Stolen: Dante’s Vow

by Knight, Natasha

  I stand. Someone opens the door, but we remain where we are, St. James and I have our eyes locked. And I’m more curious about him than ever.

  The bodyguard clears his throat.

  I smile. “Well,” I start, taking one last look around. “Happy fucking then.”

  35

  Dante

  The dog fight is taking place about an hour-and-a-half outside of the city in some beat-down, forgotten neighborhood in an abandoned warehouse that looks like it’s been out of use for about a hundred years. There are no lights in the parking lot, but judging by the number of trucks, the event appears to be well attended. Sick fucks.

  I drink a big swig of whiskey and pull on a baseball cap. Matthaeus and I walk to the building. I can already hear the voices of men and barking of dogs from here. Two men stand sentry at the entrance. They’re big and have a general don’t-fuck-with-me look to them. The one remains sitting on his stool assessing us while the other stands, gives a nod of his head as if to ask what our business here is.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, giving us the once over.

  “Hear there’s some fun to be had,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. “Money to be made.”

  “This is a private event,” the man says.

  I make sure he sees the bills I take out, fold over. Sees the money still left inside my wallet.

  He drags his gaze from the wad of cash to me. “Like I said, private.”

  I sigh, take out another two hundred-dollar bills.

  His colleague clears his throat. The man takes my money and gestures us in.

  It’s just the two of us going in although four men are waiting nearby. Bringing soldiers would only draw attention. And if St. James is right—and he’d better be fucking right—Viktor’s soldiers will look away when I take him out.

  The sound is amplified inside. It bounces off the large, cavernous space. The place was an old paper factory and although some equipment remains, it’s mostly been gutted. The windows are all but gone and there’s a chill in the air. Although I don’t feel cold. I’m too amped up.

  A makeshift bar stands along the edge of the crowd with kegs of beer at the ready. The space is dimly lit but brighter as we pass the bar and make our way to where most of the crowd has gathered. I’d guess there to be over two hundred people, mostly men, but a handful of women too.

  A dog barks and there’s a joint cheer from a group deeper in the circle. We push our way through, passing the place where caged dogs anxiously await their turn. I admit I’m not a dog lover per se, but this is just fucking wrong.

  Matthaeus and I split up looking for Viktor Petrov. As I get closer to the pit I stand back and watch two men drag a Pitbull by its hind legs. It’s a sickening sight. The dog is mangled. He’s been mauled to death. And as I move around the crowd, I see the dog that did it. A big, mean looking thing.

  Made mean by men, I remind myself.

  I make out Viktor’s soldiers pretty easily. They don’t look like the others in here. Too well-dressed even in casual clothes. Most of these others look like they crawled out from some hole just to attend tonight’s event.

  Matthaeus is across the room. He gives a slight nudge of his head and I follow the direction to find Viktor Petrov crouching by the cage of a dog, talking to another man, the dog’s owner, I’d guess. The dog is caged and leashed but when he lunges at Viktor, Viktor still stumbles backward, falling on his ass, spilling his drink before he gets to his feet, laughing.

  He’s clearly drunk. And stupid.

  One of his men comes to his aid but Viktor shoves him away, turns back to the dog’s owner and nods.

  I pull my baseball cap down to hide the patch, grateful for the shadows, the lack of lighting. If he caught sight of me, would he recognize me? The eyepatch may make him look twice but would he know me?

  A PA system comes on, screeching before someone taps and asks if this thing is on then laughs. The next fight is announced and Matthaeus walks toward the pit as the crowd divides to let the man Viktor was talking to lead his animal through. The dog is on a tight leash, and he snaps and growls at anyone who gets too close. I wonder how many men lose fingers or whole hands at these events. The stupid ones are drunk enough.

  Viktor follows behind him holding a wad of cash up in the air, fist pumping it like he’s already won.

  I move into the crowd, losing sight of him momentarily as the other dog, the one that mauled the last losing dog, is brought back into the ring. Bets are placed and the man over the loudspeaker eggs them on, talking about the new fighter, about his victories. About how the current champion was just warming up for this, the biggest fight of the night.

  Someone knocks into me as I weave through the crowd and beer splashes out of his plastic cup. He turns to me, expression pissed like he’s about to start a fight himself. I straighten to my full height. He’s almost as tall as me.

  “You got some on me,” I say after a glance at the few drops on my sleeve.

  His gaze shifts between my eye, the scar on my cheek and the patch. There’s something to be said for wearing an eyepatch. On someone like me, it can be scary.

  “Sorry, man,” he says and backs away.

  I turn, Matthaeus at my side now. The fight is about to begin.

  Viktor is laughing, drinking sloppily out of his plastic cup. Only one of his soldiers is nearby. The others are standing outside of the crowd. I get the feeling they like this about as much as I do.

  The dogfight begins and the crowd swells forward to watch. Viktor laughs. I notice how high-pitched the sound is. Like that of a crazy man. I’m close enough to see his hands now. They’re dirty. Black under his fingernails. The wad of cash crumpled like it’s passed through a thousand hands tonight alone.

  I think about Mara.

  Innocent Mara.

  I think about his hands on her. Him forcing her. She’s not even half his size.

  That same fire that coursed through my veins the night I sat opposite Ivan Petrov in that cellar burns through me now. It makes my heart beat faster, dulls the sounds around me as it pumps hard and fast in my ears.

  From the holster on my belt, I take out my dagger. Feel the cool weight of it in my palm. I step closer.

  The crowd cheers, Viktor with them as the dog he’s obviously bet on injures the champion. Well, the soon-to-be ex-champion. Matthaeus glances around, gives a nod. No soldiers have come forward apart from the one standing closest to him but just as I get close enough that I can almost touch Viktor, that soldier turns his head, and our eyes meet.

  We remain like that for a moment.

  Now is his opportunity. Now is the time to pull Viktor away. Protect him. It’s his job. And I think about what I’ll do if that happens. I think about my promise to Mara that I’d come back to her.

  I won’t leave here without killing Viktor Petrov no matter the cost.

  I can’t.

  Even if it means breaking my promise to her.

  I tighten my grip on the dagger’s hilt, feel every curve of the design.

  The soldier’s eyes narrow and he turns away.

  Neither Matthaeus nor I move as we wait to see if he’s calling men over. More soldiers. But he doesn’t. He just sips from his cup and keeps his back turned.

  And I advance. Taking the two steps that will bring me to within stabbing distance of one of Mara’s rapist.

  I don’t hesitate. And I don’t bother to look him in the eye. He’s not worth that. I just push my knife into his kidney, twist and tug it free, then repeat on the other kidney.

  His body stiffens. There’s a gurgling sound, then comes the stumble backward, his head turning, the remains of the idiotic grin on his face. Like his brain hasn’t quite processed what just happened. Like his body has yet to register the pain. The meaning of it.

  I catch him, keep him upright. Because I want him to know it’s me, the man who killed his father come back for him. I want him to know that Mara is being avenged. Slowly but surely.
<
br />   He turns just enough to see a glimpse of me, the eyepatch side of my face. His eyes grow huge. Good. He recognizes me.

  I give him a wide grin as the cup drops from his hand. I hold him to me to push the bloody blade into his stomach. Not as soft as his father’s but with just a little nudge, I manage. And, like I did with his father, I tug upward.

  A choked sound escapes his lips, and his eyes roll back. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. He’s dead.

  And every time I think I will feel some satisfaction. With each kill I think I’ll feel a little better. But no wrongs are righted. No damage undone. I could massacre every soldier who ever had a hand in her captivity, and it wouldn’t matter. Because she still lost fifteen years of her life. And she’ll be lucky if it’s only the fifteen. If she can make a life at all.

  With a grunt I push Viktor off, turning to walk away as I holster the bloody dagger. Matthaeus is at my side and we’re out of the crowd before the first scream comes. A man’s scream. No one stops us as we walk back to the entrance, to the front doors of the place. Even the soldiers standing guard outside only nod, one making the comment that it’s a short night for us.

  I don’t bother to respond. We get back to the SUV and I climb into the passenger seat, pick up the bottle of whiskey on the floor.

  Fuck. I need a drink. Need to wash my hands. Viktor’s blood feels too sticky and I have a sick feeling in my gut at the thought of her at that man’s mercy.

  I need to get back to the house. Back to her. Need to see her. Touch her. Feel her beneath me. Hold her. Take her. Banish all the memories of those years from her mind.

  And I need her to do the same for me. To forgive me for leaving her on her own for so long. Forgive me for living my life while she was out there in the hands of monsters like this.

  Forgive me for ever letting any of this happen to her.

  36

  Mara

  I lie awake watching the hands of the clock tick through the minutes. It’s late. He should have been back by now. Should have been back hours ago.

  But then I hear it. The sound of tires crunching rocks beneath. I push the blanket off and hurry to the window. My room is beside the master, directly over the front entrance. I wanted to be in his room. I thought I would be. But the man who seemed to be in charge told me this was mine. Noah’s, at least, is across the hall.

  From here I watch three SUVs pull up to the house, but I don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet. I won’t until I see him.

  The vehicles come to a stop and soldiers spill out. I count. Four from the first two vehicles. Not Dante, though.

  The driver opens the door of the last one and I hold my breath, but I know it’s not Dante even from this distance. It’s Matthaeus. But then the passenger side door opens and there he is. Dante.

  I exhale and warm tears fill my eyes. I touch a hand to the window, laying my forehead against it, finally able to breathe again. He slams the door shut and I notice his steps are uneven. I know why when I see the bottle in his hand, watch him bring it to his mouth.

  My heart races as he disappears into the house, and it takes all I have not to go running out of the room and down the stairs. It takes all I have to stand here at the window as I listen for him. Hear someone ascend the stairs.

  A door opens. Closes. I watch mine all along. My back to the window.

  A few minutes later, there’s a rumble of voices outside. His.

  “Why isn’t she in my room?”

  My heart races, my smile wide. He wanted me in his room.

  “Fix it,” he says just as my door opens and there he is. Standing in the doorway. Taking up all that space, the soft light of the sconces on the walls outside making a golden halo around him. My fallen angel. My broken angel.

  He steps inside, his gaze sweeping over me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He closes the door and sets the almost empty bottle on the nightstand to come closer.

  I see then the stains that color the front of his jacket, the cuffs of his sleeves.

  Blood.

  I smell him. Sweat and whiskey and something else. Something dark. I push hair back from his forehead as he watches me, my beast.

  He’s careful not to touch me. When I look down, I see why. His hands are dirty.

  I reach out to take them, but he closes them into fists.

  “Don’t,” he says.

  I glance up then down and I hold them, turn them. After a moment he opens them so I can see his palms.

  “I need to wash,” he says and moves to pull free. When I tug, he stops.

  I trace a finger through the dried blood on his palm.

  He captures my wrist and I’m surprised at the force of his grip.

  “Don’t,” he repeats.

  “Did you kill St. James?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Who then?”

  “Viktor Petrov.”

  “Viktor?” I’m surprised.

  He nods and I smile. My avenging angel.

  I reach my free hand to touch his face, rise on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. I taste whiskey and I want more. I slide my hand down over his hard chest, undo the button of his jeans, push down the zipper just enough that I can slip my hand inside and cup him.

  He sucks in a breath as I wrap my hand around the shaft, feel the smooth skin.

  I slip my tongue into his mouth and he kisses me back, releasing my wrist to fist my hair and tug my head backward. The kiss grows urgent as I squeeze my hand around him, stroke him.

  He groans, moves me to the bed and pushes me onto it. He sets one knee between my legs, looking down at me, hair disheveled, face dark with desire. The white gown I’m wearing is nearly translucent, the buttons undone at the top, so my breasts are available to him. He fingers the delicate lace trim then tugs it aside, and we see the smear of dark red on soft white at the same moment.

  “I need to wash,” he says, voice hoarse as if he hasn’t spoken in a while.

  I shake my head, reach out to touch him, to grip the waistband of his jeans to tug him toward me. “Fuck me.”

  He pushes my hand away. “After.”

  “Now.” He watches me as I take his dirty hand and push it into the gown, over my breast. “Now. With his blood on you. Fuck me with his blood on you.”

  It’s sick, I know, but some part of me wants this. Needs it. A victory of sorts. My tormentor dead. His blood on me as I live.

  “I need you to,” I say.

  He squeezes my breast, draws it out and grips the nightgown, ripping it partially. He looks at me as he finishes the task, the fine fabric slipping through his fingers as he rips it the rest of the way and takes me in. I’m completely naked. I hadn’t worn panties. His gaze moves slowly over me, head to toe, pausing between my legs, then back to my face.

  “Hands and knees. Ass to me.”

  My belly flips and I swallow hard as I climb to my knees and turn over. I know what he wants and I lower myself to my elbows. Arch my back. I want this too. A primal fucking. Like the animals we are.

  He makes a sound from deep inside his chest. I don’t think it’s conscious as I look at his face, his gaze on my offering. I’m his. Doesn’t he know that? All of me. Every part of me. I was made for him. I’ve always been his.

  He discards his jacket, his shirt, then sets one knee on the bed, jeans still on. He pushes them down just far enough to fist his cock. With the other hand he grips my ass and spreads me open. He looks at me there. He can see all of me and I watch him as he does, feeling the trickle of my own arousal slide down the inside of my thigh.

  He brings himself to my entrance and I arch deeper, closing my eyes as I feel him slide into me. Stretching me. Filling me.

  “Hard. Do it hard.”

  “Mara—”

  “I need it.”

  He grips both cheeks pulling me wide and drawing out.

  My eyelids fly open, and I turn back to find him dipping his head to me, licking me like he did before from hole to hole and back.r />
  “Oh, god.”

  He straightens, keeps me spread open. “I need to wash,” he says, but I know he won’t walk away. Not now. Not the way he’s looking at me.

  “I want his blood on me.”

  He studies me.

  “Please.”

  He finally nods and pushes into me the way I want. I suck in a breath.

  “Fuck, Mara,” he utters as he takes me the way I need, hard and rough. I think it’s what he needs too. To fuck the past out of me. To fuck all those other men out of me. He kneads my ass as he drills into me and soon, I’m lying flat on my belly, arms over my head, wrists inside his hands, his weight on me, breath at my neck.

  “I’m going to come,” I tell him as he shifts my wrists into one of his hands. With the other, he grips a handful of hair turning my head so I’m looking at him when my release comes. When the first wave takes me under, all I can feel is him. All I can breathe is him. All I want is him.

  When I open my eyes again, I find him watching me, gaze intent. Dark. He draws out, turns me onto my back and reenters me. I’m spent, raw, but I still want and need so much. When he kisses me, it’s all teeth and lips and I taste the copper of blood. I don’t know if it’s mine or his. He shifts his grip to my thigh and pushes it up, opening me wider. He draws back a little, just enough so he can watch us together, watch me take his cock slippery with my arousal, my come.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groans.

  I smile, arch my back, my clit rubbing against him.

  “Perfect,” he manages before thrusting one final time, a groan coming from deep in his chest as he throbs inside me, making me come again as he empties. And we are one. The way we were always meant to be but better. Fiercer.

  Whole and broken at the same time. Together.

  37

  Dante

  I carry her to my room, into the bathroom where I fill the tub with hot water, bathe her and wash myself before taking her to my bed.