by A. C. Bextor
Before he can murmur another word, utter another lie, slither another inch from the spot where he lies, I tell him, “I’m going to kill you.”
For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever.
One aimless and solitary tear slips from my eye, cascading down my cheek at the same time I squeeze the trigger.
A tear for Wren and all she endured at the hands of this madman.
A cascade of dishonor of the Palleshi name, my beautiful and caring mother’s name.
A mark of sadness in that so much could’ve been different had he died much sooner.
Ciro’s forehead drips blood from the single shot that ended his life.
I feel no relief or satisfaction as I thought I would to have Ciro gone for good. Only betrayal. A lifetime of it, to be exact.
A voice calls, and I turn.
“That couldn’t have been easy for you,” Abram acknowledges, standing in the doorway. His posture is relaxed, his face impassive. “But Ciro’s death was what this world needed to live without constant threat.”
“He was always a monster,” I concur, looking down at the open eyes of a dead man I don’t think I ever loved.
“He’s always been that. There comes a point in a man’s life where the line between right and wrong begins to blur. When the conscious mind and subconscious spirit come together and force our hand. To do what we never thought we were capable of.”
Abram’s right.
I take in a breath. “I couldn’t let him hurt her.”
“The heart of every man never stays his own,” Abram calmly offers. “She needed you and you were there. Love and instinct go together, serving as an armor against those who try to harm the ones we care about.”
“Yes.”
“Ciro wouldn’t have hesitated to strip that armor from you if he could’ve.”
“I need to go. I need to be sure Wren is okay.”
“She’s okay,” he confirms with a nod. “Thanks to those who care about her the most.”
Amen.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Pete observes, sitting in the leather chair at my side. He’s watching closely as I take in all the members of this family who’ve come to share a “chat,” as Pete coined it.
This is far from a chat. All of this has taken my life from beneath my feet and sent it spiraling into the complete unknown. I’ve entered the goddamn twilight zone.
When we pulled up to the elaborate Zalesky estate, I thought we were here to drop something off or pick something up. Cars lined the drive, both foreign and expensive.
My panic didn’t come until Pete stepped out of the passenger side back door, took my hand, and told me everything was going to be okay.
So far, technically, everything has been okay. I’m overwhelmed, to say the least, but considering what I’ve been through over the last month, I’d say so far this is easy.
Or so I thought.
Vlad Zalesky, a man more frightening in appearance than even Ciro—if that’s possible—takes a seat behind a very large mahogany desk and suddenly I have the urge to run.
“I haven’t seen a ghost, Pete,” I lean over and whisper. “But you’re dead to me if we ever get out of here. So if you wanna be a ghost who visits, that’s fine. But bring wine when you stop in to say hello.”
Pete laughs out loud, full and hardy, and Vlad’s eyes narrow on us both with annoyance. Pete and I sit as students who are about to get called out by a very angry teacher.
Shit.
The beautiful woman who had been waiting in here when we arrived introduced herself as Klara. She then told me she was Vlad’s wife. My first reaction was to accuse her of lying. She’s beautiful, in a timeless kind of way. Her long blonde hair, bright green eyes, and fair skin mirror that of princess.
Vlad is everything she is not. He’s the epitome of a beast, and I wonder if he always looks as hungry. He hasn’t taken his gaze from mine since he got comfortable in the room. Not only does he appear intimidating in stature, but there’s also something working behind his eyes. As if he has so much to say but doesn’t know how or where to begin.
“Wren, you may not know who I am,” he finally starts, his voice low, a small Russian accent hidden beneath his tone, “but my name is Vlad Zalesky.”
“I know who you are,” I admit. “I know of you, I mean.”
In more ways than one, I remember the name. I also remember something else. The Zalesky family was responsible for the mark on Chase’s stomach. That mark started the fall of our relationship.
I should thank him.
“This is my wife, Klara,” he introduces, pulling her into his lap. She complies, an obviously mindful and practiced move between them. “That’s my son, Veniamin.” Vlad points across the room where a man standing the same height as Vlad but with a smaller build looks over us with curiosity.
“Hi,” I manage with a small and awkward wave.
Sensing my unease, Pete grabs my waving hand and gives me a comforting smile.
“Abram is a close friend of the family,” Vlad points out. When I search the room for Abram, an older, broad-chested, dark-haired man winks but continues standing at attention.
“And you know Pete,” Vlad carefully assumes.
Pete squeezes my hand and comments, “We’re acquainted, Vlad.”
“Yes. Wren, do you have any idea why you’re here?”
Shaking my head, I give him what I know, which is everything Pete told me as we sat in wait at a man named Killian Dawson’s house. His wife, Erlina, was incredibly sweet, understanding, and easy to converse with.
“I was told that I know you and your family. But I’m sorry, I don’t know how that’s possible.”
“My sister, Faina, had a child I never knew existed. You are that child.”
All the air in my lungs rushes out. My head grows light and my hands begin to sweat.
“Christ, Vlad,” Abram hisses. “A little tact would’ve gone a long fuckin’ way.”
“Jesus fuck, Dad,” Veniamin scolds next.
“I see I’ve shocked you,” Vlad states, ignoring the others and keeping his focus directed at me. “And I’m sorry there’s no better way to explain.”
“There were about a thousand better ways to explain,” Abram mutters, then quiets when Vlad turns his head to him.
“But I had parents,” I remind. “My mom and dad loved me.”
“Yes, very much, from what I understand.”
“Then how am I—”
“Your adoptive mother, Elsa, worked for my family for a time. She and Faina were close. Elsa abruptly left my family a long time ago. I had no reason to question why, so I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you. I—”
“Little bird,” Pete calls. When I turn my head, I find his expression apologetic. “Listen to him, please. This is important.”
“But, Pete, my parents….”
“The parents who raised you did so as a favor to this family. I’m sorry they aren’t here for me to thank them.”
“They died.”
“They did. And I’m sorry for you for that.”
Pete releases my hand and places a picture in my palm. I recognize this as the one he had in his room. The beautiful brown-haired woman he said had been murdered.
Faina Zalesky. My mother.
“I was young, but I remember her,” I tell them in shock as if I’m not saying the words. The day I found the picture in Pete’s room, I hadn’t remembered, but being here, I recount so much more. “When I was little, she was around a lot. It makes sense she knew my—” I turn my focus to Pete. “—adoptive parents.”
“What else do you remember?” Pete prods.
“Sometimes she was sad,” I recollect. “I remember when she’d leave us, she’d touch my face and cry.”
“She would cry,” Vlad repeats, his voice low and uneven.
Fearing his startled reaction, I look down at the picture and try to cover his pain. “I could be
wrong. It was a long time ago. I was really young at the time.”
Vlad clears his throat. When I lift my gaze to his, I find the man’s eyes swelling with tears. His hand covers his mouth and the vein at his temple protrudes. He clutches his wife’s waist, as if using her to ground him.
His pain pushes between us and I ache with it by extension.
“Is this why you kept her picture?” I question, looking over to Pete. His face is blurred because the tears I’m struggling to hold are threatening to fall. “You knew?”
“I did,” he confesses with shame. “And, like her, I’ve known you since the day you were born.”
My heart sinks in my chest. Visions of Pete coming into the diner time and time again if for no other reason than to check that I was okay and Chase hadn’t ruined me completely.
Then him bringing Liam in. He all but pushed us together. For over a year he went as far as bribing me into Liam’s arms, using a sense of safety to do it.
“You’re….” I can’t form the words that I want so badly to be true. The knot in the back of my throat burns, but not from pain.
Relief.
“I loved Faina. I loved her so much,” Pete explains in remembrance. “Even in the life I’ve led, I never knew real loss until the day she told me she was going to have our child.”
“You didn’t want me?”
Pete’s sudden anger is palpable. “I wanted you more than a father could ever want their baby. But life was so much different then. Families in this city were at constant war. You would’ve been at risk every day.”
“So, you gave me away,” I add, not angry or sad, just… I don’t know.
“You’re the mirror image of Faina,” Abram interrupts, speaking to me for the first time and using a broken voice to do it. His disposition lightens and he offers a wink while saying, “And from what I hear, you’ve also inherited her stubbornness.”
“Faina named you,” Pete explains, ignoring Abram. “There was a reason she wanted to call you Wren.”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Pete’s had years to contemplate his past, yet I’m only finding out about all of this today.
“She had hoped by giving you away that you would flourish. She wanted you to soar, so she named you Wren. Small in size but mighty in heart. A survivor.”
A sudden uncontrolled sob breaks from my chest for a woman I’ll never know. All I have is faded memories of her beautiful face, her kind eyes, and gentle touch. More cries as I remember how loving my parents were. Elsa and Louis took me from a life of crime, made me feel as much a part of them as any parent could, and accepted all the love I had to give them.
“Did you and Faina stay together after….” How do I explain he gave me away but I hold no resentment for it?
“We did for a time. But after she had you, she spent every single moment watching you grow. She’d leave for days, no one ever knowing where she’d gone.”
“We thought she needed time away,” Abram states. “That this life was too much.”
“It was,” Pete confirms. “Being away from Wren nearly killed her. She hated it. Then she had Klara.”
Klara smiles, but it’s sad.
“Then she had Vlad watching. She was terrified of Vory, but it was Vlad she never wanted to disappoint, so we agreed to end it.”
“We’ll save our discussion for another time,” Vlad states, glaring angrily at Pete.
In all of this, I hadn’t thought through the ramifications of someone under the Valesky name existing so closely with one of the enemy.
“I’m sure we will,” Pete returns.
No longer sobbing, I sit up straight and give my full attention to Vlad. A minor sense of fear strikes, but nothing strong enough to deter my point.
“You’re angry with Pete,” I assume. “For loving your sister.”
“I’m angry because he kept their affair from me,” Vlad answers. “He kept you from me. To be fair, they both did.”
“But had they not, what would’ve happened?”
“Explain,” Vlad demands.
“I don’t know you. I don’t know your family. Not really, anyway. But I had a good life. A childhood I wouldn’t change for anything.”
Vlad frowns.
“I don’t say that to hurt you. I just say what’s true.”
“My issues with Pete run deeper, Wren. Our families are not alike. I’m not sure someone of your entitlement and age can understand.”
The slight comes so fast I nearly miss it. Thankfully I didn’t.
“Age? That’s what this is about?”
“Wren,” Pete whispers.
“Sweetheart, I think—” Abram attempts to stop where I’m headed as well.
I look up at Klara, sitting with a quiet smirk. “If you’re angry because Faina was so young, then—”
“This is not a discussion we’ll be having,” Vlad clips, clearly irritated.
“Right,” Veni utters with amusement.
“Surely not,” Abram interjects.
“How did you two meet?” I question Klara, keeping my gaze on my uncle Vlad.
He may as well get a fair picture of who I am and what I will or won’t back down from—family being first. I loved my parents, those who raised me, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t challenge them on occasion. It’s important if I’m ever to be part of his family that he understands this facet of who I am now.
Without blinking, Vlad replies, “I met Klara when she was five years old.”
“Five?”
Nodding, Vlad explains, “I was twenty years old the day I killed her father.”
Oh. My. God.
“Well, that’s enough terrorizing for today,” Abram chimes in before I fall from my chair.
Whether or not Vlad is telling the truth is yet to be determined, but I don’t imagine he’s one for jokes of any kind.
“Daddy!” a girl cries, rushing into the room and straight for Vlad.
Her long blonde hair follows from behind as she races into Vlad’s proffered arm.
“Maag said I have to wait until after dinner to go outside and play with Crixus.”
Vlad’s eyes narrow with his smile. For the first time since meeting him, I’m relieved to note he possesses the ability to show another trait other than power.
Running his hands through the little girl’s hair, he starts to say something but stops as she adds, “You can tell her to let me go now.”
“Em—”
Turning in place, she searches the room for someone else. When she finds Veniamin, who’s grinning, enjoying the moment, she insists, “Or Veni can tell her.”
“Emilia, stop,” Vlad says. “You must eat first. We have guests for dinner.”
“Mom!” Emilia cries.
Klara smiles with satisfaction, as do I. The big mean man I thought Vlad was isn’t mean at all—at least when it comes to those he cares for.
“Let’s go.” Klara offers her hand, standing from Vlad’s lap. She turns to me and smiles wide. “Wren, come meet Emilia’s ten-week-old puppies, Crixus and Adamay.”
Looking to Pete, he nods. Vlad smiles. Abram doesn’t do either.
Instead, the older man comes toward me in hurried steps. At first, the shock of his welcome seems a little overdone.
Then he swoops me in his arms. He pulls back, whispering so the others can’t hear, “You are Vlad’s redemption. You’re the reward for all he’s lost.”
My brows furrow and my eyes begin to sting.
There’s no time to respond. With Abram’s warm eyes showering me in appreciation, he gives me a clogged and tight “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
And with that, life with my new family begins.
“You’re not even dressed yet,” Wren exclaims, looking down at my hands as they undo the knot of her silk pink robe. “Liam, we’ll be late!”
Caressing her shoulders as I cast the flimsy piece to the floor, I reply, “I don’t care if we’re late. I’m not ready to share you.” Kissing her jaw, I add,
“With anyone.”
“You’re not sharing me. Those people at the party are our family.”
I push the palm of my hand against her chest and Wren takes three steps back until her legs hit the bed. She bites her bottom lip and lies down, completely bare. Her dark eyes scan my chest before her lustful gaze meets mine.
Since being free of Ciro, I’ve thought endlessly about how and where Wren and I would be if nothing ever happened.
Chase would still be a problem. He wouldn’t have let her go.
Wren wouldn’t know Pete as she should—not only as a dear friend but a father who loved her enough to let her go.
And me. I’d still be trying to talk the stubborn woman into a second date.
I’m convinced everything worked out the way they should have.
“Feet to the bed and spread your legs,” I order, then watch as she blushes.
I run my finger along the inside of her thigh and her body trembles. She makes an attempt to close her legs, but I refuse to let her. Her eyes close and she opens her mouth to take a breath as I barely graze her clit.
“Così bella,” I admire, looking down at her chest which starting to labor in shallow breaths. “So fucking beautiful.”
Opening her eyes, she smiles. “So are you.”
“Do you want me?” I question, holding her legs behind the knee and positioning myself to enter. “Say the words, caro.”
Biting her bottom lip, Wren narrows her eyes. During our stay in hell, we had sex, but not the kind I’ve found Wren enjoys. She’s a tease. A tormentor. A sexual deviant who enjoys the chase as long as I’m the one chasing her.
What she doesn’t enjoy is being baited.
“Liam,” she starts, eyes angry and with no trace of appreciation. “I’m not begging you to have sex with me.”
Positioning my hand between us, I stroke my cock again and again. Wren’s gaze follows, and her face is red.
She’s angry.
As I continue to work myself, I release Wren and stand back. I’ll wait her out, even if it means I finish this alone. My chest starts to glisten with sweat, heated not by my own touch but the scrutiny of her eyes, watching as a voyeur.
When my hips jar and my eyes slam shut with impending release, Wren is there, on her knees, grabbing my cock and guiding it into her mouth—deep. With power and precision, Wren takes all of me, again and again, until I’m standing on the precipice of emptying myself into her. Her soft moans, coupled with her intense drive to finish this, coerce a guttural need to take her.
