by Shandi Boyes
I wasn’t hated; I was feared.
I, Enrique Julies Popov, am the firstborn descendant of the world's most ruthless empire.
Although my father’s mistresses have birthed many children over the years, I'm Vladimir’s firstborn son, meaning I'm the sole heir to the Popov empire. My father’s values are traditional, based on principles that stretch back as far as the 1700s when the Popov empire was created by a short, stout man named Anatoly Popov. He started the Popov empire as a cloak and dagger business: killing for hire. As his reputation grew, so did his ruthlessness, and his crew. Over the centuries, the Popovs’ beliefs have rarely altered: men are powerful; women are weak.
Most kids my age grew up in households that encouraged their children to have their own beliefs. My upbringing was far from that. Discipline became a game to me. How many lashings did it take until the sting of the whip was no longer felt? How many droplets of my blood would spill onto the floor over the thirty minutes of my punishment? And how many ways could I exact my revenge on the man yielding the whip marking my skin. To others, it may seem cruel. To me, it was my life. I knew nothing different.
By the time I was fourteen, I’d already lived a majority of my life. In this industry, you barely make it past your teens. I’d done countless hideous things, stuff I’ll never mention again until I meet with my creator. I was ruthless, believing nothing could stop me. . . until I saw her. . . my little kitten. . .
We were driving through a small town a few hours out of Florida. I couldn't say where as I'd spent the last seven weeks on the road and my bearings were slightly adrift. My attention diverted from the scenery streaming past the heavily-tinted window when I noticed a beautiful teen walking on the cracked sidewalk, laughing and talking with her redhead friend. The late afternoon sun bounced off her hair, shrouding her in a golden halo. She had the kind of beauty that captured you and didn't let go: the face of an angel, lightly tanned skin with the smallest gathering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, and a body more mature than her years. Even the way she skipped down the path had me in a trance. I watched her for only seconds, but it felt like the moon had circled the globe numerous times.
My eyes only left the entrancing blonde when a deep Russian voice at my side snapped me out of my imaginative state.
“You like, Rico? You want to get out your tackle and have some fun with the little girlies?”
I lifted my narrowed eyes to Sergei, cousin, and goon. The mocking grin on his face irritated me. I stared him in the eyes and sniffed, purposely goading him. Sergei was double my age, but we were a similar size and build. But for what he lacked in stature, he made up for in arrogance. He too was raised in the Popov compound, but since he failed to have the legacy of the Popov last name, he was nothing more than a paid goon.
Sergei slapped the chest of Timur sitting on his left. “Veroyatno, ne znayet, kak yego ispol'zovat'!” he mocked.
“You won’t be able to use your cock again when I cut it off,” I snarled back, lowering my stern gaze to the crotch of his pants.
Sergei swallowed away a lump, then stared at me in surprise, shocked I understood what he said. To start with, I don’t know if it was stubbornness or out of reverence to my English-speaking mother, but I rarely spoke a word of Russian. As the years went on, I discovered there's an immense amount of power being seated in a room with a group of men who don’t realize you're bilingual.
As the seconds ticked by on the clock, the look in Sergei’s eyes changed, going from scared to a gleam I’d only seen in his eyes a rare handful of times.
"Stop," he demanded to the driver of the Escalade we were traveling in. He banged his hand on the privacy partition to add strength to his request.
I turned my eyes to my brother Nikolai. His icy-blue eyes drifted between Sergei and me for several seconds before he shrugged his shoulders. In the reflection of the mirrored privacy partition, I saw the dirty white van that had been following us most of the day pull in behind our stationary vehicle. The men inside I hadn't met. All I knew was that they were from another Russian entity that was run by a counterpart of the Popov empire. After we aided them in a business transaction taking place in a small town called Hopeton, they were to return to their station, and we were to travel back to Vegas.
The beat of my heart surged when Sergei pulled a two-way radio out of his pocket and said three short words. “Secure the assets.”
I sat motionless with my heart thumping against my ribcage when two large Russian men curled out of the van and approached the blonde I had been admiring. My stomach lurched in silence when one of the men wrapped his arm around the blonde's friend and placed a white cloth over her mouth. Even though her words were muffled by the fabric, one distinct word was clear: Blaire.
I moved to the edge of my seat when the second man with a snake tattoo wrapped around his wrist and halfway up his forearm approached the blonde. My hand moved to the door handle, my mind running purely on instinct. The only thing that stopped me was when Nikolai placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
Drifting my eyes away from an immoral act I'd seen played out time and time again my past fourteen years, I peered into my brother's eyes. He shook his head, advising me not to respond. He knew Sergei was testing me, ensuring my loyalty remained to the Popov empire.
I continued watching the scene with my gut twisted in a knot. I didn't understand why my reaction was so fierce; I had witnessed that and far worse things numerous times in my short life. But there was something different about me that day. Something inside me snapped.
When Blaire laid lifeless on the concrete sidewalk, her body bloody and bruised, I whispered into the air. “Don’t give up, Blaire.”
Like she could hear my pleas, she rolled onto her side and leaped to her feet. She had more strength than any man I’d ever punished. My back molars smashed together when her dash down the alleyway was stopped by the Russian who had thrown her unconscious friend in the back of the van minutes earlier. Blood roared in my ears when he pinned Blaire to a steel fence by her throat.
Before I had the chance to contemplate the severity of my punishment, I threw open the Escalade door and charged at the man double my weight. My speed was unchecked as I rammed into the side of him with all my might. He let out a loud “oomph” when we smashed into the concrete with a sickening thud. I felt no pain. All I felt was fury. I threw my fists into his face, dazing him long enough that I could turn my eyes back to Blaire. She stood motionless against a steel-chained fence, her knees bloody, her eyes wide.
“Run! Blaire! Run!” I screamed at her.
She stared into my eyes for a fleeting second before she ran down the alleyway as fast as her trembling legs could take her. When her original attacker hot-footed after her, I scrambled off the man lying half unconscious on the cracked asphalt and threw my arms around his ankles. As he plummeted to the ground, I saw the quickest flash of blonde running into a busy street. Relief engulfed me.
That was the last time I saw Blaire until she fell into my lap two weeks ago. . .
Ignoring the shake that has encroached my hands, I undo the buttons of my dress shirt. The creak of the rickety stairwell at my side gains my attention. Maya is standing at the foot of the stairs, her eyes rocketing between a shocked Blaire and me.
“Prosti,” she whispers, issuing her apologies in Russian.
She moves to a stack of shelves in the corner of the room to gather a bunch of towels as she mumbles under her breath. Although her rant is a mixture of Russian and French, it follows a similar path. That she knew something wasn’t right and that she should have trusted her intuition.
After removing my dress shirt covered with specks of blood, I yank my white undershirt over my head. Blaire stares up at me, clearly in shock as I place the shirt over her head before pulling her blood-streaked hair out of the collar. Tears roll down her cheeks unchecked as her entire body quakes. Her tears I can handle, but the vacant look in her eyes – I don’t even know where to begin
.
After wiping off the smears of blood covering my hands with a towel Maya gave me, I crouch down closer to Blaire. With my heart walloping against my ribs, I once again raise my hand to her face. She blinks several times in a row, but thankfully, doesn't repel from my touch. Glancing into her eyes, so she knows I mean her no harm, I brush away a bunch of unruly hairs clinging to her sweat-drenched neck. Her skin prickles with goosebumps when my soft touch runs over the sensitive skin on her collarbone.
My eyes shift sideways when the man I beat to an inch of his life makes a gagging noise as he chokes on his own blood. He should be grateful he's still breathing. If Blaire's welfare weren't my utmost priority, he'd have a bullet wound between his eyes.
Deciding Blaire doesn’t need anything added to her shocked state, I return my gaze to her. She's still staring at me, wide-eyed and quiet. Her pupils are massive, filling her entire cornea, making her eyes the darkest I’ve ever seen.
I peer into her eyes with the same amount of sincerity she usually awards me with. "Let me take care of you, Blaire. Let me wash away your pain."
There’s no greater gift than the one I’m given when she nods, accepting my assistance.
Careful not to touch the scrape marks marring her beautiful skin, I band my arms around her body and pull her to my bare chest. She whimpers into my neck as she clutches onto me for dear life. Her nails digging into the scarred skin of my back is a cruel reminder of the world I forced her into when I failed to give her up a second time.
I knew who Blaire was from the moment she tumbled into my lap hours after I’d returned from Russia. Blaire’s beautiful golden hair, angelic face, and seductive body are features any man would have a hard time forgetting. But it was her light green eyes peering up at me that unveiled her. It was the same pair of eyes that blessed my dreams every night for the past ten years; and the same pair of eyes that weathered me through my darkest storms.
When she walked away from me that night in Vegas, slightly stumbling, I tried to let her go, but just like my desire to protect her ten years earlier, something greater had me pushing away from the poker table and walking towards her.
One sideways glance was all it took. She recognized me too. Although, three weeks ago, she handled the discovery of my real identity in a much calmer fashion. It was only when I discovered she’d been drugged did the reasoning behind her serene approach make sense.
We sat in a VIP booth in Omnia Nightclub for nearly three hours talking. I told her everything, disclosing things I’ve never shared with anyone. The murder of my mother. How I killed a man to protect my sister. Every bad thing I’d done in my life was laid out for her to see. In all honesty, half of my confession was to ease the burden I’d been carrying on my shoulders the past twenty-four years, but the other half, the bigger half, was because I was trying to scare her. I wanted to show her the man she was staring at in awe was nothing but a monster. But the more I shared, the greater her wonderment grew.
She wasn’t the only one entranced. I was addicted to her. She was my light in a world full of blackness.
She's my light in a world full of blackness.
As I walk through the Popov compound with a quivering Blaire in my arms, the usually robust atmosphere is smothered with despair. The elderly women who transitioned from whores to maids stare at me with concern, while a snick of fear sets into the eyes of the men wary on what my reaction will be.
When I enter the foyer, my stern gaze connects with Erik who is exiting the den. His pupils widen as his eyes drift between Blaire and me.
“The servants’ quarters,” I inform his questioning eyes. Erik nods when I continue, “Make sure he pays his penance or I'll return and do it myself.”
Chapter 26
Blaire
My eyelids slowly flutter open when the smell of fresh-cut flowers lingers through my nostrils. The silkiness of high-thread count sheets caresses the weary muscles of my naked body when I pull my arms out of the comforter and have a leisured stretch.
When my tongue delves out to replenish my parched lips, a pinch of pain throbs in the corner of my mouth. My brows stitch in confusion when the tangy flavor of copper engulfs my taste buds. I jackknife into a half-seated position as memories of my attack two nights ago trickle back into my mind. The events after the attack are nearly as hazy as my recollection of my Vegas trip three weeks ago, but there are portions I remember as clear as day. The way Rico carried me through the residence to an Escalade parked at the front of the stairs of the Popov residence; how he held my hair out of my face when my haunted memories became too much for me to bear, and how he wiped away every tear that fell from my eyes with nothing but remorse reflecting from his beautifully tormented gaze.
He guided me through my darkest days—when the blackness tried to swallow my life whole. Now I need to do the same thing for him.
I've awoken in an empty room, but I don't need to feel Rico's presence to know he is close by. I can sense him. Gathering the bed sheets around my body, I pace through the large residence. As my feet pad down the long corridor with floor to ceiling windows, my eyes absorb the spectacular views I was too shocked to appreciate when we first arrived at this penthouse two nights ago. The dazzling view of the Las Vegas strip stretches as far as the eye can see. It looks so beautiful from this vantage point, concealing the cesspool of crime and inhumanity that occurs there every minute of every day.
Although I’m still shocked from both the aftereffects of my attack and discovering that Rico once again saved my life, I feel the calmest I’ve ever felt. My heart has always known he was a good man, and now that my mind wholeheartedly agrees with it, the tiresome mind versus heart battle I’ve been enduring the past three weeks has vanished, leaving me free to pursue a relationship with Rico without fear of repercussion. It's an invigorating feeling.
I walk past a ten-seater wooden dining table located next to a small but functional kitchen. The furnishings show this apartment is owned by a man with substantial wealth, but it still has a homely feel to it with a small range of potted greens, and hand selected artwork accenting the opulent decor.
With the rawness of my throat, I'm tempted to stop by the kitchen for a refreshing glass of water. I continue walking past the double-door fridge without a break in my stride. My desire to find Rico is more fervent than the requests of my thirst.
My brisk pace only slows when I reach a high-glossed door on my left. Even though the door is closed, my intuition is telling me to stop. Trusting my gut, I place my hand on the door handle and push down. My perception of Rico's presence is proven dead on point when the deep timbre of his voice sounds through my ears the instant the door cracks open.
Mimicking the time I interrupted him in the private jet, he's sitting behind a wooden desk with a cell phone attached to his ear. His tone is clipped and authoritative. . . until he notices me leaning in the doorjamb.
“Kitten.”
The urge to cry overwhelms me from the pain displayed in his one simple word. He shuts down his phone, shoves his chair away from his desk, then stands. I push off the doorjamb and race towards him. He catches me in his arms as the first lot of wetness splashes my cheeks.
“Shh, Kitten. You’re okay. No one will ever hurt you,” he promises, reciting the words he said to me on repeat the last forty-eight hours.
He tightens his grip around my shoulders, adding more of his spicy scent to the bedsheets curled around my shaking body. I push into him harder, needing more direct contact, wanting the warmth of his body to take away the shakes impeding mine. My thigh muscles bunch when he tucks his hands under the grooves of my knees, and he hoists me off the ground. He moves to a double seated sofa in the corner of the room and sits down. The cotton material of his shirt catches my tears his thumbs miss. He holds me close into his chest and confirms his promise over and over again.
Once my tears have settled to a slight trickle, I lift my head off my chest and peer into his remorseful eyes.
“What
happened to Katie?” My voice is croaky but full of hope. I've barely been lucid the past two days as Rico guided me through my shock, so I've only just realized he could have answers to questions I've been asking the last ten years.
Panic squeezes my heart when Rico shakes his head. “I don’t know, Kitten. She was still in the van when it shot out of the alleyway shortly after you.” He cups my jaw and stares into my eyes. “Just like you, I’ve been looking for her every day. I’ll find her for you, Blaire. I’ll never give up.”
Call it blind faith, hysteria, or instalove, but I know what he's saying is true. My heart knows it, and so does my mind. Just like me, Rico won’t give up until he discovers what happened to Katie.
We sit huddled together in his office for what feels like hours, but it's more like minutes as I play the events of my life the past ten years. Having Rico’s arms around me makes me feel safe as if no one will ever hurt me again, not even him. It's a feeling I've craved for years but never thought I'd achieve. He makes me feel invincible.
I draw myself in closer to his chest and slip my hands under his shirt. I flatten against him, trying to mold us into one person. I need more. So much more of him, it makes it hard for me to breathe.
“What do you need, Kitten? Tell me what you want.”
“You, Enrique. I need you,” I reply in an instant.
He hesitates for a fleeting second with his confused eyes bouncing between mine, assessing my face for any signs of distress. I made a similar demand the past two nights, but with my mind still trapped in shock, he refused to oblige me. That made me fall in love with him even more.
Failing to find a morsel of anguish on my face, he jumps to my command. I listen to the mad beat of his heart as his long strides follow the path I took thirty minutes ago. With every step he takes, the turmoil in his eyes changes, switching from tormented to yearning, not just to protect me, but to satisfy me as well. A tingle of excitement rushes down my spine, stirring the heated ache between my legs.
