Heartless: Merciless Book 2

by Winters, W.

  “Will I ever be allowed to leave?” Her question reflects her hopelessness.

  “Yes.” I want to tell her more, that I’ll take her wherever she wants to go, but I’m afraid if I speak too much, she’ll break down again. Every word has to be spoken carefully.

  “When?” she asks.

  “After the war is over,” I tell her firmly. “There’s no exception to that.”

  “And when will that happen?” Her words are small, nearly insignificant, reflecting exactly how she must feel.

  “Soon.” I try to be short, not wanting to hurt her any more than she already is, but also not wanting to lie.

  “I would like to at least say goodbye,” she whimpers and her voice cracks.

  “He knows where you are. If he wanted to say goodbye, he could.”

  “He knows I’m here?” The shock in her voice is unexpected and I feel like a prick. She’s going to have the same reaction she did yesterday when she learned I had someone spying on her.

  “Yes.” I swallow thickly, but at least she’s talking to me.

  “And he hasn’t come for me?” she asks with such sadness, but it only enrages me. Doesn’t she know the man her father really is? He wouldn’t risk his life for anyone. Not a damn soul. “How long?” She visibly swallows and hardens her voice as she asks, “How long has he known?”

  “Since the dinner,” I tell her and then count the days. “Four days.”

  Aria’s face crumples and she covers her mouth with her hand, looking impossibly more dejected somehow.

  “When you’re at war, you eviscerate them first. I’m sure he has plans…” I want to lie to her, to tell her he has plans to get her after he’s killed me. But I don’t believe it. Talvery would bomb our estate, killing her with me, if he thought he could get away with it.

  “Where does that leave me?” Aria asks in a weak whisper.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to eviscerate the Talverys… where does that leave me?” she asks with surprising strength and tenacity.

  “You belong to me.” It’s the only answer to that question. And the truth she already knows. She’s already accepted it. I know she has.

  “What would you do if I told you no? That I don’t want you?” She steadies her breathing as best as she can and straightens her back. “That I don’t want to be your whore anymore?”

  “I would know you were lying. And you’re not my whore.” My heart pounds accompanied by a prickling along my skin.

  I expect her to come back with some quip asking what she is to me then. But she doesn’t. Instead, she tries to destroy what little goodness she’s given me.

  “What if things changed, and I didn’t want you at all?” she asks me with each word clear and just as sharp as the knife it feels like.

  “Why would you? Why would you lie?” I dare her to tell me it’s the truth. That she doesn’t want me anymore.

  “You would have sent me back after the bath if I’d said ‘no,’ wouldn’t you?” she asks me and I have to take a minute to realize what she’s even referring to.

  “Our first night? You didn’t sleep with me because you wanted to stay out of the cell,” I practically spit the words out of my mouth, brimming with outrage. “You didn’t even know you weren’t going back.” My voice rises and I feel it scrape up my throat. “Your heels dug into my ass that night, spurring me on. You fucked me because you wanted me.” I emphasize each word, taking a steady and dominating step closer to her with each one until I’m so close to her, I can feel the tension radiating from her. “You wanted to know what it would feel like to have my cock inside of you.” Lowering my lips to hers I whisper, “Or am I wrong?”

  She stares into my eyes and I stare into hers. The mix of greens and blues and golds are vibrant and alive amongst the shards of blotchy red and white.

  “Did you want it or not?” I harden my question just as my gut twists with disgust and I start to question if she never wanted me at all. If I was so fucking obsessed with her that I was wrong all this time.

  “Yes, I wanted you!” she screams at me although her last word crumbles before it leaves her lips. “And I shouldn’t still want you.” She doesn’t hide the pain when she tells me, “I should hate you.”

  Relief, sweet relief, is short and minuscule, but there’s so much relief in her admission.

  “Why’s that?” I ask her softly, wanting her to keep going. To work through this because, in weeks, this fight will be meaningless. She’ll forgive me. She already knows she will.

  “Because you’re going to kill my family and everyone I love. That’s why.” The fight leaves her with the last sentence.

  “Yes.” I keep my voice strong, although I don’t know how. “I am.”

  “Please don’t,” she whispers her plea and I wish I’d already done it. I wish I’d already shot the bastard, so she would stop this.

  “Is your father a good man?” I ask her, knowing this is going to hurt her, but she’s already so low, there’s not much lower a little more truth can take her. “Do you think the men who protect him deserve to live long enough so they can try to kill me?”

  “They won’t,” she tries to tell me, shaking her head vigorously and reaching out to take my hand with both of hers but I rip it away. I won’t let her beg for his life.

  “They’ve already tried,” I say, and my nostrils flare as I tell her. “Right after his drug addicts killed my father. They murdered him for forty dollars and a bag of pills.” I remember how my father looked on the metal table in the morgue. How his knuckles were bruised from fighting back.

  “And your father was pissed that I dared step onto his turf to kill them. To get revenge. He protected them!” I scream at her and wish I hadn’t. Tears flood from her again and she gasps for air. “Your father sent four men to our house. Our rundown, piece of shit house. The house my mother died in. The house you love so much.” I can’t help but sneer at the thought. “We weren’t there. Thank fuck we weren’t there.”

  She’s barely breathing through her hands that are covering her face as if they can shield her from the hard truth as I tell her, “He had them burn it down with incendiaries. I should have killed him then, but I couldn’t get to him. I sure as fuck can get to him now.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whimpers, and tries to calm herself down. And I almost reach for her, to hold her, because I want to. Right now I need to hold her too. But then she speaks.

  “Things have changed,” she offers weakly, wiping the tears from her eyes although they don’t stop flowing.

  “How can you still defend him? After all this?” The pain won’t fucking stop. I’m bleeding out the pain.

  “The odds of me allowing your father to live are slim to none. Even if I want you to be happy, you know why he has to die. I bet you even think he deserves it,” I tell her. “A small part of you has to think he deserves it.”

  “You said you’ll kill them all, but all of them don’t deserve it,” she continues to plead with me, not offering me any comfort as I try not to break down remembering the soot and ash that stood in place of the home I’d grown up in. “It’s not just my father who will die. Nikolai was my only friend. And my family will stand with my father. You can’t kill everyone I’ve ever loved.”

  “If they stand against me, they deserve to die.”

  “Not all of them-”

  “Like who? Nikolai,” I sneer his name with disdain and she flinches.

  “Please?” she begs me, but the loss is already clear in her eyes.

  I turn my back on her, feeling lonelier than I’ve felt since she came into this house as I say, “You can make new friends.”

  Chapter 17

  Aria

  It’s my birthday, but it wasn’t until I saw Carter’s phone that I knew what the date was.

  No one here knows it’s my birthday; why would they? They also don’t know that yesterday was the anniversary of my mother’s death. The day before my birthday.
/>   And for the first time, I didn’t go to her grave.

  I start to cry again, and I don’t know if I’m crying for my mother, for my family, or for Carter and the boy he used to be. I could cry forever, and it wouldn’t be enough for the tragedy our families combined have suffered.

  My back leans against the wall of the bathroom. To my left, the door is shut and in front of me, the shower is running to drown out the sounds of me crying. I wanted a shower to wash it all away. A hot, scalding shower.

  Instead, I’m crouched on the floor by the door. I can barely stand, I’m so lightheaded and exhausted. I don’t trust myself in the shower. I don’t trust myself or anyone else anymore.

  I know my father is a horrible man. A godawful man condemned to hell. I didn’t know what he did to Carter. I had no idea. “I didn’t know,” I whisper to no one. I was so blind for so long and I wish I could go back. I hate all of this. I hate all the pain. I hate that there’s no way to go backward.

  I can already accept my father’s death, as cruel as it sounds. For what he’s done, there’s no mercy in his death. More than that, he lived when my mother died. And he knows I’m here, yet he’s done nothing. Nothing was ever done for my mother’s murder. I’m sure my father would do nothing to honor my death.

  Flames along the side of the house I’ve drawn flash before my eyes. I can’t forgive him. I can’t forgive my father, and I don’t even want to know when he’s gone. I don’t want to give him the honor of mourning him.

  But it’s not just him.

  It’s Nikolai too. Why hasn’t he come for me? Please, he can’t be the same man my father is. A staggering breath leaves me. I know he’s not, and I can’t accept it.

  I won’t.

  I’ve never felt so torn—no, so ripped apart.

  But I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of dealing with death, time and time again. I’m my father’s daughter. I live in a world where attachments are limited and mourning only fuels hatred. I’ve stayed hidden and quiet, attempting to go unnoticed for years and stay out of the way, and therefore, out of the sights of men who would see me as a bargaining chip. Yet, here I am, in the hands of a man hellbent on murder and vengeance.

  But as I thought about how every anniversary of my mother’s death, Nikolai brought me to her grave, I started to despair. How every birthday, I woke up finding a text from him and a note that he would take me wherever I wanted to go.

  And how that didn’t happen this time.

  And how it never will again, and there was no way I could stop it.

  There’s no way I can save him.

  I mourned the death of a man who still breathes. Not being able to hear him today or talk to him and let him know how I miss him and wish I could do something to stop it all, is a death in and of itself. And in its place is what I’ve been taught to hold my entire life. Hate.

  It’s as if Carter’s already killed him; he’s taken my only companion in this world away from me. And the anger in that realization grows by the second. Hardening my heart.

  Maybe next year, when I visit my mother’s grave, Nikolai’s will be near.

  The thought and visions of an old gravestone next to a newly carved one bring a new flood of tears.

  That’s all I can do. To mourn them.

  To mourn us all. And to cling to my hate for a man I’m growing to love.

  A soft click causes my eyes to lift to the doorknob and I watch it slowly turn. Haphazardly wiping my eyes, I slowly rise to my feet, leaning against the wall as Carter opens the door. Steam that fills the room drifts to the open space and the hot air makes my heated face feel that much hotter.

  Carter stops after one step in the room, staring at the empty shower for a moment before turning to me when I let out a heavy and broken breath. The look in his eyes showed true fear until it settled on me.

  I saw fear in the eyes of a man who does nothing but revel in it.

  Still, I feel like nothing beneath him as he stares down at me. “I thought you were in the shower.” His eyes roam my face, searching for something.

  I try to swallow, but I can’t. Instead, I shake my head softly and pray for him to leave. I should have stayed in the hideaway room.

  “I don’t like to see you like this.” Carter’s statement sounds genuine, but all I can give him in return is a sick and sarcastic huff of a laugh. It croaks from me and I can barely breathe in after. Reaching for the tissues by the sink, I turn my back to him. My shoulders are still shuddering with the mess of sorrow that weighs down on me.

  His large hand settles down on my shoulder, carefully, gently, and he tries to pull me close to him. To hold me like he’s done before. With half a step forward, he attempts to hug me from behind, he even closes his eyes and lowers his lips to kiss my bare shoulder.

  But I’m quick to turn, push him away and step out of his embrace. He can’t hold me and think it makes it all go away. Not anymore.

  The tissue is balled in my fist as I push him again, shoving him away.

  He doesn’t let me comfort him, so I won’t let him do the same to me. To use my pain against me. So, he can do as he pleases, regardless of the consequences they hold for me.

  “No, you don’t get to touch me.” My words come out sharply with a fierceness I didn’t know I still had in me. Rage heats in his dark eyes as his expression hardens and he stills where he is, his jaw tense and his shoulders rigid.

  “Tell me now that you don’t want to throw me back in my cell.” Again, emotion cracks my words. I stare back at him, waiting for a response. It’s difficult not to see the sorrow and fear in his gaze that he’s showed me before.

  “The only place I want to throw you is on my bed to remind you of what I can give you.” He speaks quietly, in a deep tenor that sounds raw to my ears. “You still belong to me,” he reminds me.

  My lips twitch up into a sad smile. Sad for him that he thinks he could possibly ever have me the way he wishes. It will never happen.

  A flicker of anger, the cluck of his tongue, one step toward me, and Carter morphs back into the man I recognize from weeks ago. Cold and calculated.

  But you can’t go back. He, of all people, should know better.

  “Kneel,” he commands but I can hear the desperation in his voice. He may want to pretend but he knows can’t control me when I’m like this. I can barely control myself.

  “Send me back to the cell.” My demand comes out strong and with defiance, no one could deny.

  I’ll be better in the cell. Better there than the hideaway where I’m simply avoiding him. The cell leaves me no options. I need it. I need to get away from the man standing in front of me.

  If Carter touches me, I’ll cave. I know I will. I’ll forget the pain and the anger. I’ll forget to mourn. There will be nothing of me left but what he wants there to be.

  I’m weak for him. “I need to be away from you,” I whisper with harsh anger on my tongue.

  “No.” His denial of my request should only strengthen my resolve to disobey. But my limbs feel weak, and I so desperately need to be held. I want him to be the man to do it.

  “Do I need to try to run?” I ask him in an obstinate breath, not daring to look him in the eyes.

  “As if you could get away from me.” His answer comes out softer than it should. And with more comfort than I can resist.

  “Fuck you,” I spit out at him in a last-ditch effort.

  “You really want to go back to your cell, don’t you? I could always keep the door open if you prefer. So you can pretend I’m the monster you want me to be.”

  I could always keep the door open. The words force tears to my eyes. He would take it away. Take away the pretense that I have absolutely no choice. Instantly, I hate him for doing this to me.

  “I hate you,” I spit at him, every bit of anger and sadness mixing into a deadly concoction.

  Carter’s eyes blaze with heat in the mix of all of this as he steps closer to me. With each step forward he takes, I take one in reverse u
ntil the back of my knees hit the edge of the tub.

  “Admit it,” he whispers so closely to me I can feel how hot he is. The hot water sprays down behind me, filling the room with white noise and heat. I can’t take my eyes from Carter’s as he leans in closer. His shoulders cage me in and his angular jaw holds nothing but dominance as he tells me, “Admit that you understand, and you know this has to happen. Admit it,” he asserts.

  “There’s always a choice.” I barely get the words out as he touches me. As he lays a finger, a single finger on my collarbone and lets it travel lower. His touch is fire to my skin. And I’ll be damned if I don’t want more of it. When my eyes reach his again, my heart twists with unbearable pain. The sadness conveyed in his expression reflects his low tone as he utters, “It’s comforting to think we have choices.”

  When his eyes lift from my throat, where his finger travels up and down in a soothing stroke, the pain in his expression vanishes and once again the hardened man commands me, “Admit it. And admit you’re mine.”

  Slap! I can’t explain why I did it, even as my hand stings with severe pain, my lungs refuse to move, and fear overwhelms my body. A bright red handprint marks Carter’s face and slowly he tilts his head back up to face me.

  I slapped him. I struck Carter Cross.

  One breath and he grabs both my wrists and shoves them above my head.

  “Carter.” The way I say his name is like a plea although I don’t know what I’m begging for. I’m in over my head, feeling lightheaded and full of nothing but fear. Fear of him, of what’s to come. Of everything.

  “Aria,” Carter’s voice is strangled and reflects exactly how I feel. I open my eyes to beg him for forgiveness, to apologize, but his eyes close and he crashes his lips to mine.

  Pressing them deeply to mine with a savagery I need to feel, nipping my bottom lip, devouring me until my own lips part and my tongue seeks his.

  Fuck. I need this. I need him.

  His fingers tighten around my wrists and he stretches them higher as his other hand roams down my body.