by LP Lovell
“Of course not. See, it is fresh. Just cut this morning.” Nicholai spreads his hands to the side.
“This is not proof of life,” Rafael growls, and there it is, painted all over his face. He loves her. Where it once annoyed me, I now only see it as foolish because he does nothing to hide it. He exposes his weakness and Nicholai will exploit it.
Stepping closer to him, Nicholai grins. “On my honor,” he says, placing his hand on his chest. “Una cut it off herself.” Rafael’s gaze swings to mine, and he grits his teeth.
“You did this?” he asks, his voice laced with clear accusation as he holds up the bag.
I fight with the urge to defend my actions. I can’t seem too invested to Nicholai. “You wanted proof of life. Now you have it,” I say. “Her finger for her freedom seems like a good trade to me.” I keep my voice completely flat and indifferent. His eyes shift from me to Nicholai and back again. I see him piecing it together, trying to comprehend the woman he sees now with the woman he once met.
“She loves you,” Rafeal growls.
“Love is weakness, Rafael.” I cock a brow and step closer to him. “After all, look at you here, brokering non-advantageous deals, all for my sweet, little sister.”
His lips pull into a small smirk before he looks at Nicholai. “Do we have a deal?”
Nicholai’s head tilts to the side. “We do.” I want to breathe a sigh of relief because Rafael just bought Anna’s freedom. Nicholai’s pieces are slowly being taken off the board, one at a time. With Nero, Anna, and my son out of play, soon it will be just him and me standing toe to toe.
30
Nero
I wake up to a sound, barely a whisper of noise over the baby monitor before it cuts out. My heart leaps into a sprint and I reach for the gun on the bedside table. I’ve always been twitchy, but having a baby, it’s the kind of stress I can’t even begin to explain. And seeing as Dante is wanted by that mad Russian fuck, I take no chances.
I silently leave my bedroom and stalk down the hallway, only to find George curled up right outside the nursery door. I frown and carefully push the door open. The night light illuminates the shadow of a hooded figure in the room. I lift my gun and point it at them until I realize they’re holding Dante. I grit my teeth and lower the gun a fraction. They might as well be clutching my fucking heart in their arms. The figure turns around, and violet eyes crash into mine, eyes I see every time I look at my son. Una. My pulse rises and I release a long breath. She’s exactly the same and yet different, harder. A purple scar runs across her cheek bone, marring her otherwise smooth milky skin. Dark shadows linger below her eyes. She looks thinner, harder.
“Hello, Nero,” she says, holding Dante tight to her chest, one hand resting lightly over the back of his head. Her eyes flick from my face to the gun in my hand, still pointed at her. “Are you going to shoot me?” I want to trust her. I want to believe that she’s come back to me, but something makes me hesitate. It’s been five months since she left, and four since Sasha sent Dante to me. Nicholai wouldn’t just let her go. I want to trust her, but I can’t trust anyone when it comes to my son, not even her.
“Why are you here?” Fuck, it’s hard to be cynical with her.
She glances down at Dante and rests her cheek against his head, closing her eyes for a second. “He’s so perfect,” she breathes before her eyes flash open to meet mine. “I was sent to kill you,” she says, moving over to the crib and gently laying Dante down. Her fingers grip the edge of the crib and her head drops forward. “He wants me to kill you and take my son. It’s a test of my loyalty.”
My pulse speeds and my fingers tighten around the gun. “And where is your loyalty?”
She slowly turns to face me. When her eyes meet mine, they’re cold, but, buried beneath the surface in the part of Una only I can ever see, are layers and layers of pain and torture. “With him,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder into the crib. And like a crack ripping through a pane of glass, she breaks. Her chin drops to her chest and she grips the edge of the crib so hard, her knuckles turn white. I move closer to her and the dim light reveals tears glimmering on her cheeks. She presses her palm to her chest, rubbing at it absentmindedly. “My loyalty will always be with him."
“Morte.” I reach out to her. Her entire body locks up before she sidesteps me, holding her hand out.
“Don’t.” Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. I approach her again and she backs away like a wild animal. “Nero, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m always your exception, Morte.”
“This is different. He…” A sad smile touches her lips. “I’m not sure I can come back from it this time."
“Come.” I jerk my head towards the door. She hesitantly follows me out of the room and into my own. She’s tense, primed as though she’s about to attack, and as much as I don’t doubt her loyalty to Dante, I won’t risk provoking her around him. Her fingers clench and release repeatedly. Her movements are jerky. Four months since she had a baby and her body is as tight and honed as it was before, every inch of her shaped into the perfect weapon. She has tight black jeans on with a gun strapped to one thigh and a knife to the other. Her hood covers her blonde hair, just the way it was when I met her. I can almost pretend for a second that no time has passed at all and we’re right back where we started, me and her. Enemies and allies. Wanting to both kill and fuck each other. But, of course, everything has changed. Now we have a baby, enemies, and I love her.
“Talk to me,” I say.
She goes to the window and stands there, staring at the city lights below. “What did you call him?”
“Dante.”
“Dante’s inferno,” she whispers. I walk over to her slowly. “Nero. Please.” Her voice trembles and the muscles in her back tense. “I can’t control it.”
I slowly reach my hand out and brush it over the narrow strip of exposed skin at her hip. My fingers barely make contact with her skin before she strikes, punching me in the gut twice and slamming her foot against the side of my knee. My back hits the floor and she’s right there on top of me, the knife in her hand, the blade pressed to my throat. She’s breathing heavy, her eyes wild in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s like she’s not even here.
“Morte,” I whisper. Her teeth clench and the blade bites against my skin. If I touch her again, I think she’s going to slit me open and leave me to bleed, so I do the only thing I can. I fight. Bringing my arm inside hers, I knock her hand to the side and toss her off me, landing on top of her. Her legs go around my waist and she squeezes tight, pressing on my kidneys hard. She punches me in the jaw twice before I manage to pin her wrists above her head. She thrashes and snarls like something possessed, as though she’s in physical pain. “Una, look at me. Look at me!” Her eyes snap to mine, savage and turbulent. “Focus on me, remember me.”
She throws her head back and a ragged cry slips from her throat. “Please,” she begs. Fuck, why do I feel like I’m hurting her? What the fuck did he do to her?
“Babe, I’m not going to hurt you. I love you.” Tears slowly trickle down her temples and I gently touch my forehead to hers, inhaling that familiar vanilla and gun oil scent of hers. She stills, her body occasionally convulsing as though I’m electrocuting her. I hate this. I hate that he’s done this to her. I hate that she willingly allowed him to do this to us.
Slowly, carefully, I touch my lips to hers. She stills, her lips parting slightly. I kiss her harder and she bites my bottom lip. When I pull back and she manages to free one hand, punching me again. Motherfuck. I grab her by the throat and pin her to the floor. There was a time when we were always like this, when love was a fucking war, and the only way to get past her defenses was to fight her. Maybe we just need to go back to square one.
I see her eyes flash between wanting to kill me and wanting to kiss me, and in its own sick and twisted way, it’s hot. “Always so strong, Morte,” I breathe against her ear. “But you will break for me, the same wa
y you always do.” My fingers tighten on her throat and she grips my jaw, raking her nails over my face hard enough to draw blood. I hiss out a breath and yank her hoody over her head before flipping her onto her front. “Tell me you want this,” I say.
She rests her forehead against her forearm. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, her voice strained.
“Ah, but I live for your brand of violence, my love.” I remove her knife and gun. “Do you trust me?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Yes.”
“Good.” I pin her down by the back of her neck and she goes fucking rabid. Once again, she bucks and snarls, her fingers clawing at the carpet as she tries to break free. The strap of her tank top slips from her shoulder and I press my body over hers, brushing my lips over the exposed skin. She continues to fight me, and I keep on holding her, even as her breaths grow ragged, and her muscles tighten. I kiss up the side of her neck, over her back. It takes a long time, but slowly, bit by bit, she relaxes, and I loosen my grip on her. I trail my hands over her sides and slowly push her tank up, watching her every reaction as I kiss up her spine gently. She shivers, and I smile, gripping her hips and flipping her over again. Her eyes meet mine, still wild, but calmer, more in control.
“What will it be, Morte? Kill me or kiss me?”
“Both,” she whispers, that single word so tormented. “Always both.” Fuck, I missed her. I slam my mouth over hers, and she wraps her hand around the back of my neck. Her body softens under my touch. Nicholai will never fucking have her. Una is mine, and she will always be mine. He may think her a weapon and, in many ways, she is, but this right here, this is something she gives only me, and I will remind her of it a thousand times over if I have to.
She reaches down, tentatively gliding her palms over my body. Her hands are once again, calloused and rough, and it makes me groan. My vicious queen, scars bared. I nip at her jaw and she twists her head to the side, allowing me more access. I yank the button of her jeans open, dragging them and her underwear down her legs. She watches me. I see the hint of violence in her eyes, the threat lingering just below the surface.
“Are you thinking about all the ways you’d like to hurt me?” I smirk. She narrows her eyes as she sits up. She opens her mouth to speak, but I grab her around the throat, pulling her close until our lips are touching. “You can’t. You’ve already done your worst.”
Her eyes close, her brows pulling together in a small frown. “I’m sorry.” She cups my face and kisses me. I push her back on the floor, and she reaches for my boxers, shoving them down my thighs. She holds onto me tightly, as though she’s afraid to let go, and when I push inside her, she breaks our kiss, her eyes locking with mine. There are so many elements to Una, I’m not sure I’ll ever truly know all of them, but as I stare at her, I feel like I know her better than I know myself. And I want all of her. Every beautifully fucked up part. She is perfectly ruined. My vicious little butterfly, my savage queen, my love.
She throws her head back and a small moan leaves her lips. I swipe my tongue up the column of her exposed throat, driving into her hard. Her body bows towards me, her hips rolling with every thrust. She feels like fucking home, like everything is right as long as we have this, as long as I have her. I fuck her slow and deep, and I watch her fall apart for me the way she always does, baring herself to me. The lioness exposing her jugular. Her body tightens and her nails claw down my back in a burning trail. I grit my teeth because she feels so good and it’s been so long. She lets out a long moan. I drop my head forward, kissing her and growling against her lips as I come. “I will always be your fucking exception,” I say through heavy breaths.
“Always,” she whispers. “I love you.”
I lift my face from her neck and lock eyes with her. “You are mine, Morte. He will never have you.”
31
Una
I jolt awake and take a moment to realize where I am. Neros’ bed. Sleeping next to him almost seemed like a dream to me. The first whispers of morning light trickle through the darkness, painting the room in tones of gray. I glance over at Nero, his dark lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. His face is something I thought I had committed to memory, and five months isn’t that long, but I had started to forget just how beautiful he is. A stray lock of dark hair falls over his forehead and it makes him look a little unruly.
I hear the slightest noise from somewhere in the house and I turn away from Nero, silently climbing out of bed and leaving the room. I go to the nursery and open the door, going to Dante. He’s wide awake, his stumpy little legs thrashing around as he stares up at me with eyes the exact same shade as my own. His head is covered in a downy layer of dark hair that’s sticking up in every direction. Smiling, I lean down and scoop him up, bringing his tiny body against mine. It’s as though every frayed nerve, every broken facet of me all comes together, healing under his innocent touch. He makes me feel whole. He gives me purpose. I kiss his soft hair, inhaling the scent of him, a smell that is unlike anything else in this world.
I take him downstairs with me and hold him while I make coffee. George lingers around my feet, wagging his tail excitedly. I open the fridge and stare at bottles of formula. There’s some kind of machine sitting on the kitchen side. I have no idea what to do. A wave of sadness hits me because I’ve missed all this. I don’t even know how to care for him. Dante makes this noise and then he’s crying, well, more like wailing.
“Shh, stop. It’s okay.” I’m frantically glancing around for something that might make him stop when Nero appears in the doorway, his thick arms folded over his bare chest and a small smirk on his lips.
“He’s a grouchy fuck in the mornings,” he says. I hold Dante out to him and he takes him from me. I smile at the two of them with matching bed hair. Nero and I are naturally drawn to each other’s blood thirsty nature, but he’s never been sexier than he is holding that baby.
“What does he want?” I ask.
“He wants what all guys want, to eat and take a shit.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross.”
“Or in his case, he shit his pants and now he’s not happy about it. Isn’t that right, dude?” Nero lifts Dante, shaking his head at Dante’s little, scrunched up, squalling face. “Be back in a second. Can you put a bottle in the machine for a few minutes?” He disappears and I’m left staring at the contraption, feeling completely useless.
A little while later and Nero comes back, handing me Dante again. I take him and Nero smiles down at him before he goes to that stupid machine, putting the bottle in it. I move closer, taking note of how it works. His lips pull up in a wry smile. “Guns are much easier,” he says, leaning against the counter. He reaches for me, gripping my hips and pulling me between his legs. My muscles bunch and tighten reflexively, but it’s nothing compared to my usual reaction to being touched. He strokes my hair back off my face and I tentatively scratch my nails over the stubble of his jaw. He turns his face and presses a kiss on the inside of my wrist. My skin tingles under his lips and goosebumps dot my skin. The small but intimate contact feels like a fire after I’ve been living in the freezing cold. He steps closer to me, pressing Dante between our bodies. His fingers dance over my cheek and I flinch, but otherwise make no move.
“I missed you, Morte,” he says, his dark eyes locking with mine.
I missed him as well. More than I can say. I tilt my chin up, brushing my lips over his. He kisses me, trailing his fingers to the back of my neck and pulling me close. This feels right and strong. It feels like everything I’m fighting for. Dante starts to fidget, letting out a high-pitched squeal. I pull away from Nero and glance down at the tiny person.
“Way to cock block me kid,” Nero says, turning around and removing the bottle from the machine. He splashes a bit of milk on his wrist and then hands the bottle to me. “All yours.”
I take a seat at the breakfast bar and cradle Dante in one arm, holding the bottle in front of him. He sucks loudly and I can’t help but smile a
s I watch him.
“This is the way it should have been,” Nero says quietly. I look up at him. He has his elbows braced on the breakfast bar, clasping a cup of coffee as he watches us.
“How did you do this? Where did you learn how to take care of a baby?”
He smiles. “Tommy’s mom has been helping.” He shrugs. “And the rest, you kind of learn as you go.” To think there was a time when I thought he wouldn’t want a baby, when I was going to deprive him of being a father. In the tiny glimpse I’ve had of them together, I can see that Nero is an amazing father. It brings me more relief than I can say. If I fail to kill Nicholai, if I die, Dante will have everything he needs in Nero.
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“Then don’t,” he growls, his dark eyes flashing. “Stay here. Turn your back on this fucking idea."
“Nero, it’s been five months. I gave up the first four months of Dante’s life so that I could keep him safe and remove Nicholai. I’m so close.”
He puts his coffee down and places his palms flat on the breakfast bar. The muscles of his torso flex and roll as he shifts, the ink on his arms seeming to dance over his skin with every move. “We are stronger together. Look at what he’s done to you!”
“I just need more time.”
“Do you know what it’s like? Not knowing what he’s doing to you? Not knowing whether you’ll come back alive?”
“You forget who I am,” I whisper.
“No!” His jaw clenches, his body thrumming with repressed rage. “I do not fucking forget. But by the time he’s done with you, will I know who you are? Will you?”
“Yes,” I respond. Nero and I, we are unbreakable. The things Nicholai has done to me…Nero should be nothing more than a distant memory. Dante, more like a dream. I should have been able to kill Nero and instead, he brings me back, he grounds me the same way he always has.