Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  “You see nothing?” I raise a brow.

  “I didn’t see shit.” The bouncer steps to the side.

  The music is louder, the smoke putrid. Neon lights zip around, skimming over stripers' flesh. I can’t lie, my country has worse places than this club. But the day I met her, I knew all the dirty delights of the dark clung to her—only in the fucking night. In the light, what surrounded her could only attempt to rival her beauty.

  Blood becomes venom in my veins. I eye my cousin. Damn, I’d prepared myself for the self-control of not killing Luka because she is not here. Now, part of me wants to slit Luka’s throat, feel his warm blood spray across my face—stop the numbness for a while— because she is. That other men have seen her beauty.

  “Boss, I promise you. Anastasiya is here,” he says in Russian.

  If she’s fucking here . . . We burn this place to the ground. I’m thorough, so that means my thoughts are running rampant. A list is in the making. Said list includes all the patrons who’s ever walked into the building while my Asya was present. Every man who laid eyes on her. Their deaths are mine too.

  I don’t express my thoughts. I rarely need my men to murder for me. Even when my father treated me like shit, and I increased my numbers—body count—I relished it. The small comfort in taking a life. The warmth in blood.

  I sink onto a sticky, fake leather chair in the center of the seedy strip club. The women on the stage flock toward my seat, they smelled me through the thick of horny fucks. They scent my power, my money.

  I slide a brick onto the wooden paneling before me. A stripper's legs o opens wide while my gaze continues to scan the room. I'm searching for Asya as I’ve done since she left me. Left us.

  “How about a private dance?” The girl purrs into my ear.

  I lean back a little. Never trust a bitch you don’t know.

  “No,” I switch over to English. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “I can help,” another woman says, crawling over— her ass beckoning other men to follow. My glare stops them. This conversation is for my ears only.

  The two strippers clap their asses against each other while offering me all their attention.

  I address the girls, “You can both help. Her name is Anastasiya.”

  The first one smirks. “Oh, that’s the real name of the stuck-up bitch?”

  My eyelid twitches. “My Anastasiya isn’t stuck up.” She’s an asshole. And it’s cute.

  The other one tries, “Mixed chick who wants to . . . ?”

  I weed through half the bullshit these catty cunts say. My peripheral still scouring the room. So far, I’m not sure they’re talking about my girl.

  One of them says, “Sometimes she sounds … like you.”

  “Foreign,” the first one says, plucking up the brick.

  “Sim,” Luka whispers.

  I glance in the direction that he nudges his chin.

  An imaginary grip is at my throat, and then I’m standing on my own two feet before I realize. On a side-stage, is my hard-on, my fucking heart. I hate Asya for this. Crave her like the trance that builds in an inferno of fire. Under a spell, I step forward again.

  About twenty yards from her stage, I stop, stare up at her, drink in her form. A bra clings to her chest. Between her thighs, a tiny silver triangle covers my treasure. A star tattoo sits gracefully on her shoulder. A lace garter and Desert Eagle tattoo she had to have in Vegas years ago, wraps around her thigh. She’s stopped dancing. Beneath a fury of lashes, her eyes lock onto mine. Shapely, muscular legs hold her curvy hips steady. A thin waist juts out for the soft flesh of sweet ass, begging for my hands to pluck her up.

  My eyes consume her. I starved in the desert for a thousand years, and she’s my sustenance. My drink, my food, mine to demolish. We’re both fucking paralyzed, staring at each other. My prey is calculating her next move. How the fuck she’ll flee my sight. I made that mistake before—letting her out of my sight. Not again. Asya has my heart locked away somewhere. She doesn’t have one; those are her words. My gaze gleams with the notion of how I’ll snatch the soul right out of her bones and own that shit forever—time to take my heart back too.

  Between us, two horny mudaks stand from their barstools, unaware of our connection. They lean over the ledge, reaching for Asya.

  One shouts, “Dance, bit—“

  I grip the mouthy one by the back of the neck, slam his forehead into the stage. His body slides to the ground.

  “What the fuck you do that for?” The other guy starts to turn around.

  My hands clutch his shoulders, and my knee slaughters his liver. He crumples forward.

  I grit out, “Because I fucking can, bitch.”

  Since his friend with the big mouth went down too easy, I snatch him back up. My forearm slides across his throat, shoving him back. He yelps as his spine smash against the edge of the stage. With his throat constricted, his Adam’s apple attempts to bob up and down. His heart hammers against my arm.

  Getting in his face, I ask, “You touch her?”

  I apply pressure, twist my forearm until the bone connects with his Adam’s apple. The music may be loud, but I relish this moment of dishing out pain. Usually, I'm not this possessive with Asya. Men are going to look at her; it's a given. So, I let his unconscious body slid to the ground.

  “You have got to go!” I turn to see a man in a cheap suit that hardly fits him.

  “I’m not leaving yet.” I bite out, glancing back. Now, why the fuck did I do that? She walked out the second I assaulted the first guy.

  “You have to go,” he starts for me.

  I pull a wad of cash from my pocket. “Not until I dance with your girl.”

  Your girl—those idiotic words that I said jar my eardrums.

  Never in my life would I say such words. Let another man claim her. I taught her better than that when I saved her from the mansion in Moscow. Anastasiya is infinitely better than being owned by someone. Even me.

  Asya

  “What the hell are you doing, dressed!”

  A hard voice beckons me back toward the present. Bright lights blare down from around a full mirror. Hot, funky pussy mingling with Bath and Body Works assaults my nose. Sweaty women are on either side of me, plucking tassels from their tits, wiping grime from their faces.

  I’m fresh from a two-minute shower, with soggy flip flops on my feet. I’m not bold enough to touch those stalls with my toes. A red, faux silk robe is around my body.

  “Asya, I said, what the fuck are you doing dressed?”

  I look into the mirror. The boss’s reflection glares down on me.

  Lips taut, I growl, “I pay you for stage time, Jimmy. I’m leaving early, should I ask you to prorate tonight?”

  “Prorate? Can you even do that math? Dance for the Russian, or I kick your ass out!” Jimmy’s hand starts for my shoulder.

  You can kind of expect that I’m not good with touches. My shoulder dips, I slip off the stool.

  I stand eye to eye with him. The knot from my robe clinched in my hand.

  “Kick me out,” I snap each word. “Kick me the fuck out. Do me like you did Tara last week!”

  His hand becomes a fork through his hair, but his unruly wisps don’t follow. “Oh, because a man wants a few minutes with you, you think your hot shit?”

  My eyelid twitches. Damn, I swear it never happened to me until the first time I saw Simeon murder. A smile spreads across my face.

  I pat his jaw. “Jimmy, you’re free to have your perception of me. Hot shit, whatever. You. Should. Try. Me,” each word slithers from my lips, sexy and lethal.

  “G-go,” he stutters.

  The taste of blood that’s laid dormant inside of me is prepared to rear its head. I could snap his fucking turkey neck, but I don’t. I stalk past him and toward the rooms. Behind each door, women sell the rest of their souls for a few dollars that are a little crispier than the ones tossed on the stages.

  I’ve never given a private dance.
Screw the extra money. I’m not as tame as the rest of these chicks believe. There’s no middle ground for me. It’s either indifference or the next World War.

  At the right door, I stand still, unable to graze the knob.

  Maybe Simeon Resnov wasn’t a million-dollar baby, who had a life of wealth set before him. He sure as fuck wasn’t the beloved of the Bratva. Although when he walked in earlier, I wondered what had occurred since I last set eyes on him. He’d always had a way to polarize me toward him.

  Now, it appears that the unwanted son of Anatoly Karo Resnov Junior, that fuck off King of theirs, has more of the reigns. What I perceive as newfound power means that I can’t have a brain inside of my head if I open this door.

  My palms press against the chipped paint; I shovel out a deep breath. My spirit is wrestling the thought of running. My body flushed hot with the notion of consenting. Fuck it. I’ll leave Simeon again tomorrow . . .

  Confidence squares my shoulders, and I push the door open. A soft smack sound comes from the inside as the knob slams into the weathered wallpaper.

  At the furthest wall, I make out Simeon’s shadow looming in the dark. Good. I’ve already done what dumb girls do when they stare at a man so intensely attractive that drool slides down their chin. At the sight of him tonight, I died, and I loved every second of it. I wasn’t at much of an advantage at an elevated position. He stood taller than I could remember.

  Light bleeds between us. The room’s focal point is a pole that’s seen more ass than is decent. Darkness surrounds him and I. Through the haze, my gaze roams over sharp plains of shoulders, a Russian god of a face, all angles. A fucking Russian fallen angel of a body, even more, cut angles.

  My breath ghosts over my parted lips as I cease from breathing him in. Damn, I clung to that scent for years — heady, masculine, sweet death. While I lived a jaded, crummy life, I conjured the smell of Simeon Resnov. It enveloped me, reminded me that while I ran, he was still there, which was a good thing. He made me fearless. When his intoxicating scent began to fade, part of my body magnetized toward Russia, toward my now enemy.

  I meander past the light meant to be the focal point of the room. Mounds of muscle engulf the low seated chair. Simeon's glorious muscles are wrapped in designer digs. His hair is darker than midnight and cropped short. A flicker of a smile tries me as I recall how his curly hair once shaded over eyes sparkling with genuine intelligence. I reminisce about my time where I laid, lazy, innocent in his arms. His breath tickled my cheek as he read to me. That was the innocent Simeon, who I sometimes prayed wasn’t a Resnov. Not all his family treated him as such anyway.

  Simeon doesn’t have a one-note demeanor. He’s somewhere between heaven and hell. So good it hurts, so bad it hurts.

  Scholar. Maniac. Lover. Depraved.

  His father made him a maniac. I stole the honors of further corrupting him.

  Simeon pins me with a glower. Though I played mute when we met, he often studied me in silence too. It was deliciously unnerving--still is.

  I grip the knot of my robe, undo it, tighten the strings. God, my actions are stupid, anxious. Why did I do that? Those intense dark eyes pair with rich lashes, tanned skin. My eyes flit over the opening of his linen button up at the tattoos inked across his hard flesh. From his throat, traveling to places I’ve loved, touched, kissed, licked. I dare not let my eyes continue to fall. I might be weak for him, but I’m not that much of an idiot to remember how my kryptonite resides in his pants. He has a stiff, thick piston.

  His fingers flex at the edges of the fake leather chair. “ASYA” on the knuckles of his right hand and “MINE” are on the other.

  Scrawled on my knuckles are “SIM,” with a heart on my index knuckle. “MINE” is tatted on the opposite hand. Clearing my throat, I peer into his eyes. A sly grin curves his lips. Simeon has me in the precise spot, a lion pawing at his victim.

  Before I glance away, I force out, “How the fuck did you find me?”

  “You were supposed to pick me up from Black Dolphin,” he mutters, matching my English for Russian.

  I sigh. Black Dolphin is where our criminals go to serve time. No cutesy American prison accommodations. “That was almost three years ago.”

  “Four. You left me with half a year into my sentence.” Again he reverts to Russian like I’ve lost touch.

  I shrug. “Didn’t feel like playing rideshare, Sim. I’m sure you had someone pick you up.”

  “You left me for this?” He observes me through the lenses of a genius. Dark eyes lightened in curiosity, only to spark into an inferno. That wisdom parts ways, as the beast snarls. “You fucking left me. For this!”

  I clutch the walls of my pussy lips together in a sharp Kegel. The man has this way about him, such as he’s drop-dead sexy twenty-four seven. Don’t let him get angry. The sweetest parts of you die in hunger, craving that death only his cock can give.

  “Not this, per se,” I murmur. Damn, I’m a master at indifferent.

  “Get over here, Asya!” He cocks his head.

  I give mine a quick shake. Moving back a few paces, I'm drenched in light. My flip flops twisting as I stumble past the pole. Darkness claims me again, but my heel collides with the closed door. Who shut the motherfucking door? Must have been my stupid boss.

  “I,” the word tremors from my voice, “came to say one thing.”

  Simeon presses his fingertips to his lips. My gaze wavers away.

  “What?” he grits. “What would you like to say, Asya?”

  “For your to, ahem, leave me alone. Never try to find me again. Please.” With the distance between us, I search the darkness for his shoulders and the rigid angles of him. To see if he’s softened to my request. “Fuck, Sim, I said please! We both know I’m not the begging type. So agree.”

  He starts off the chair. Light from the center of the room hits the tips of his loafers. My eyes adjust to him now. Simeon gestures toward the pole. “First, you dance. Then we talk.”

  “I don’t dance for the Bratva.”

  “I’m one man, not the fucking Bratva, Ana—“

  “Don’t.”

  “Stasiya!” His voice slams against my chest harder than pristine bass. “Since you’re a brand new girl, should I proposition you first?”

  My eyebrows creased. I follow Simeon's gaze to the rumpled carpet. The duffle bag one of his men was carrying is on the floor. It’s teeming with more money than I’ve seen in a while.

  “The woman I loved never needed monetary persuasion.” He taps his massive chest where his heart is. His knuckles bruise across my name. “She had me. I had her. The fucking world shifted axel for us. I fucking fixed you!”

  Every word he says is accurate. The mansion in Moscow was consigning me to live under someone else’s rule. Simeon mended my broken heart and gave me a better future. But I reach between my hips, concealed beneath my robe is a .38 Special. Hey, can’t have a tat on my thigh and not back it up. Unstrapping the gun, I level it out before me. “Sim, I’ve said please more times to you today than I’ve said in my entire life—we both know that. Now, I’m telling you to go about your life—“

  “You won’t be the first to point a gun at me, krasivaya,” he growls. The light washes over him, offering me the perfect mark.

  “You won’t be the first to die by my hand, Simeon,” I smirk. “You taught me well.”

  He. Does. Not. Stop. Walking.

  “Khorosho—okay, we’re doing this. You’re shooting me,” he tells me. His finger goes to his forehead. “Nyet, Asya. Not my chest. You’ve got my heart, snatched it out on day one, girl.”

  “I—”

  “My head, Asya.” He thumps between his eyes. “Teflon is a way of life for me. Make sure I’m de—“

  “Sim!” I gasp, unwilling to hear him complete the sentence. If I could massacre a million Resnovs, I’d spare Simeon. If I could have Simeon Resnov, this world wouldn’t be such a dark place.

  The gun twirls around my index finger; the trigger
is pointing downward. My mind creates a feeble fail-safe. As long as we aren’t in Russia, I’ll survive. I can thrive off the love he once gave me.

  Simeon slips the gun from my hand and into the back of his waistband.

  His fingertips glide down the center of my chest, between my breast. We had this thing between us when we were kids. His palm settled atop my chest. It was innocent until it wasn’t. But when it was, he felt for a heartbeat and murmured that I was alive. Though I never spoke a word when he did so, he was the first to touch me there.

  His hand is massive, fingers callused. Fire sparks across my skin, jumpstarting my dead heart.

  His hand roams over my heated skin, and he cups my breast over the silk of my robe. My heart slaughters at his palm, beating harder than it ever has. Carved stone and full of confidence, Simeon holds steady. His other hand wraps around my neck. My lips tremble apart, lust pooling into the pit of my stomach as his warm body crushes against mine.

  My brain is screaming for him to touch me with his lips. Even the scariest corners of my mind have powered up for this. Simeon has known me almost my entire life. He knows that one touch from him ignites my soul. Shivers crash down my spine, my throat is dry.

  His cold gaze scouring over my chest and stopping where my harden nipple spears against the thin material. My eyes snap tightly closed. For a half-second, I pray for his lips to kiss, to bite, to worship, and punish. Why the fuck is he waiting?

  Nerves frazzled, I look Simeon deep into the eyes. Since we met while I was mute, he knows very fucking well how to read me. He can decipher the pleading in my light brown orbs. In silence, I beg him with every fiber of my being because uttering the words aloud would make me tupoy—stupid.

  Please kiss me . . .

  Simeon

  “Sweet dreams, moya milaya,” I tell her as my hand slides around her neck, finding that delicate spot. The pressure on her artery is enough manipulation to send Asya’s sexy curves and limbs slipping into me. Her breathing tickles against my neck. Those gorgeous, deceitful eyes flutter closed. Now, she’s vulnerable, weightless in my arms. I press my lips against hers, offering the kiss her eyes have begged for.