by Nicole Fox
“I’m planning on finding your brother,” he tells me honestly. “He’s done enough for long enough. Time for that to come to an end.”
I shake my head in sad dismay. “All these years… has he made any kind of impact?”
Kian’s smirk deepens. There’s a dark bent to it that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. “Not the kind he hoped he would,” he says. “He’s only ever been an inconvenience. Just a petty little gadfly. Which is why I’ve let him live. But I’ve reached my limit. I’m done being benevolent.”
I snort derisively. “I don’t think anyone would ever accuse you of being benevolent.”
His smile irons out a little. “You’d be surprised.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “Regale me with tales of your generosity, my liege.”
“I kept you alive, didn’t I?”
“Was that an example of your mercifulness?” I ask sarcastically. “So sorry I missed that.”
“You know deep down I’m telling you the truth.”
“About what?” I snap.
“About your father. The man deserved to die.”
“Who are you to make that call?”
“The fucking don, that’s who,” he snaps back instantly. His blue eyes blaze a little brighter for a moment, and I expect him to charge forward. To touch me again. To yank my face into his, my torso flush against his own body, his smell in my nostrils, his heat radiating into me and through me…
Or maybe I just want him to do all that.
The desire is completely and utterly foreign to me. Maybe that’s why it terrifies me so much. Because the men in my past have been monsters in the shadows. I’ve spent every ounce of energy running from them when I could—and cowering from them when I couldn’t.
Wanting them? Craving them? The mere thought is completely laughable. Sex has never been something I wanted; it’s only ever been something I feared.
So these weird feelings bubbling up in me… I don’t know how to process them, how to name them. But they’ve got a baffling stranglehold over me. Primal. Deeper than words.
If it were any other man, I might have been relieved to know that my body isn’t as numb as my heart seems to be sometimes. But of course, he’s not just any man.
He’s Kian O’Sullivan.
My father’s murderer. Soon, he’ll add my brother to his list of kills.
How can I justify my feelings if… No, they’re not feelings; I won’t give him that kind of power over me. But I am feeling something.
I just need to pinpoint what it is so that I can stop it in its tracks.
Kian watches me wrestle with these frustratingly slippery thoughts for a while. Then he walks back to the door to leave.
But just before he disappears from sight, I find myself calling out to him. “Wait.”
He turns slowly, his eyes boring into mine. And suddenly, I don’t know what I wanted to say.
“You… you can’t just leave me in here,” I stammer pathetically.
“If you need something, just scream for me,” he says bluntly. “Maybe I’ll even pretend to care.”
Then he shuts the door on me.
When he’s gone, that old familiar anger returns, hot and lethal. I rail against my trapped hand as his footsteps recede into the silence.
I pull hard and feel the skin around my wrist give way yet again. The next layer comes off, drawing a fresh smear of warm blood.
I don’t even flinch against the pain. I just keep twisting my wrist, trying to find the position that’ll release me. That tempting slack is there if I just lean like this and twist like…
Five minutes later, my wrist is aching and the blood is thick and sticky and I’m no closer to being free.
I bite back the tears and sit down on the edge of the bed, battling the exhaustion hurtling through my body. When was the last time I ate something?
I think back on the last twelve hours, marveling at how instantaneously circumstances can change. Had I really woken up in my own bed this morning? Had I really been forced into a fight I didn’t want with my brother only a few hours ago?
Almost as if to remind me, my scalp hurts where Drago had grabbed a fistful of my hair. The side of my face tingles, too. I know without even looking that the bruise will be there tomorrow. This was a slow-blossoming one, the kind that takes a while to show itself.
I know all the different kinds. I can tell yellow from black, instant from delayed, painful from not as much—all without having to so much as glance in the mirror.
A lifetime of slaps across the face teaches you a lot, apparently.
I can’t even remember the first time a man hit me. It must’ve been Drago. I learned early that he’d hit me if I messed up. I’d grown up expecting to be punished if I disobeyed or inconvenienced him. And when you’re a five-year-old girl with no one in the world but your brother, he ends up suffering a lot of your more irritating qualities.
Which meant I often ended up suffering from him.
I look down at my cuffed hand. As I do, I feel the full weight of all my shackles, both physical and mental.
I’ve got to get free.
I stand up and try to squeeze my hand out of the cuff. Pain ignites on my wrist and travels rapidly through my entire arm. But I still keep pulling.
And then, to my utter amazement, the chain breaks.
I fall backwards against the carpeted floor. And when I raise my aching arm, there’s no restraint holding me back anymore.
I did it.
Simple as that. A bubble of disbelieving laughter escapes me, but I quickly stifle it as I get to my feet. Kian may have heard the thump of me hitting the floor. The clock is ticking.
I know the door is open. He hasn’t bothered locking it either time he’s left me in here. I loathe being underestimated. But in this case, I’ll take it.
I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against the cool surface. I can’t hear a damn thing, but I’m fairly certain that my only barrier to freedom is Kian himself. If I can avoid him completely, maybe I have a chance at escaping.
I take a deep breath, allowing my determination to solidify until it turns to courage.
Then, quietly, I open the door and step outside.
On my way to freedom.
9
Renata
The apartment is empty. At least, it looks that way. I glance around for something I can use as a weapon. Anything will do. I just don’t want to be empty-handed if I run into trouble.
There’s a spiky crystal ornament sitting on a table a few feet away from me. It’s beautiful, ornate, and clearly expensive. But most importantly, it’s sharp.
I heft the thing up and turn it over to find a good grip on it. One long crystal spike extends away from me. Perfect.
I continue down the hallway. Thankfully, I don’t have to concentrate too hard on my movements because the carpet swallows up sound. It’s pointless anyway. After a few moments, it’s clear that there’s no one around this part of the apartment.
I pass the living room. The New York skyline glistening beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows makes me pause for a moment.
“Whoa,” I breathe softly.
New York certainly is a beauty from this perspective. The height hides all of her little flaws and enhances all of her beauty. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of admiring it.
I move quietly forward—and then I freeze suddenly when I hear a sound off to the side. It’s coming from behind one of the closed doors. A bedroom, if I had to guess. I’m almost certain Kian’s inside.
I shudder, then keep hurrying through the apartment until I reach the rich foyer that leads to the private elevator. And that’s when it hits me.
The elevator. The fucking elevator.
It’s sealed off by a security code.
Kian’s words flash through my head. “Did you really think I’d bring you here if leaving was as simple as clicking the elevator button?”
Fuck. I move closer, eyein
g the little box sitting innocently next to the silver double doors. LOCKED, it says in big, red letters.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My hopes of an easy escape deflate and a burgeoning sense of resignation swallows me up.
I turn on the spot and look at the wall directly in front of me. The one that holds the beautiful black-and-white landscape drawing I’d admired when I’d been carried through here. Dazed, I walk forward to take a closer look at the art. It’s even more impressive up close. The strokes are so damn detailed. Each one is deliberate and considered.
At first sight, it’s a simple landscape of a lush garden overlooking a lake. But as I look closer, I notice other things. Like the woman sitting in the garden looking out over the lake. Like the man standing down below by the lake’s edge. There’s a tiny, almost indiscernible cloud hanging over him, as though he’s smoking something. A cigarette, perhaps. I can see a pair of feline eyes staring out from the shrubbery and a pair of what looks like children’s shoes strung out along the garden as if they’ve been forgotten.
The details are what make the painting more special. It also makes me curious. There’s a story nestled in here somewhere, if I could just figure out where to look.
I don’t have time for that now, though. I snap myself out of my trance and retreat back into the bulk of the penthouse. Turning to the right, I walk into the living room.
An electric fireplace sits opposite the windows. It’s been built into the wall, recessed with rustic white brick. It feels a little misplaced somehow. Not quite right for this Manhattan penthouse. More the kind of thing you’d see somewhere in Europe, maybe. Maybe that’s why I like it.
But I forget about it completely when my eyes land on the picture leaning against the fireplace’s mantle. I slip forward, my eyes skirting quickly over the faces staring back at me.
I notice Kian first, of course. He’s standing to the far left in a white button-down shirt and that charming smile that already feels so familiar to me. He looks a few years younger here.
Next to him is woman with gorgeous red hair that seems to have a mind of its own. It curls and bends in waves that seem to defy logic. She’s dressed simply in jeans and a cashmere sweater. The man on her other side looks so much like Kian that I do a double take and squint hard at the picture. Only then do I realize that this man is older and blonder.
But he’s got the same smile. The same disarming charm that comes across, even through the photograph and the years since it was taken.
His brother. It must be.
Given the way his arm is wrapped around the beautiful redhead, I’m guessing the two of them are together.
Same as the couple occupying the righthand side of the picture. They’re both dark and beautiful. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but they both look a little tense. Guarding mysteries in their eyes. He also shares some of Kian’s features. Another brother, if I had to guess, with his wife or girlfriend clinging to him.
Seated at the front of the lineup is an older duo. The man has a stark expression and piercing eyes that are devoid of warmth. But the way he holds the little girl on his lap is loving through and through.
The woman next to him has the same austerity to her features. She is smiling, but I can tell she doesn’t make a habit of it. Clearly, they’re married. But she’s not touching her husband. She’s holding the hand of the little girl on her husband’s lap.
So this is it. Kian O’Sullivan’s family.
His brothers. His parents. His little niece.
He must love them. Why else would anyone have a photograph blown up so large, framed and hung up in the center of the room like it’s the fucking crown jewel?
The longer I look, the hotter the anger in my belly grows.
He has all of this.
I have none of it.
And why is that? Because of him. Because he snatched it all away from me when I was five years old, in a storm of blood and gunfire. I find myself turning from the mantel and back towards the door I’m fairly certain Kian is behind.
I’m aware that I’m not thinking straight. Emotion is what’s driving me forward, not logic. But I’m too angry, too bitter, too short on options to reconsider what I’m doing.
Either I’ll succeed or I’ll die. It feels like a risk worth taking.
I press my ear to his door, but I don’t hear a sound. Or, wait—yes, I do.
It’s the clattering of running water. He’s in the shower.
Perfect.
10
Renata
As silently as I can, I open his door. I’m not surprised when it swings inward easily. If he didn’t bother to lock me in, he’s not going to bother locking his own door.
I move quietly inside. My heartbeat is up, adrenaline coursing through my body. I’m distantly aware that this is a room fit for a king. The ceilings are high overhead, the bed in the middle of the room big enough to cartwheel across.
But my eyes aren’t on any of the rich details of this so-called “don.” I’m focused on the crack of light beneath the slightly ajar bathroom door. As I step closer, I note the thin veil of vapor pouring through. It’s chilly in here despite the steam.
My hands tighten around the crystal ornament in my hand. I get closer. Closer. Putting my shoulder to the bathroom door, I nudge it open just enough to peek inside. There’s a glass shower cubicle just inside and to the right. It’s appropriately huge for the rest of the penthouse. Two rainfall showerheads pour down onto the cream tile.
And standing beneath those showerheads is the silhouette of the man who ruined my life.
Thankfully, his back is to me. The fogged-up glass hides most of the details. He’s a blur of tanned skin and dark hair. But his outline is enough to send that heat surging through me again.
His shoulders are fucking broad. His muscles are undeniable. For a second, I think what a shame it is to kill such a perfect man.
He’s not a man, the angry voice inside my head retorts harshly. He’s a murderer.
Drago’s words start circling in my head like buzzards over roadkill. All the things he’s told me over the years about the Irish start repeating on a loop. Every insult, every accusation, every crime he’s ever laid at Kian O’Sullivan’s feet.
I’m going to kill that son of a bitch for what he’s done to us, Drago has said more times than I could ever count. But my brother has never managed to exact the revenge he wants so badly. He hasn’t managed to avenge the family honor.
Maybe I can.
Everything after that happens fast. I raise the crystal ornament like a knife. Burst through the shower door. Water and fog engulf me, but I’ve got my eye on him.
I bring the crystal down. One sharp spike glistening in the heat and humidity. Aimed straight for the back of Kian’s skull.
It hurtles through the air. Water cascades all around me.
This is for you, Papa.
This is for you, Drago.
But most of all, this is for me.
Kian turns—his eyes grow huge—
And then, to my shock and horror, his hand comes up to block the killing blow.
I scream, but it’s too late. I’m too slow and he’s too fast. His hand snakes out and seizes my wrist where it’s raw and bloody from yanking at the handcuffs. I scream again.
He twists hard. The pain takes all the strength out of my fingers, and then he slams my hand against the tile wall.
The ornament falls, falls, falls…
And explodes into a million jagged shards on the floor of the shower.
I’m trembling and drenched from head to toe. My breath is coming in pained gasps. Only now do I realize how naïve this plan was from the beginning. But the anger and hate blinded me to it. Made me think that I could do this. I should’ve just run.
Kian shoves me up against the back wall of the shower, and if I wasn’t completely drenched before, I am now. I scream a third time, but he ignores me as he gains control of the situation. I look up,
past the droplets of water and fog, and see his blue eyes boring down at me.
He looks impossibly dangerous. For a second, I’m certain he’s going to strangle the life out of me here. And for a second, I’m certain that that’s what he wants, too.
But then he abruptly reconsiders. Grabbing me by the roots of my hair, he drags me from the shower. I clutch at his wrist, screaming again, but he still acts like he can’t even hear me.
We make our way into his room, thrashing everywhere, but he’s too big and too strong to resist. He hurls me inside and I fall to my hands and knees, soaking the carpet beneath my feet. I try to get up and run, but he snags my wrist once more, whirls me into him like we’re dancers, and then uses that momentum to shove me up face-first against a bare expanse of wall.
He’s on me before I can even draw a breath. Hot. Naked. Soaked.
The steam rises from his head like a halo. My wet clothes are clinging to me like a second skin, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that Kian is completely and totally bare.
He doesn’t seem to be at all bothered by it, though. His eyes are alight with pure fucking rage.
Rage aimed at me.
If he wasn’t going to kill me before, he damn sure looks like that’s what he wants now.
I struggle, but it’s half-hearted. I know I won’t be able to fight him fairly. Naked and ambushed and yet he still ends up with the upper hand. How did I ever think this was a good idea?
The muscles of his chest feel like they’re cut from stone. I try and push back, but he doesn’t give me even a moment’s respite.
His breath whistles against my ear. His entire body feels like it’s glued to mine.
And then I feel something else, prodding between my thighs…
I almost gasp with the realization that he’s managed to get hard off a murder attempt on his own life.
“Get off me!” I strain to yell.
“Oh, no, kitten,” he growls in my ear. “You started this. Now, I’m going to finish it.”
The way he says it makes me shiver with fear. I’ve always believed that I’d be the kind of person to look death in the eye without flinching. But apparently, I’m not. I want to live. Especially because I’ve never really gotten the chance to do that on my own terms.