Blaire's World: Volume One

by Box Set

  Oliver tries to get to his feet to attack the Pakhan, but several men descend upon him and pin him down. The Pakhan comes closer to me, and I’m pulled up onto my feet.

  “Such a pretty girl, he was one of my best, and you’ve stolen him from me. I’ve worked so many years on him. My daddy and his were best friends, you see. When they took Oliver away, I grew jealous. How could he be allowed to leave this life when I couldn’t, so I told my daddy I wanted him back. I was his Prince, the heir apparent, that he knew would bring great power to our name. What I wanted I got, and Oliver was returned and turned into my number two. He was loyal and never questioned anything until you came along. You’re responsible for what happens next, not me.”

  The Pakhan brings his hand against my cheek and strokes it down over my neck and across my breast before trailing to the junction between my thighs. With an inhuman amount of strength and a tortuous noise, Oliver breaks free from those holding him down and grabs a gun ready to fire. He’s not quick enough, though. The Pakhan grabs me by the throat and pulls me in front of him. I know Oliver. I know his skills with a weapon. He can still end this, now. Take out his target, through me.

  “Do it,” I tell him, my eyes filled with tears. “Oliver, kill him. End this.”

  He hesitates, his finger over the trigger. The men around him are coming to their senses, and he has a matter of moments to fire before they reach for their guns and fire a hail of bullets into him.

  “Oliver, please!” I scream, but nothing happens. He doesn’t fire. Instead, he smirks. I flick my head around to see a man with a weapon to the Pakhan’s head. Several of the men are re-moving their balaclavas and disarming the Pakhan’s men. I notice they look Mexican in origin, not Russian. These aren’t the guards who have tortured me over the last month.

  “Oliver Volkov?” The man with the gun at the Pakhan’s head speaks.

  “Me,” Oliver replies but keeps his weapon aimed at the Pakhan. “I hope it wasn’t any of your men I ran off the road. I didn’t spot you at first.”

  “Nope, they were all his men.”

  “Good,” Oliver replies.

  “Ivanov,” the man with the gun at the Pakhan’s head addresses the man still holding me close to him. I know he has the strength within him to snap my neck if he wants. “Let go of the girl. She and the others are walking out of here with Mr. Volkov.”

  The Pakhan laughs.

  “Disparar.” The man says shoot in Spanish, which is followed by the sound of guns going off. I can hear myself screaming, and I squeeze my eyes shut. When I dare to open them, I see all the Pakhan’s guards executed on the ground. I look over to the vehicles where Irina, Zola, Natasha, and Rea cower down. I can hear them crying and praying for mercy.

  “Let the girl go,” the man orders the Pakhan again. He obeys this time, and I walk as quickly as I can to Oliver. He’s still got his weapon aimed in the direction of the Pakhan, and before I reach him, I hear it go off. I spin around on my heels and see a gun flying through the air from the Pakhan’s hand. He must have pulled it from his pocket. The man behind him looks stunned and steps aside, knowing what’s about to happen.

  . In the Pakhan’s hand is a large hole. Oliver pushes me aside and stalks to the man who’s tormented both our lives – mine for a short time, Oliver’s for twenty years.

  “That was for Rea.” Oliver fumes and shoots, again, this time into the Pakhan’s other hand. “That’s for Natasha.” Another two shots are fired into the Pakhan’s legs. “For Irina and Zola.” The Pakhan cries out in agony on the ground. The Mexican men around us step back and allow Oliver this moment.

  He moves the gun to the Pakhan’s chest and fires again.

  “For Amaya.”

  He stands over the man who nearly destroyed his life. He isn’t dead yet, but it won’t be long. He’s bleeding out and must be in so much pain. I go over to Oliver and wrap my arm around him. I don’t know why, but I reach out for the gun in his hand, and taking it from him, I point it directly at the Pakhan’s head. His eyes are glassed over in fear of the death that’s about to come to him. I savor that look. It’s one he’s seen in my eyes, and in Irina’s, Zola’s, Natasha’s and Rea’s on so many occasions. I get it, the power, the authority over another person, but I don’t want that. I just want a peaceful life with the man I love.

  I pull the trigger, and the world goes quiet.

  “That one was for Oliver.”

  Epilogue

  OLIVER

  “How was practice today?” Amaya asks, placing the dish of chicken fajitas in front of me as I rub my stomach. I sit at the brightly colored table in the kitchen of our small, but adequate home in Mexico on the outskirts of the capital city. My woman is an amazing cook. I’m glad of my job as coach for the local school’s soccer team because I get to run around most of the day. I think I’d be the size of a house by now, if I didn’t.

  “It was good,” I reply, shoveling in a mouthful of my wife’s food. “There’s a boy there who’s good enough to make it to the big time, I think. He reminds me of myself when I was a kid, always kicking a ball about.” The food sticks in my mouth, and I cough. I haven’t thought about myself as boy beyond the shooting, training, and murder, for a long time now. It’s been five years since Charlie Decena, the leader of the Los Zetas, sent his men to help rescue us from the hands of Pakhan Ivanov. So much has changed since then. Along with the other rescued girls, we all left Russia that day and haven’t been back since. Irina and Zola stayed with us for a short while as we built a home and a life in Mexico, but they knew they needed to escape all memories of their past and left for America and a new life. We received an anonymous email from them about two years back, letting us know that life was good. It definitely settled Amaya’s worries as well as my own. Natasha and Rea stayed in Mexico with us. Natasha is married. She’s still a bit of a wild child, but her husband looks after and protects her. Rea is a different story.

  I look up as the lady I speak of enters the room, carrying my three-year-old son, Matias. She hands him over to me, and he settles into my lap and picks pieces of my fajitas off my plate.

  “Let Daddy eat.” Rea laughs, but I still see the sadness in her eyes. Shortly after we arrived, she tried to commit suicide. Thankfully, we found her in time, but she still bears the scars on her arms along with the memories of her forced abortion and hysterectomy. It was hard for her when Amaya fell pregnant, but eventually she took on the duties of a nanny to our son and six-month-old daughter, Luciana, who I assume is sleeping. It’s as though she’s found her place in life, and she realizes it’s with them. I’m glad for it. There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t feel guilty for not getting her out sooner, but I needed Amaya and her love to turn me around from the monster they’d created.

  Violence isn’t a part of my world anymore. It was at first. I struggled without the routine and the need to vent my anger somewhere. I helped Charlie out a couple of times on missions, but it wasn’t the same for me anymore, and I found myself craving Amaya more than the need for killing. Eventually, I stopped, and I’ve replaced my need for darkness with a need to worship her, instead. I think it’s a much better deal than the one I had before.

  We married shortly after we came here. A beautiful ceremony, according to all our friends, in the sunset on the beaches of Cancun. I wasn’t really aware of much apart from the beautiful woman in front of me who I was marrying.

  I look down at my son, and he rubs his finger over the tattoo on my hand. The circle that was contained in the middle has been turned into a heart. All of my tattoos have been changed. They no longer represent the old life I had but show off the new – my children, and Amaya being my world.

  “For Mama,” he says and rubs his finger over the design again.

  “Yes.”

  “Love, Mama,” he shouts to Amaya, and she comes over to give him a kiss.

  “Love, Matias”

  He goes from my lap and into her arms, and she swings him around.

 
; “How was your day?” I ask her.

  I managed to get most of my money out of Russia, and Charlie negotiated a sum for Amaya from her father’s role in the cartel, so we don’t have a pressing need to work, but we both enjoy it because it seems so normal after our previous lives. She works for a domestic violence charity nearby. When she first came back, she met with a counselor along with Natasha and Rea. Eventually, she took her own qualifications as one and works part time, helping out with women who’ve been the victims of abuse. I guess her own past gives her the sympathy and understanding that many others wouldn’t have.

  “Good,” she says. There was this one girl – her story was hard, but she’s in a safe place now and doing well mentally.”

  “I’m glad.” I pull her close to me and kiss where our third child grows in her belly. She’s only a few weeks along, and it was a complete surprise so soon after Luciana, but I must admit I’m quite enjoying the fact that we are destined to have a big family. Destined. There’s that word again. Nothing is destined, really, because you can always change your stars. That’s what Amaya and I did.

  Rea shakes her head when Amaya runs her hand through my hair.

  “I think I’m going to put this little man to bed before you two get any more affectionate. We don’t need to see that.”

  She takes Matias from Amaya’s arms, and they both do a big “Yuck”, together at the thought of us kissing or, in Rea’s case, doing more than just sucking each other’s face. Matias kisses us both goodnight, and she takes him toward the door then pauses.

  “I almost forgot. I won’t be here tomorrow evening. Samuel from the village has asked if I’d like to go to the fete with him. I said yes. I hope that’s alright?” Rea bites her lip timidly.

  “Of course it’s alright.” Amaya grips tight to my shoulder, and I know that she’s trying really hard not to jump and up down in delight at the news. I stifle a laugh. “I’ll come home from work early, and I can help you choose what to wear and help you get dressed.”

  “I’d like that,” Rea replies and disappears out of the door with our son.

  “She’s going to be alright, isn’t she?” Pushing my chair back, Amaya slides onto my lap, and I press a kiss to her lips.

  “Samuel’s a good man. She’ll be absolutely fine.”

  “I’m so happy, Oliver.”

  “So am I, Mrs. Reynolds” We lost the name Volkov when we married and decided to use my mother’s surname, instead. Neither of us wanted reminders of Russia following us around every day. “How about you give me a little gift to go with my dinner?” I wink at her.

  “What could you possible want? You’re the man who has everything.”

  I bring my hand up her smooth legs and dip it under her skirt. I press my palm against her lace covered clit and feel she’s already wet. But then she’s always that way when I’m with her. I pull the flimsy fabric aside and stroke at the tender bundle of nerves. It doesn’t take long, and I can tell she’s close.

  “Amaya?”

  “Yours, Oliver, always yours.”

  THE END

  ABOUT ANNA EDWARDS

  www.authorannaedwards.com

  I am a British author, from the depths of the rural countryside near London. In a previous life, I was an accountant from the age of twenty-one. I still do that on occasions, but most of my life is now spent intermingling writing while looking after my husband, two children and two cats (probably in the inverse order to the one listed!). When I have some spare time, I can also be found writing poetry, baking cakes (and eating them), or behind a camera snapping like a mad paparazzi.

  I'm an avid reader who turned to writing to combat my depression and anxiety. I have a love of travelling and like to bring this to my stories to give them the air of reality.

  I like my heroes hot and hunky with a dirty mouth, my heroines demure but with spunk, and my books full of dramatic suspense.

  Thanks for reading. I hope you’ve enjoyed OLIVER. If you could leave an honest review on Amazon and/or Goodreads, I’ll be forever grateful.

  Keep turning the pages to read the rest of BLAIRE’S WORLD and the bonus extra: B L A I R E.

  SERAFINA

  A BLAIRE’S WORLD TITLE

  by

  Skye Callahan

  International Bestselling Author

  I always knew when the end came for me it wouldn’t be quick. People in my walk of life don’t get off that easily. Secrets are power but collecting those secrets can put a girl in a deadly situation at the hands of someone who would do anything—including torture—to get them.

  I carried out my first hit at fourteen in a hotel room with a halcone who believed I’d give him a fantastic night.

  The last seven years have been a chaotic storm of parties and gatherings, short trips, pickups and deliveries, and the worst—long undercover operations that could last months with the sole purpose of gaining trust and digging up the deepest and darkest secrets the cartel guarded. Get close, but not too close. Make sure they feel in control, but never too much. A wink, a nod, a toast. The more I stand out, the more I don’t. No one expects someone who does what I do to hide under the brightest spotlight. That’s why I’m good.

  That’s what Jorge told me, anyway.

  But, there’s no spotlight now. No backup. No plan except giving into the darkness before my secrets are stolen.

  This is what I trained for. This is why Jorge was so hard on me.

  PUERTO VALLARTA

  I sink into the hot foamy water of my freshly drawn bath, knowing it’ll do little to reach the core of my pain, and even less for my wounded ego. But the lavender scent does its job and calms my senses until my sore muscles begin to unravel themselves. I’ve only been back from Los Angeles for five days. Back from a six-month assignment. Six months of working my way into Sureños and charming a beady-eyed drug lord named Gabe.

  It was all going as expected until Gabe’s ego got him killed by a rival gang, and Jorge dragged my ass back to Mexico and busted it—repeatedly for good measure. Failure is not acceptable. It doesn’t matter the cause of that failure, with Gabe dead, Jorge wasn’t getting the info or leverage he wanted, and regardless of logic, that was my fault. My fault for not working faster when I’m supposed to focus on the long game. My fault for not predicting the future, I guess. For not convincing Gabe not to go out that night, but I also had to maintain my cover, and follow Jorge’s rules.

  A shooting, electrifying, pain wrenches my back, contorting my body into an awkward position within the tight confines of the tub. I close my eyes and draw in one controlled breath after another until the pain finally passes and my body relaxes into the curves of the white porcelain under me.

  When I’m on Jorge’s good side again, I should upgrade to a Jacuzzi.

  I have my own small villa on the corner of Jorge’s fortified compound, but I usually find more peace when I’m on assignment. Here, he keeps tabs on my every move—not that he can’t do that when I’m halfway around the world. But on the compound, the weight of his control and the pressure to please him multiply, encapsulating every thought and movement until I spend every second on high alert, numb to everything else.

  Although, numb sounds appealing right now.

  He trained me for years to shut off the pain. Ignore it. Go to the blank space inside my head where the white noise shields me from reality. A training exercise we repeated over and over until he was certain I’d never reveal his secrets. But, yesterday, when he finally allowed me to leave his mansion and return to my private space, it was with strict orders not to do so.

  It’s ironic how long I spent wanting to be part of his world—yearning to end the isolation he imposed on me—and now, at the first opportunity I get, I shelter myself away from all of it.

  I sink deeper into the water until the bubbles caress my chin, and I almost feel normal. At least, as normal as I’ve ever imagined for someone whose life’s work includes infiltrating whatever group Jorge sets his sights on, then blackm
ailing and sometimes murdering their members.

  My solitude shatters when hard-soled shoes shuffle against the stone floor of the hallway. Jorge allows no one else in or near my villa when I’m home, so I have no doubt it’s him. His presence cuts through the silence of the evening before he reaches my bedroom door, and as the doorknob turns, the hairs on the back of my arms stand on end. I dunk them into the water, under the bubbles, and out of mind. Out of his sight. I know what’s probably coming, another round of punishment—or training, which is just as bad.

  He barges into the bathroom without the slightest in formalities, and he stands above me in a grey, finely-tailored Zegna suit, imported straight from Italy. Probably paid for with a woman or two. At least he’s in polished mode. Less likely that he’ll want to get dirty. His usually wild black hair is slicked back and pulled into a ponytail at the base of his skull, and his face is shadowed with stubble.

  “You need to work on your English accent,” he says—in his horrible attempt at sounding English.

  Not that anyone would correct him or tell him how broken it sounds. No one in their right mind corrects Jorge on any matter.

  “My English is perfect,” I say, matter-of-fact. As is my French, Spanish, Russian, Persian… but unlike him, I’ve spoken most of those languages as long as I can remember. Longer than I choose to remember.

  His deep eyes lock on me, and I consider hiding beneath the layer of bubbles covering most of my body. At least he came at the start of the bath, while I still have the rich foam barrier. The bubbles don’t make a difference, really, but I feel better with them there. Covering the bruises and scratches from our last scrap. His nose flares. “You’ll be leaving for Canada in the morning. Toronto.”