he’d passed out and Skorpion had come ’round to play sentry, judging from the way he was stretched out on the velvet chaise, though it looked as if it were moments from collapsing beneath his weight.

  But though this had become something of a routine for them, this time he hadn’t come alone.

  Unfortunately, he’d brought company.

  Kit.

  One of them had deigned to put a pillow beneath his head and had even thrown a blanket over him, though in his current state, he’d never be able to discern which of them it had been.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sounding like gr
avel. Even as he asked the question, he was too busy rubbing his temples to pay attention to either one of them.

  His mouth felt like sandpaper, his head was threatening to cave in, and if he moved too quickly, he was sure he would vomit up the contents of his stomach.

  He was in no physical or mental state to deal with guests.

  Which was why he had gone home to isolate himself in the vast emptiness that was Runehart Estate. A place where no one was around for miles.

  Where he could drink himself into oblivion without anyone being the wiser.

  Yet here they both were.

  “It shouldn’t be beyond the realm of reason that I would come to see you, brother,” Kit said.

  To him, maybe it wasn’t, but that was where they differed. Considering the way they had left things the last time they saw each other, he hadn’t expected to see his brother again for quite a while—a year, at least, before one or the other happened to be around for a business deal.

  Then again, he also hadn’t expected to lose the one thing that had reminded him that the black thing in his chest actually beat.