by James Tate
"They talk better when they're alive," he purrs, flicking the blade with two fingers and sinking it into Dmitri's hand when he goes for a second gun on his belt. Arsen steps forward and promptly removes that, lowering the barrel and shooting the man in the thigh.
His scream is awful, but as soon as I hear it, I think of his wife and how she never even got the chance to scream. There's no sympathy left in me after that.
But God, there's so much blood, and it smells so awful. Memories of that night, just a few short days ago, flood my head. Kisten's hard cock buried inside of me, coke and sex and alcohol flooding my blood … until I'm spattered with his.
Clamping a hand over my mouth, I stumble around the side of the soccer-mom van and throw up in a nearby trash can, hooking my fingers around the edges and coughing on the acrid taste poisoning my mouth and throat.
"Here," a deep voice says, and I look up to see Hawke, holding out my abandoned hoodie. My eyes widen as he narrows his and tosses the sweater at me, moving past me and around the van to stare at Dmitri's now still and silent form.
"Are you alright?" Mace asks as he speeds by, heading straight for Weston. I nod briefly, and he grunts, watching as I pull the fabric over my head and join the leader of this motley crew next to the comatose form of one of the evilest men I've ever met in my life. Pretty sure my father is the only person I know who exceeds Dmitri's cruelty. Because while I'm pretty sure that the man lying on the ground in front of me has some severe mental instabilities, my dad has a heart. He lost it when my mother was killed, and he's decided not to bother seeking it out. He does feel, and he does understand human emotion and pain; he does all the awful things he does in spite of that.
"Start cleaning up," Hawke grunts as the Hummer pulls around and Colt gets out, leaving the engine rumbling. "Not you," he barks, grabbing Colt's arm and turning him around to face me.
"You want me to take the Tzarina back to the church?" Colt asks as I start to shake. Not from fear though. And that's the part that scares me the most, that I'm not scared. No, I feel invigorated, adrenaline coursing through my veins with no outlet. That's where the shaking's coming from.
"Make sure you're not being followed," Hawke snaps as Arsen lifts Dmitri's body from the pavement like he's a sack of trash that needs to be taken out. Casually, he tosses him over his shoulder and moves over to the Hummer, opening the back and unceremoniously tossing the man inside.
"No shit, Sherlock," Colt murmurs, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion that's clearly meant for me. "Does that mean I get to take West's car?" He grins as he trots around the front of the vehicle and heads toward Mace and Weston.
I'm almost afraid to follow. Colt and Weston seem so close and at this point, I'm not even sure that the latter is still alive …
Swallowing my emotions down, I take a cue from my father and bury my feelings for later—or for good, really—and follow after him. I'm surprised to find Weston standing and drinking from a bottle of whiskey. Really nice whiskey, actually.
"Should've known better," Colt says, smiling and patting his friend on the back. He takes the booze from him and drinks from it, not caring that there's a bit of his Weston’s blood smeared on the rim. As soon as he finishes grabbing a few swallows, he passes it over to me, and I feel this sense of kinship between the men that makes me envious as hell. They've got something that works here, something that's better than blood, than family, than friendship. I've had all of those things in the past and they've never lasted.
This, what these guys have, it's so much better than that.
A team.
They're a team.
"Five against one? This was so unfair … for them," Colt finishes as I chug the whiskey and pass it to Mace. He sets it on the trunk of Weston's car and then leans down to pick up the body of the man I shot and killed, throwing him and then another man over each shoulder. He seems to have zero problem picking them both up and carrying them to the back of the Hummer; he's not even breathing hard. "Oh, by the way, Hawke says I get to take your car."
"Like hell you do," Weston coughs out, spattering a bit more blood onto the front of his already wet t-shirt. His voice is low and husky with pain. "You drive like a goddamn maniac; there's a reason you no longer have a car of your own. I'll drive."
"We need to get you over to see Portia—" Colt starts and then pales when Weston's gaze snaps over to his face, wild and unhinged. "Shit, shit, shit, I didn't meant to say that."
"No shit," Weston growls out, sagging against the trunk and knocking the whiskey bottle to the ground. I pick it up before it can all spill onto the pavement, mixing with the blood of the dead. Portia, huh? Who the hell is Portia? "Take me back to the church, and I'll patch myself up." West looks like a deflated balloon as he digs in his pocket and hands his keys over to his friend.
I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking about this Portia person. Whoever she was, she must've been pretty goddamn important to elicit such a reaction from Weston. He's got that chill, easygoing vibe about him.
Quietly, I climb into the backseat of the car and wait for the two men to join me.
The song that plays on the way back to the church … is Bodies by Drowning Pool.
How appropriate.
Chapter 10
ARSEN
There's something so infuriating about having Konstantin Petrov's daughter in the same building as me. It's like a slap in the face. Nobody seems to care that I'm here for one reason and one reason alone: to kill that son of a bitch.
The money is nice, of course, but I don't really give two shits about 'nice things'. Mostly, I'm happy with a bottle of Jack, some cigarettes, and chocolate. Oh yes, I'm a huge fan of chocolate. If my body didn't demand sex, I'd probably be just fine without that, too. It feels good, but it involves being around other people. Frankly, I'd rather masturbate.
"You sure this girl isn’t feeding information to her father?" I ask, and Hawke slams his mug on the counter. He hates talking to me, but I love bothering him, so he best get the fuck over it. "Just seems weird that Weston and Princess Petrova would just happen to be jumped the first and only night that West's ever left the church by himself like that."
"The Petrov Syndicate knows where they last saw Natalia, knows that she left on foot, and knows that we're in the area looking for them. It's not much of a stretch to think somebody caught sight of either her or Weston while they were driving and followed them."
I clench my teeth. Sometimes, I wonder how good it would feel to drive a blade through the back of Hawke's neck and watch the pointed end stick out of his throat. He's so rational most of the time, it makes me feel even more insane, the business of my mind spiraling out and around me until it feels like I'm strangling myself.
But I know from Portia that there's more to Hawke than he shows the world.
In the bedroom, he's as dark in the heart and soul and cock as I am.
"I don't like living in the same dwelling as that bitch," I say, even though my cock stirs at the thought of her. Fucking that girl did not free me from my sudden and inescapable fascination with her; it only made things worse. "If you'll recall, it was her father that killed Portia—"
"If you don't shut your goddamn fucking trap …" Hawke starts, whirling around and sloshing coffee all over the floor.
"Do you two always fight?" a low, husky voice asks from behind me. I don't turn around to look at Natalia. Why bother? If I do, all I'll be able to think about are her bare breasts, bruised and bleeding, that gun clutched in her hands, the way her caramel brown eyes darkened as she took aim at that sack of shit I stabbed.
"We have a love-hate relationship," I lie, shrugging loosely and stretching my arms above my head. "Mostly it's skewed toward hate, but don't tell Hawke that." The leader of our little mercenary troupe gives me a look, but I ignore him. Slowly, carefully, I steel myself to see that woman dressed in oversized robes or sweats or …
But when I turn and see her wearing one of the old-fashioned nun's habits fr
om the dusty upstairs attic, my cock springs to life. I'm wearing loose acid wash jeans today and nothing else, so it's pretty obvious that I'm turned-on. Natalia notices right away and swallows hard, flicking her eyes to my face.
Does she see how much I despise her? I rightfully should've killed her in the bathroom that first day.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I give her a once-over, her brunette hair tucked back under a black and white hood. I'd love to curl my fingers in that fabric and shove her to her knees, get her to suck my cock in the confessional the way she did for Colt.
"Natalia," Hawke says in a strangled sounding voice. It makes me laugh, seeing him so affected by this piece of tits and ass, just like the rest of us. Not even Portia managed to get him to show emotion around the team. "Why are you dressed in that? Didn't Mace buy you some clothes to wear?"
The woman in front of me simply shrugs and runs her tongue over her lower lip. Does she mean it to be suggestive? All I can think about is ramming my dick down her throat now.
"He did, but they don't fit well. Besides, you all get to play dress up as priests. Why can't I play, too?" She arches a brow at Hawke, tilting her chin up defiantly and showing off the creamy pale skin of her neck.
I picture my hands wrapped around it. My fingertips digging in deep, deep enough to bruise as I cut off her air. The mental image is so strong I can hear my breathing speed up, my cock so hard in my pants it's like I'm going to burst my zipper.
"Arsen," Hawke snaps, and I notice both he and this … temptress are watching me intensely. "Give us a few minutes alone."
Regaining a little of my composure—or rather, as much composure as I ever have given how crazy I am—I turn to leer at my leader. "Why? So you can bend her over and fuck her tight little cunt right here on the kitchen table? Bad luck, Donald Duck. Been there and done that. This morning, to be precise."
My words strike the chord I'm looking for and Hawke's nostrils flare with anger. Shit, pissing him off is almost as good as spilling my seed inside little Miss Petrova was. Seeing her run from me afterwards was a turn-on all by itself, and I had to force myself not to chase her.
"Arsen," Hawke says with careful precision, and I know he's on the edge of snapping. "Get. Out. You have your assignment for the day, now go and do it."
He means the shitty surveillance task he's assigned to me. It’s a crock of shit, and so clearly aimed at keeping me away from Miss Petrova. Futile, really. She's piqued my interest, and I sincerely doubt I'll be done with her until one of us is dead.
"As you wish, oh mighty commander Hawke." I tip my imaginary hat at him, then run my eyes over the sexy-as-sin nun’s habit concealing Natalia's body. I wonder if she's naked under all that cloth. We’ll have to find out later, when Hawke the killjoy isn't around to ruin things.
"I'll be seeing you around, Miss Petrova." I wink at her, not bothering to hide the mix of hatred and lust I'm feeling. I want to kill her just as badly as I want to fuck her. It's quite the conundrum.
She meets my eyes boldly, and I recognize the look in hers. This girl has a death wish, there's no doubt about it. Perhaps we can come to an agreement that we’ll both find satisfactory …
Images of sex and death skitter across my mind as I saunter out of the kitchen, leaving that little minx in Hawke's care while I head out to the cars. Asshole that I am, I snake the keys to Weston's Challenger on my way out. That poisonous girl has me hard as a damn rock and surveillance is a long and boring job. May as well rub one out inside Weston's car and kill two birds with one stone.
Chuckling to myself, I slide into the driver's seat and slam the door shut. I don't bother with a seat belt, because fuck knows it'll take more than a car crash to take me out of the game. Instead, I flick open the fly of my jeans and bare my naked dick while gunning the engine.
Fuck waiting until I get to my assigned location. I can multitask like a pro. I'll sort myself out while I drive.
Tires squealing, I peel out of the parking garage and into the street, merging with traffic seamlessly. Of course, the cunts on the road freak out thinking I'm going to cause an accident and start laying on their horns. Pussies. I’m nowhere near hitting them.
I weave Weston's car between traffic one-handed. My other hand is wrapped firmly around my shaft, pumping up and down as I picture Natalia's mouth on me just like I'd seen her do in the confessional booth. Fucking Colt, that lucky son of a bitch. I've never been so glad to have my quiet time interrupted before.
Just as I'm about to come, I slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the truck stopped in front of me. I've pulled up just inches from his tail, and I come hard all over Weston's steering wheel.
Hot, sticky white semen drips down the hand-stitched leather, and I know he's never getting it out. Not truly. It makes me laugh. Serves him damn right for getting shot in the first place.
Grabbing the discarded priest robe off his passenger seat, I clean up my dick then tuck it away as traffic begins to move again and my phone rings.
"Arsen," Mace's voice sounds when I answer, but I don't say anything. Why bother? They called me. They know who I am. "We're almost out of iodine and gauze. Can you pick some up on your way back?"
I snort a laugh. "That fuckwit still refusing to see the new doc, eh?"
Mace sighs down the phone. "Yeah. Not that I can blame him. Portia was …"
He trails off with a wussy noise, and I roll my eyes. Portia was technically a psych nurse, but also became our team’s unofficial doctor. Can't just go rocking up to the hospital with gunshot wounds, now can you?
"Yeah, whatever. I'll be back after dark." I don't bother waiting for another response before ending the call.
Bunch of fucking pathetic assholes, my team is. Every last one of them, still moping around about a chick that's been dead over a year. Not me, though. I never loved her. Not like they all claimed to. Then again, maybe that's because I'm incapable of love? Portia certainly thought so. Never stopped her fucking me like her life depended on it though … and sometimes it did.
Her death was a shock, given it wasn't at my hands, despite how many close calls we'd had while we fucked. No, instead it was at Konstantin Petrov's hands. And for that, I'd see him dead.
Having his prize possession, his little princess, fall into our laps was just the most incredible luck. Perhaps I won’t kill her straight away. Perhaps, if I play this stupid game Hawke wants me to play … make the little bitch love me … it'll make the win all the sweeter.
A cruel sort of grin curves across my lips as I settle into my seat for five hours of surveillance on a damn dry cleaners. Yes, by the time I'm done with Miss Petrova, she will be my loyal and willing slave.
Chapter 11
NATALIA
Balancing the tray on one hand and my knee, I knock lightly on Weston's door, then push it open gently. Inside, Mace is looming over Weston, mopping up blood from his chest while Colt paces back and forth at the foot of the bed.
"Hey," I say in a soft voice. "Hawke told me to bring this stuff up?"
I hesitate a moment in the doorway, feeling like I'm intruding. These men, they're a team, a family. Except for Arsen, that is.
Three sets of eyes snap up to stare at me, and I freeze to the spot like a deer in the damn headlights. Why?
Get it together, Natty! You're not this shy girl, not outside the bedroom. Chin up, show them you're made of tougher stuff.
"Shall I just leave it here?" I ask, ignoring their stares and carrying the tray over to the small dresser. I need to push aside a bible and a wax candle statue of the Virgin Mary to make space, but once I've done that, I spin to face my audience. "Can I help with something else?"
I intend the question to sound snappy and sarcastic, but for all my best intentions it simply comes out breathy and sexual. Like a slave begging to please her masters.
That inflection doesn't seem lost on the men either, as their gazes turn a little more predatory, and I shift uncomfortably. Not because I don't appreciate their
interest, but because now I'm horny as fuck and totally naked under my habit.
It might seem like an odd choice, going without underwear, but I'm dirty as fuck, and it turned me on. So I did it.
"That's all, thank you, Talia." Mace is the first to speak, his voice low and gruff.
"Nice … outfit?" Colt smirks at me, running his tongue across his lower lip in an undisguised sexual way. "Wearing anything under that?"
Damn him, how did he know?
My thighs clench, and I suck in a deep breath before attempting to reply. "Not a thing," I purr back, then mentally kick myself.
Seriously, Natty? Weston is lying there bleeding from a bullet wound and you're trying to proposition three men at once? One of whom is lying there bleeding? Ugh!
Fuck it. I've got issues. Who gives a rat’s ass?
"Actually, Talia," Mace interjects with a cough. "We could maybe use some help. How are your needlework skills?"
"Uh," I hesitate, a bit confused at the change of pace. "Pretty good, actually. Daddy wanted me to be an 'accomplished young woman', so I had to learn all those bullshit sexist 'skills' like sewing, singing, piano …" I was rambling because my mind had just connected the dots on why they would need needlework. "Uh ah. No way, I'm not stitching up Weston's flesh. Are you kidding me? I'm not qualified for that!"
Weston barks a harsh coughing laugh then groans. "It's either you or this asshole." He nods towards Mace. "And I dunno if you've seen those sausages he calls fingers, but they sure don't look nimble to me."
Mace holds up his fingers to show me and damn it if Weston doesn’t have a point. Mace's hands are enormous; I'd be amazed if he could even hold a needle.
"What about Colt?" I flail. "His hands are smaller."
"Hey!" Colt objects. "I'll have you know—"
"Colt can't do it," Weston cuts him off. "He gets squeamish around blood. That's why he's down there and not looking at me."
