Lawless 2 (The Finale)

by Amarie Avant

  “Is back there with reinforcements, and all we have is—”

  Anastasiya kicks at the chair in front of her. Her arm hangs out the window. She fires the rest of the bullets. When it’s empty, she lays her head back with a huff. The air crackles between us when she meets my gaze in the mirror. An apology is practically on the tip of her pink tongue. Damn, if I weren’t driving, I’d thread my fingers through her unruly hair. Do all the things that would have me tossed six feet under.

  Finally, she speaks, “Thanks for saving my ass, Mikhail. I’m-I’m—”

  “It’s okay,” I mumble at the caged animal then peel back onto the main road. “I think we’re pretty much in the clear unless those guys decide to fly down the mountain. Like I said, Nastiya. You’ve got me.”

  She was becoming delirious.

  We were hours away.

  Hours transitioned into ten minutes.

  Then . . .

  Through the dusk of evening, the tires trudge to a stop over the slushy gravel. Both hands on the wheel, I can hardly glance back at Anastasiya. The guilt of returning her to a monster weighs heavily on my mind. Head lowered, I ask, “You still—”

  “Yes. I’m alive,” she groans.

  “Good. Give me a sec.” I climb out of the car. Rather than the domineering palace, a lone log cabin looms ahead. We’re about four kilometers past Simeon. A few minutes ago, I passed by the road, which would’ve led Anastasiya to him. Gave it the bird too. We’re about ten kilometers closer to Aunt Sofiya’s place. I’ve positioned the woman I’m madly in love with back into the middle of the fray.

  Eyes shaded, I glance through the nightfall, searching for signs of life in the windows: nothing, all pitch black. I saunter toward the front door, praying nobody lives here. I saw the place, through the thicket, after taking the wrong road to speak with Sofiya this morning. I glance over my shoulder, only capable of seeing Anastasiya’s shadow. She hasn’t moved from her spot in the backseat.

  I try the doorknob. Grainy rust peels off onto my palm as it turns. It opens. A hard sneeze barrels through me. My hand smooths over scraps of wallpaper, finding the light switch. A few bulbs across the room spark on while a few more flicker. The dim-lit room is darkened by old linen tacked to the windows. There’s a bathroom to one corner and a small kitchenette.

  “What the fuck are you trying to pull?” I whisper to myself. “Return the Tsarina, now.”

  In seconds, I’m opening the backdoor of the car and pulling Anastasiya to my body, careful of her bullet wound. We’d stopped briefly a few hours ago. I had to get gas. She refused to let me dress her wounds.

  I’ll do that now.

  Tend to her needs.

  Then . . . talk sense into her.

  “Sim,” she grouses. Her mouth close to my ear, a delicious shiver almost runs through me, had she not spoken the wrong name.

  “Not Sim.” My lips hardly move. I press her closer to me, breathe her in. “Nastiya, we’re still too far away. Your skin is pallid.” I twine the truth with the lie. “I’ll stitch you up before we hit the road again.”

  She groans the wrong motherfucking name again.

  “I said, ‘we’ve stopped so I can stitch you up.’ ” Feed you. Talk some sense into you. Then we can leave this God-forsaken place. “Okay?”

  After laying her on the couch, I hurry back outside. I drive the car around the side of the structure, so as not to arouse suspicion from any of the Tsar’s bodyguards. I grab my medical bag and a bottle of the family vodka.

  I’ll offer her enough to lighten the pain . . . and break her heart. She has to know. The beast isn’t looking for her, not like I did. Not with the intent to love and help her. Not like me.

  I kneel on the weathered rug before the couch. Hair shrouds Anastasiya’s face. Her head is bowed as she sits. My fingers run through her thick tresses. I push them back, my mouth so close to hers. So fucking close that I hurt infinitely more than the flesh wound in her side. Her plush lips pull into a grit, and I’m reminded to mend her first.

  “Drink this.” I uncork the bottle, place it to her lips. Vodka dribbles her raspberry mouth, down her caramel chin. I don’t lick it.

  “Drink.”

  Alcohol rains down her throat. My fingers skate across the spilled liquid along her jaw.

  Gliding her tongue over her lush lips in trepidation, she again asks, “Where’s Sim?”

  “You’re hurt.” I gesture to the vodka, and she takes another swig.

  After a hard clench of her jaw, Anastasiya moans, “Thanks, I needed that. Mikhail, stop with the Good Doctor antics. I know my body. I’ve been shot worse. Where—”

  I pluck a syringe from my leather satchel and ready a dosage, still ignoring her question. I wait a few beats as she continues to down the alcohol.

  She giggles a little, eyes glittering in delight and uncertainty. “Good Doctor, should I mix vodka and whatever the fuck that is?”

  “You trust me?”

  “Ha, you’re a man. That’s a trick question if ever there was one.” Anastasiya groans, climbing to her feet. Like a baby calf, her boots clamor around, gaining purchase on the dusty wood floor. In a fraction of a second, my arms steady the area where her waist amazingly zips in before jutting out into a bulbous ass and hips.

  “You trust me?” My eyes meet hers.

  Anastasiya’s soft, tiny palms frame the back of my hands. I’m not sane enough to let go, and she doesn’t stop me. She slurs out, “Mikhail, I trust you like family. But I gotta get to Sim. Have to tell him—”

  “Stop.” I measure out a leveled tone. “Nastiya, You’ve lost so much blood. Who’s the man who told you to put you first?”

  Her index finger juts into the air, sorely off her mark as she begins to wag it. “We’re not talking about us. I-I-I have to—I’ll be back.”

  Just like that, Anastasiya zips out of my embrace, headed toward the only door, which leads to the bathroom. The tips of my fingers tingle at the thought of her touch. My brain collects and files this moment for later. Right before she slams the door, she begs me to make a single call.

  Again, she asks about the devil when the good guy is right before her eyes.

  Chapter 25

  Anastasiya

  I know I’m dreaming. The day Anatoly attempted to rape me was a flurry, more than a nightmare. A day I’d never forget. Sixteen years old, and I’d never been so embarrassed. Simeon was a second away from condemning his father’s soulless body to hell when byki stormed inside.

  A slight gash pricked Anatoly’s face before Simeon was snatched off him.

  I blink and blink. I keep seeing them attacking Simeon. I didn’t think he’d survive. But the tenacity in him. He’d ordered me to pack my things, blood dripping down his face. I’d driven us back to Moscow to his loft. Simeon was a bloodied pulp downstairs while I readied for a shower.

  Leaning against the closed bathroom door, I contemplated leaving.

  He wouldn’t be angry. Couldn’t. He never wanted this life for me. Never wanted Anatoly too close. I walked past the luxurious shower, which was so lengthy and deep, there were no glass doors. Without the strength to leave Simeon the polite way, I glanced out the window.

  Long way down.

  Then I climbed my tired, achy body into the shower, leaned against the wall, and let the hot torrents run down my dirty flesh.

  Anatoly had his disgusting fingers inside of me.

  “Grrrr!” I slap the sides of my fists against the marble wall.

  The door opened. Wild eyes were the first thing I saw. Steam dissipated, and the rage in his gaze lessened. He thought something was the matter. Shock clogged my throat. I was FULLY naked!

  He seemed to realize it too. There was a gleam in his eyes. He was looking me dead in the eye, seeing all of me.

  “Sim,” I began, glancing down at his boots. Blood was spattered on the tips and tiny drops of water joined them. He stood where the intricate pattern designated shower tile from the darker floor. Toein
g the fucking line. Voice hardly above a whisper, I said, “I’m naked.”

  “You are. You were also screaming, so I came in here.” His biceps stretched as he pulled the bloodied linen shirt over his head, dropping it, forgotten on the ground.

  My tongue twisted. I tried my best to sound coherent. “If-if you want to get in the shower, I’ll get out.”

  Simeon quickly undressed until all that remained was his underwear. He slowed momentarily, eyes drinking in the sight of me with wonder. Then his eyes met mine as his thumbs hooked into his briefs. My gaze darted so swiftly, the hypnotic aura surrounding him doubled down in my bloodstream.

  I squeaked, “Wh-what are you doing?”

  Simeon crossed the line. Water sprayed over the ridges of his muscles. All the jagged edges of him scared and enticed me all the same. My pulse quickened as he asked, “Can I assess you?”

  I jutted my chin. “I’m not accustomed to you asking, Sim. But assess what?” I groaned internally. Worst retort ever!

  “We aren’t at the point where I take without asking. Not yet.” Dark, captivating eyes descended over my flesh, leaving goosebumps. The water temperature was perfect, yet he had me scalding, frozen, exposed. “Asya, you tell me all he did to you.”

  The eyes of a murderer landed on mine. Simeon was not quite what I expected. Oleg would’ve torn me to pieces were I naked in front of him. Now, I felt Anatoly’s fingers clawing into my sex.

  Simeon stepped closer. His finger traced my collarbone then traveled down between the valley of my breasts. As his gaze followed the path he’d drawn, I wondered if he could feel the thunder of my heart. His finger continued to rove, ascending between my achy breasts, drifting back up to the other side of my neck. Simeon’s touch raised goosebumps on my skin as he revered me like a priceless piece of art.

  “Sim . . .” I gasped.

  “I made a request, Asya. Tell me what he did.” He twined my hair to the side, fisted it, and brought my gaze up. “I’m killing him one day. You tell me everything, and I’ll ensure you’re vindicated.”

  “Anatoly kissed me.”

  His body pressed against mine. Simeon rested his forehead against the wall. The tingle riding my body simmered out. An inferno radiated into me.

  “He touched me, Sim.”

  “Where?” The sounds of his voice grew harder and scared the shit out of me. Simeon nipped at my lower lip. My brain begged me to touch him, his muscles, the tattoos beginning to flesh out across his taut skin. Touch him somewhere, but I was stuck between broken and scared.

  “Where?” Simeon growled, his face a tempest of emotions.

  Fury.

  Impatience.

  Lethal.

  He dragged his teeth over the pulse-point at my neck, before letting his teeth sink in. “Tell me, Asya.” He mentioned that I was his Achilles’ heel while going straight for my jugular. I was afraid to tell him. Like I’d be the focal point of the rage volleying in him instead of his reason to react. He’d forget to play hero and kill me instead.

  I sucked in the words. “Groped my breast. He pu-put his fingers inside of me.”

  The animosity transformed into a swell of passion. His lips dusted over the pain at my neck. “I’ll kill him. For you, Anastasiya.”

  Nyet. Nyet. Let’s run away.

  The excruciating heat left me as Simeon reached over to grab a bar of soap. His large hands sudsed up. He pressed his fingers over my mouth, then down my neck along. When his hands moved away, my body lifted. I’d been sprawled against the wall and hadn’t noticed, not until I magnetized toward him.

  He repeated the process of lathering his hands. My nipples ached as powerful hands swept across my ripe breasts. My eyes flew up to his, begging for him to kiss me there—to take advantage of my emotions, to command my body for his pleasure. Our pleasure.

  Simeon moved to his knees. The entire world tilted. The quartz wall I’d been posted against became the place where I laid my head, my trembling limbs, every inch of my shuttering body. Two strong hands pawed the sides of my breast, pulling them together. He groaned into my nipples, kissing them.

  Burning orbs stared up at me. “He placed his filthy hands in your pussy, moya milaya?”

  A ghost tightened its hands around my throat. All I had left to offer was a scarce nod. Simeon’s thick chest tightened. He applied soap to his hands, and electricity fired off in the foggy air. Simeon’s thick, calloused hands framed my curves, leaving a soapy trail. His hand’s planted across the lips of my sex, meticulous in his movements. He cleansed me. When he removed his hands to grab more soap, I shuttered. Simeon gripped a handheld showerhead, stood, and looked me in the eyes while letting the water cascade over my aching flesh. All the shame and hurt from Anatoly’s grimy fingers were replaced with a heated desire to be touched by his son.

  Then something confusing happened. The walls lining my sex became heavy, throbbing, tingling, and spasming together.

  “Damn, I want to fuck you so bad right now, moya milaya.”

  Feverish and speechless, I licked my lips.

  “But you didn’t say a single word, not one moan, all you did was tremble.” He shook his head. “Next time I touch you, you’ll tell me if I’m doing it right.”

  Stalk still, I watched him exit the shower, dry off, and leave. Then for a year, I had excruciating nights with Simeon so close. Until one day . . .

  The dream of Simeon is fresh on my mind as I awaken. A lumpy pillow itches my face. I’m dressed in an unfamiliar long sleeve thermal and my jeans. A prehistoric tweed couch dips and sags beneath me. Eyes slamming shut at the thought of what transpired yesterday, I inhale frigid, dusty air.

  My knight in shining armor lost his title yesterday. The role of hero was stolen by none other than The Good Doctor. A slight bit of condensation wisps from my lips as I run a hand over my thermal.

  His thermal.

  His scent surrounds me. A shiver runs up my spine, and I’m not sure if it’s from the chilly morning or something else entirely.

  The room is empty. Considering Mikhail may be in the bathroom, I quietly stuff my feet into my boots. I find the picture of the Invisible Thing and slip it in my pocket. With measured steps, I head toward the door. A pair of keys dangle from a rusted nail in the doorframe.

  Heaping on a dose of self-deprecation, I mentally call myself a sorry, crummy suka. I fist the rental keys to stop the sound of them jingling together. Senses hyperalert, I glance over my shoulder while opening the front door.

  Then my sad gaze pans forward, landing on warm, blue eyes, teeming with depth. I jump, caught red-handed. The air burns cold, yet the sun falls on Mikhail’s wavy blond hair, a rightful halo. The logs Mikhail has cradled to his chest begin to tumble. I’d run from him last night. I stuttered and flat out darted toward the bathroom after he stitched me up, depriving him of a coherent reason.

  Culpable, I dash down to grab a few of the logs.

  “Don’t, Nastiya.” His voice caresses me like a torch, invoking emotions: longing, guilt, hunger, shame. Softer, he adds, “Your stitches.”

  “I-ouch.” I stand to my full height, clutching a hand along my rib.

  Leaving the discarded logs on the ground, Mikhail plucks up the keys. The cheesy rubber rental-car ring suspends at the tip of his index finger as he offers it to me.

  “It was cold sleeping on the ground. But I guess cranking up the fireplace is out of the question. You were leaving.”

  Mouth clamped tight. My head slinks up and down.

  Mikhail eyes the key, a silent token of my deception. “You were leaving. Running back to him. So here.”

  Fireworks spark as the tips of my fingers clash with his. I almost have the keys in my hand when Mikhail whisks me up, gritting out, “You’re bleeding.”

  “Mikhail, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “I said, you’re bleeding.” His hands are firm against my hips as he carries me back inside to a wooden table. He sets me down and unzips his puffer jacket, exposing t
he beginning of a deep dive of muscles. Crap. I gulp in his scent from his thermal clinging to my chest. Silence permeates the air. He brushes my hair over my ear and runs his knuckles over my flushed cheek, mumbling about pain.

  Little does Mikhail understand—I’m numb to the dull ache along my rib. “Um, I really have to go.”

  “I’m certain you do not.” His hands plant on either side of the table ledge. He dips his head, gesturing for me to remove the thermal. Last night, I’d taken off the shirt I wore. It was soaked through. My brain had been fuzzed over, the vodka surging through my bloodless veins. This morning, I’m too damn aware of the attractive man in front of me.

  “You understand how important it is for me to get to Simeon, Mikhail. I know you do.” My gaze follows him as he removes his jacket. Muscles stack along his creamy, taut skin. Like fine, smooth clay, his physique forms a perfectly shaped V, traveling into his jeans. He finds his medical bag on the side of the couch. The trance breaks, and I mutter, “You know I have to get to S—”

  “Who told you to look out for yourself, Nastiya,” Mikhail barks. His broad back is to me as he sifts through his medical bag. I can pretty much imagine those charming baby blues are boiling hot sapphire.

  Angered, my hands clutch the edge of the table as my legs swing. I shoot daggers at his back. “I am!”

  “You are not.” He whips around. The tension between us is so heavy. The sound of his boots echoes on the splintered floorboards. The leather bag is placed down next to me with a thunk. Grabbing a tuft of his hair, Mikhail growls, “You never did.”

  “Who are you, huh? The little angel perched on my left shoulder?”

  “I wish.” He shovels through the bag. “Stop regarding the demon on your right!”

  “Simeon isn’t—”

  “Maybe I wasn’t referring to him.”

  The retort on the tip of my tongue dies there. I drop my leveled shoulders. Mikhail stops digging around, eyes dancing across my face. The edges of my lips furrow upwards, and his mouth blossoms into a smile too.