by Lana Sky
Thump. Thump. Thump!
“To kill,” he says over the pulsating noise. “Maim. Rip me open. Go on. Do it.”
I’m in that open room again, crouching near a puddle of blood as he shoves a knife into my hand. You want pain, he taunted. You want him to suffer, just as you suffered. Am I wrong?
Maybe he wasn’t. In that brief moment, I had felt something stir to life inside me that I can’t deny. Curiosity.
And I feel it now, building as he lets me go.
“Do it.” Stepping back, he extends his arms in welcome while I stumble to find my balance. A smile shapes his mouth, but it’s wild. Crazed.
“Don’t tell me that you need your little weapon—” he reaches into the pocket of his jacket for an item I instantly recognize. My knife. He dangles it between two fingers before tossing it into the air and catching it by the handle. Smiling, he presents it to me flat against his palm.
“Don’t be shy. Take it. Now.”
I’m not given a chance to refuse. He lashes out, seizing my wrist. My breath sticks in my lungs as the edge of the blade grazes the flesh of my forearm. Gently, but the warning is unmistakable.
“You want to hurt me, hellcat,” he goads. “So go on, then. I’m sure you could make a mark if you tried.”
And he wants me to. I can see that desire flashing clearly in his eyes.
He wants the fight. The thrill.
But most of all, he wants me to forget the only weapon I’ve been able to effectively wield against him—myself.
The longer I face him, the more unsteady I feel. Like a fallen soldier lost amid a minefield. One wrong move may be my last, but I have no choice but to navigate a way out.
He wants me to stab him? I feel a desperate urge to do the opposite. Deny him the pleasure of predicting my actions. Controlling me.
He can’t.
At first, I don’t understand why I slide my hand along my waist, cinching a fistful of my skirt. The fabric is so thin that the excess material clings to me, enhancing my body’s curves.
And he notices, recoiling a fraction of an inch.
“Enough!” Already, he’s recovered, sporting that judgmental sneer. “You hate me, little hellcat. Don’t go out of your way to claim mercy now. Finish me off. Now! Do it!”
He raises the blade again, offering it hilt-first.
I don’t move.
“Take it!” He grabs my wrist, wrenching me against him. His other hand sinks through my hair, seizing a fistful to keep me in place as he lowers his mouth to my ear. “Any innocent, childish fantasies you still harbor? Forget them,” he snaps. “I won’t hesitate to hurt you.”
And yet, his touch doesn’t match his words. Firm but not painful. His fingers shake, entwined within the strands of my hair as if he wants nothing more than to pull away.
He can read me so easily, but I marvel at the fact that, even after all this time, I can still interpret some piece of him, however small. His heart doesn’t lie. I reach out willingly this time, finding the same spot on his chest he made me touch a minute ago.
It thrums with a steady pulse, so strong my fingertips burn in the aftermath. This simple melody sparks a revelation inside me. No, he doesn’t like it when I touch him.
He doesn’t like when I kiss him.
He doesn’t like when he can’t predict me…
He craves it. All of it. More than the violence, he craves the chaos.
As if to validate that notion, he raises the knife, bringing it near my throat. Merely to watch me react, I suspect—and I reward him with a trembling breath. “You want to play? Then let’s play.”
Alarm grips my spine as the edge of the blade kisses the skin above my pulse point. He lets it linger there before moving it up, up…above my head entirely.
“A real game this time. Which one? I know, hide and seek,” he decides, letting me go, knife in hand. “Let’s play it now. I’ll hide this blade, little hellcat—and you better pray that you find it. I’ll even give you time to search. Turn around.”
My breathing hitches, my knees locking in defiance.
He laughs, and this unsteady display of noise reveals his true feelings better than if he spoke them explicitly—he needs me unnerved. He needs me to fear him. It’s the only way he can remain in control.
“Turn around, hellcat. Do it—”
I spin on my own, robbing him of the chance to fully voice the command. His harsh exhale betrays his disappointment. He didn’t predict that.
Nonetheless, his steps track his journey across the room. Toward the pile of boxes in the corner. Curiosity itches my brain, and I have to dig my heels into the floor to keep from watching him.
Already, he’s moving away, heading for the doorway. “Find it,” he taunts. “I’ll be waiting when you—”
I lunge so quickly the rush of air racing through my ears drowns him out. I practically throw myself in the corner he just vacated, preparing to rip open a box and hunt. I don’t need to. There…
He left it out in the open, daring me to claim it.
I snatch the blade, shivering as my thumb grazes the name etched into the handle—Mouse. That sheltered, rescued girl, daughter of a crime lord. She’s as distant to me now as Safiya. A mask. A role I had to play.
Stripped of both identities, who am I?
That question feels unanswerable as I whirl around to find a monster lurking in the doorway. As I brandish the blade, he smiles, and my stomach lurches. God, he craves to fight me so badly. To have me throw myself at him. Claw at him. Scream for his attention.
This time, I don’t. I slash the blade at my own throat, and I couldn’t begin to predict his reaction—rage.
“No!” He roars, lunging toward me. “What the hell is—” He practically skids to a stop when he realizes I’m not bleeding.
I didn’t cut my skin…and yet, the cool air assaulting the left side of my chest stings just as much as any stab wound. The thin strap has been cut, letting the material dip without support. I shiver, hating my body’s instinctive reaction. The bastard probably thinks it’s because of him.
The goosebumps that prickle my flesh. The tightness in my chest.
All because of him.
I don’t let myself think it through as I snatch the other strap of this dress. Meet his gaze.
Cut.
Triumph is a fitting antidote to fear. I’m in control of my own body again—and I intentionally let the dress slide from my body to pool on the floor. On trembling legs, I step from the material entirely. I’m naked before him all over again.
And the more I watch him…
The better I feel.
He teased me for thinking I had power over him?
Well, now I do. Power so fearsome he staggers back in the face of it. His throat works noiselessly, but the only sound ripping from it comes out too growled to be words. He can’t fathom this form of defiance.
One by one, I force my fingers to release the knife and let it fall, unconcerned as it skitters across the floor.
And he nearly trips in his rush to back away, out into the hall. His lips part, eyes blazing. The sad part is that shock almost humanizes him. Almost makes everything he’s put me through worth it. Almost…
Attacking him with a knife failed to get this reaction out of him.
Speechless, shocked, alarmed. Fearful, even.
But then he turns on his heel, breaking my hold over him, and nearly runs into another man whose arrival we both missed. Luciano. His gray eyes widen as he sees me, and I feel my cheeks flush. Frantic, I try to use my hands to shield what little I can.
However, Donatello goes rigid. A muscle in his throat works, and I think he might strike something. Me? Luciano?
When his hand lashes out, I’m holding my breath.
But all he does is snatch the doorknob and slam it shut, trapping me in here.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Donatello’s voice resonates through the very walls. Only the physical barrier of the door
between us gives me a reason to suspect he’s not talking to me.
“I came to check on Kisa,” a man replies, his tone carefully straddling the line between respectful and irritated. “Little girl. Saw her father die in front of her then got shoved into a trunk. Ring a bell?”
“Don’t forget what I fucking told you—”
“About you being the only one to see your little friend? Touch her? Yeah, I remember. Though maybe you should tell her that? Having her walk around naked might make your little directive harder for the boys to abide by.”
Tension crackles between the two men, palpable even isolated from them in here. In the resulting silence, my brain dwells on that choice of words—about you being the only one to see her? Touch her?
Would even someone as domineering as Donatello resort to such a base command? Yes, a part of me whispers. The man who rages when I kiss him wants me only to himself.
His toy to break.
To corrupt.
My cheeks flame at the thought, and I nearly miss what Donatello says next in a tone marginally calmer. “Just… Get her some fucking clothes. The girl too.”
He must be responsible for the furious stomping that rattles the staircase next, followed by an exasperated sigh I assume comes from Luciano. He leaves next, traveling further down the hall. In the absence of defiance and fear, I sway, eventually leaning against the wall for stability.
Gradually, it sinks in that despite that stunt, nothing’s really changed. I’m still here. I’m still naked, shivering in the night air drifting in through the still open window.
He’s still in control.
But as footsteps advance in this direction, I lurch to my feet with a savage desire to face him again. If he thinks he can manipulate me, he can think again…
A soft knock rattles the door, and all tension deflates from my body. I can tell from the pressure alone that my visitor isn’t Donatello.
“I brought you clothes,” a man says, his voice vaguely familiar. “It’s stuff I found in one of the rooms,” he adds.
I wait until his steps finally retreat before I creep to the door and crack it just enough to spy a small cardboard box resting in the hall.
I drag it inside, bracing my back against the door as I close it. Even in the dark, I suspect who the owner of this clothing might have been. Her smell outlasts time, connected to a million different happy memories.
My connection to her wasn’t as strong as it was to her husband, but I still remember her fondly. And I know that Donatello didn’t send these items to me himself.
Like Safiya, this figure is another one he’s claimed.
Olivia.
17
Evgeni
Unfortunately for Briar Winthorp, she has to battle with another woman for my attention—though both present real threats to the Stepanov family. Just in very different ways.
Willow’s fate remains at the forefront of my mind... Forty-eight hours into her disappearance and I feel no less responsible. Could anyone blame Mischa if that were his real reason for exiling me to the hospital?
It’s my fault she escaped. Again.
Though maybe escape is the wrong word to use. I’m no fool. All of the signs point to one obvious conclusion—she left on her own. Willingly. The main question is, why? I suspect it has everything to do with Mischa’s hostility toward Donatello Vanici, even before his so-called first assault on the girl.
It makes sense. She’s drawn to him. Enough to forsake her home and protective family. Enough to have Mischa on edge, ready to go to war.
Enough to confront a madman by herself. If anything, Vanici seems to reciprocate that unsettling draw between them. What did he call her? Safiya…
No matter the reason for Willow’s lapse in judgment, it’s not like I can blame her. Temptation is an insidious thing, creeping into your thoughts and teasing answers to questions better left unasked. Such as why Briar Winthorp returned from obscurity after so long.
Or why I haven’t mentioned said return to Mischa more than a day later.
His feelings on the Winthorps aren’t exactly a mystery. I suspect he has no love for any member of that family, sister of his wife or not. No wonder she hasn’t attempted to visit him directly.
Though Mischa certainly has his hands full.
It strikes me as funny that even while at the manor, Mischa still withheld information from me. Word of a fire at the harbor reaches my post in the hospital hours later—but that’s the telling part. I had to hear it secondhand from a pair of nurses walking by rather than from my team. Mario doesn’t answer his phone when I call for more details. I’m left to hunt for information on my own. Even before I look up the reports in detail, I suspect that it wasn’t a freak blaze.
Key details from the headlines prove it—done seemingly at random. No witnesses. Carefully controlled burning and a fire that managed to stay contained to its target… It has all the hallmarks of a mafiya strike.
Son of a bitch. It’s a bold move, coming from Mischa—but setting fire to a port is a long way from painting the town red with Vanici’s blood. No, he’s waiting for something. The real question is what?
Not that I can ask him directly. That much is made obvious when Mario finally sends me a text message, but it only conveys Mrs. Stepanova’s current condition—no change—and nothing else. When I send a reply, prodding about the harbor, he doesn’t respond. I decide to play coy, responding with a direct question about Vanici.
Still looking, is his reply. Nothing else. Sloppy on his part, but effective enough to get the point across.
Where Mischa is concerned, I’ve been cut out.
The feeling itches at my skin until I have to move, walk, run—anything to distract from it. Rather than rest before returning to my post in the wing, I patrol the building’s outside perimeter on foot. As long as I keep moving, churning blood through my system, I can keep the irritation at bay.
Mischa’s secretive planning aside, his attack turns the hospital into a topmost target should Vanici seek to retaliate. Begrudgingly, I wonder if that’s why he really stationed me here—in anticipation of the fallout.
The only upside is that I doubt Donatello Vanici would be bold enough to mount a strike. Though hell, he might. After all, madness has no boundaries.
Concern for Willow eats away at me in the rare moments when I’m not stewing over everything else. Such a situation should be handled delicately, but I suspect that delicate is the last attribute Mischa has in mind. The more I think it over, the harder I find myself running until I’m in a full sprint.
No matter how hard I breathe, I can’t ignore one glaring fact—I’m worried. Violence doesn’t scare me, but brutality does. Cruelty. I know firsthand the damage that can resonate when a man loses his soul—Mischa himself threw as much in my face.
I know the aftermath of vengeance.
And I know the limits of sanity. How far a man can be pushed to the brink before he snaps. Mischa? He’s almost there, and I pray he doesn’t cross that line.
If he hasn’t already.
But he’s not the only one acting out of character. I lied to him, obscuring the identity of the woman from the hospital room. Why?
Perhaps because I knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with just one visit...
And, this time, I’ll be ready for her.
After another lap, I reenter the building, dripping sweat beneath my gray jacket, breathing heavy. I don’t bother to rest or change. I head straight for the private wing intending to take over for Danil. Even before I enter the hallway, I sense her—a presence that permeates the crisp, clean atmosphere of the hospital proper.
She infects this space, tainting the air with the stench of perfume. I don’t have to see her to suspect she’s near, but she’s good. Subtle. As I draw up beside Danil, his expression doesn’t reveal the stress it might if he’d dealt with an intruder.
He eyes my forehead with a frown, noticing the sweat drying there. “Ev. Did you rest at all?”
“I’m fine,” I say, shrugging off his concern. “Any visitors while I was out?”
He shakes his head. “No, sir. The doctor’s last update was an hour ago. After him, there’s only been a cleaning lady.”
“Good.” I start forward, only to stop short. “Cleaning lady?”
“Yeah. Not one of the usuals, but they were out sick. There’s a reason I noticed her, though.” He chuckles, winking. “A bit too pretty for the profession, but who am I to judge?”
My breathing picks up in a way that has nothing to do with my run. “Is she still here?” Gritting my teeth, I can barely keep my voice steady.
He nods, frowning. “Is something wrong, sir?”
I head for Mrs. Stepanova’s room without a reply, reaching for my holster. Paces from the doorway, my nostrils flare, confirming the suspicion building in my gut. Perfume, growing more potent with every step I take. I can taste it on my tongue as I round the corner and peer inside the spacious suite.
Mrs. Stepanova lies in bed, unmoving and unconscious but alone. Her progress from the other day is apparent in the color returning to her skin and the easier pace of her breathing. Even so, the relief I feel isn’t enough to prevent me from continuing down the hall past the vacant rooms that make up the rest of the deserted suite.
As predicted, they’re empty, and I hiss out a sigh, leaning against the nearest wall. Misha’s edginess has made me overly paranoid. And reckless. If the intruder is a spy or an assassin, I’ve given her more than enough time to wreak havoc. In blunter terms, I’ve been gambling with Mrs. Stepanova’s life.
All in the name of what? Unraveling the mystery of a long-lost character from the Stepanovs’ past?
I’m starting to believe that the lack of sleep has led me to spin my own fairy tales. Make my own mistakes, or punish Mischa by keeping him in the dark. Perhaps the boredom of this monotonous post is addling my brain?
To be on the safe side, I continue down the length of the hall, checking for anything out of place.
As I start to turn back, I see it—a metal cart of cleaning supplies positioned just beside a nearby door. Whoever put it there didn’t even bother to hide it, and perhaps that’s why I didn’t notice it until now. It’s bold. Then I hear a noise equally as blatant—faint whistling, musical and feminine. The song itself has no real tune, just random notes strung together.
