by Hope Anika
“He said I can have you.” Ivan’s gaze flickered to the ax she held. He only smiled, and when his black gaze lifted to meet hers, it gleamed like polished onyx. Hungry. For pain, for blood. Lucia knew; she’d seen that look before. The men who’d killed her father had worn the same bloodthirsty expression.
She said nothing, her pulse a violent hammer in her ears. Ivan took a step toward her, and she made herself hold her place, her grip on the ax tightening.
“He said I can do whatever I want to you.” The Dunhill was tossed aside. “He unleashed me.”
A second dark, aberrant smile, and Lucia’s blood turned cold. Ivan took another step toward her and cast her in his monstrous shadow, and she knew she was going to have to act. Offense, not defense. He would not expect her to attack—no, he would expect her to beg—and that surprise was the only other weapon she would have. But that meant doing whatever it took, even if that was burying the ax she held in his big, ugly head. That meant crossing a line she could not return from.
A choice that—in this moment—seemed moot. Because she wanted to live.
“I have such exquisite plans for you, little mouse.” Ivan tilted his head, his skin pale in the gray light, pitted by acne scars. His teeth were uneven stubs, his lips thin. Like a snake. A reflection of his heart. He leaned close, and his ugly, sour breath surrounded her. “I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times. I knew he would give you to me, eventually. And now my patience is rewarded. Now you’re mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to kill. All mine.”
Lucia grabbed his coat with her free hand, yanked him to her, and head-butted him. The blow was violent, her forehead slamming into his nose like a hammer, and pain burst in her skull. Ivan barely moved, as big and unyielding in her hold as a firmly rooted tree, and even though blood streamed from his nostrils, he smiled again, a gruesome, terrifying grin that made her want to scream.
Scream.
But she couldn’t scream, not even to warn Sam, because Ben would hear.
“You want to play,” Ivan whispered. His eyes sparked, and he reached out—
Lucia kneed him in the balls, a merciless, solid connection that almost sent him to his knees. Almost. But not quite, and smile barely wavering, he grabbed her shirt, swung her around like a rag doll and threw her down to the ground with brutal force. She slammed into the hard-packed dirt, her skull bounced against the unbending earth, and the ax tumbled from her hand.
Then Ivan climbed on top of her.
“I like to play,” he breathed as he lumbered up her ribcage and straddled her. She reared up and punched him again, hard in the solar plexus, and he wheezed out a laugh, one of his hands catching both of hers to crush them in his grip.
She bucked, and he laughed again and buried his face in her neck, where he bit her so hard she felt her skin tear.
“You taste good, little mouse,” he whispered, and her stomach heaved. “I want to eat you in tiny bites.”
When he lifted his head and looked down at her, his black eyes gleaming, her blood on his lips, she head-butted him again, a direct hit. His nose crunched, and blood flowed down his chin in a river of crimson.
“Bitch,” he said with a bloody grin. Then he backhanded her, and she slammed back into the dirt. Her bottom lip burst open and flooded her mouth with blood. Stars whirled in her head; her ears rang, and the weight of him threatened to suffocate her.
“I knew you would play with me.” Ivan leaned down, his sharp teeth closing on the side of her breast through her shirt, and he bit her again, tearing into her flesh. She cried out, unable to halt the sound. “There is fire in you, little mouse. I want to be the one to put it out.”
She bucked again, trying desperately to free her arms from his brutal grip. Horror was shearing through her, terror a relentless scream in her head—can’t move—and panic was almost choking her. The ax was there—she could see it—just beyond reach, and if she could—
“Stop. Stop. We’re going too fast.” Ivan sat up, shifting his weight atop her ribs, and Lucia fought to breathe. “There are things I want to do. I have plans. You’re trying to hurry me, but it won’t work.”
He pulled a flashy, silver butterfly knife from his interior coat pocket and produced it to her with another grisly red smile. “You see, you have your scalpel, little mouse, and I have mine.”
His unholy, gut-wrenching glee made her buck again, but he only laughed and rode it out, as if she were an unbroken horse. She was bleeding from his bites and the backhand she’d taken, and his weight was immense, his strength unbeatable. His blood dripped down his chin and slapped her face.
“Perverted, evil bastard,” she snarled.
The narrow blade shimmered in the light as he held it over her. “Yes,” he said, his smile fading. “Since I was a child.”
He sliced across the top of her right breast, his blade penetrating her shirt to split open her flesh like ripe fruit, an agonizing path of searing, white-hot pain. Again, she couldn’t stop the cry that tore from her, and Ivan said, “Yes, like that. Scream for me.”
A swift, burning cut across her belly; blood spilling down her abdomen, and then the knife passed before her eyes, dripping red, flecking her with blood. A fiery slice tracing her left collarbone; the skin of her right arm splitting in two; her right shoulder—too fast—he was carving her like a turkey, and Lucia reared against him, another angry, pained cry escaping her, and he leaned down and licked the weeping wound on her breast.
“So good,” he whispered. “Tiny bites.”
Lucia lunged toward him, locked onto his ugly, hooked nose with her teeth, and bit down as hard as she could. Ivan screamed; blood filled her mouth. He sprang back, but she went with him, her teeth locked, her only thought that of survival.
Him or me.
Silver flashed, and she waited for that blade to stab into her. But instead the hold on her hands released, and Ivan grabbed desperately at her hair with both hands, trying to wrench her away, to break the grip she had on him. Lucia barely felt it. She bit down harder and punched any part of him she could reach—his head, his temple, his neck—again and again, uncaring that he was tearing her hair from her scalp, that her fingers were crunching beneath the blows.
Him or me.
Beneath her teeth, his flesh tore, and he shrieked wildly, an unholy, unearthly sound as sharp as the steel of his blade. Lucia let go and shoved him backward with all her might. He swayed, reaching up to cradle the bloody cartilage of his nose, a hysterical cry escaping him when he felt the loose flap of his nostrils, which were no longer attached to his face.
Lucia turned and lunged for the ax. Her fingers brushed the wooden handle as Ivan’s hands caught her hair and yanked her violently backward. Tears streamed from her eyes as she fought that grip. So close. Just a little farther—
“Fucking cunt,” Ivan screamed. “You fucking cunt! I’m going to—”
Wooden splinters dug into her palm as it slid down the slender handle of the ax; she closed her hand, gripped it tight, and when Ivan tugged again, she turned and swung the ax for all she was worth; thunk! The rusted blade slammed into his chest, deep, and the reverberation shuddered down her arm with violent force. He went still and looked down at the tool protruding from his torso with almost comical surprise.
“May you burn in hell,” Lucia hissed and slammed her palm against the head of the ax, driving it deeper.
Blood fountained from him, drenching her. His hands unclenched from her hair and fell to his sides.
“Die,” she told him.
And then he did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Do you ever worry that you’ll be like him?”
Sam went still. He turned to look at Alexander, who was staring with quiet patience at the battered red and white bobber Sam had affixed to the fishing line he’d found. The water rippled around the bobber, spinning it, but it remained upright, and so far they’d caught only one small trout, but Sam was hoping for another. The rain had almost stopped, but the wind
was starting to lift, and the ache in his leg told him that the brunt of the storm was just beginning to roll in.
One more fish, then home. Home. Jesus.
“Like who?” Sam asked carefully, pretty certain he knew exactly who the boy was talking about. He’d been surprised when Alexander sought him out and asked to join the fishing foray; it was obvious the kid could have cared less about casting a line. Still, he’d paid attention, hadn’t batted an eye at baiting the hook and even helped reel in the small, slender brook trout that had eaten their worm.
Those pale green eyes stabbed into his. “Your father.”
Sam thought about that. “I used to,” he replied honestly. “I thought being an asshole was in my blood.”
“But you don’t think that anymore?”
“Nope.”
The boy stared at him, his intensity more than a little unnerving. Sam only stared back. He’s just a kid. No matter how adult his gaze, or how cold he could appear. And Sam could relate; when Magnus had brought him home, it had taken months for Sam to trust. To believe what Magnus said—because unlike his pop, Magnus meant what he said—and to accept that his life had changed. For him to realize he had to change with that life if he wanted it to mean anything.
If he wanted it to last.
“Why not?” Alexander demanded. His hands were white-knuckled around the fishing pole, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Because being an asshole is a choice,” Sam told him. “And I choose not to be one.”
“It’s not that easy,” the boy said.
“Isn’t it?”
Thunder rumbled, and around them the pine trees swayed, sending cold rain and small pinecones to the forest floor. The stream they fished from was fast and frothy and ice cold; earlier they’d spotted an osprey, and Sam wondered if they weren’t close to a large river or lake. He’d contemplated the wisdom of walking further out and taking a look. In the end, he’d stayed put, because a jaunt like that could take hours, and the closer he stayed to Lucia and the kids, the better. He’d woken with the same darkness that had dogged him yesterday, only stronger, a steady, terrifying beat of certainty that pulsed in his chest. That’s why they’d gone less than a quarter mile upstream, close enough to hear. Close enough to run.
“My father…” Alexander looked back at the bobber. “He calls it an initiation.”
Every muscle in Sam’s body went taut, and his jaw locked tight against the words that welled in his throat. Anger was too easy. The boy needed more than Sam’s rage; he had enough of his own.
“He says…he says that every Cruz must be initiated,” Alexander continued, watching the bobber. “He told me he would initiate Ben next.”
“And you want to stop him,” Sam said.
Alexander met his gaze. “Yes.”
No matter what it took; that much was obvious. But Sam couldn’t blame him. Hell, it made him respect the kid. Surviving was hard enough. Taking on someone else’s survival was more than most were capable of.
You’d better fucking come through, Tony.
Or Sam was going to have to do more than just keep them off the radar and safe. He was going to have to take care of Donavon Cruz himself.
Alexander shot him a narrow glance.
“What?” Sam asked.
For a moment, the boy said nothing, watching the bobber, his narrow shoulders hunched against the rain. Then, “I’m going to kill him.”
“No,” Sam said immediately. “There’re other ways.”
Another look, filled with scorn.
“Killing isn’t free,” Sam told him seriously. “No matter how justified, that blood stains you, and you never get clean.”
“I don’t care,” Alexander said coldly.
Sam rubbed at the back of his neck and wondered why he was arguing. As a kid, he’d felt the same. No price was too high if it meant freedom. And rage was good at making murder seem feasible. Attainable. Justified. And it would be justified. Men like Cruz were predators; putting them down was a community service. Sam knew his badge would argue, but most of the time that badge served only as a means to an end. If he didn’t make it work for him—or anyone else—there wasn’t any damn reason to be wearing it.
“It would ruin your life,” Sam said quietly.
“My life is already ruined.”
No tears, no outrage, just simple, devastating truth. Sam wanted to snarl, but he understood too well. Arguing would get him nowhere. But it reminded him so much of Lucia—everything is over—that he said, “That’s up to you.”
The boy shook his head, his mouth twisting. “Not everything is a choice.”
“Hell yes, it is,” Sam said. “Every moment of every day, we choose. How to feel, how to behave, to believe or not to believe. What you choose is up to you. But be careful, because life will follow the path you set. If you decide your life’s shit, it’ll be shit. Fact. Ten puny years, and you’ve decided it’s over, so you’re going to piss away the next sixty? That’s fucking sad, Alexander. But, hell, it’s your life. Your call. Do what you gotta do.”
The boy blinked, frowning, as if trying to figure out how to argue. Always with the arguing. Lucia had taught him well. Lucia. Who’d ignored Sam this morning as though he was nothing more than a fly buzzing around, stoic in the face of her perceived fate, and it annoyed the shit out of Sam, because she had a choice in that fate, just like Alexander did. That neither of them saw a light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t surprising, but it was unacceptable. That he was the optimistic one in this scenario was just fucking insane.
But if he had hope, they were going to have some goddamn hope, too.
“It not that easy,” Alexander said, but then the bobber disappeared, and Sam leapt toward him and yelled, “Hook him quick!”
The boy jerked up hard on the fishing pole, and Sam grabbed the slender pole to steady it, telling him, “Now reel, son. Slow and steady—feel that weight, you got a good one—that’s it, just like that.”
Alexander wrestled with the fish and the pole and the stubborn, aged reel. Sam let him, because he saw the kid’s eyes spark and knew that look. Even if the boy didn’t land the monster he was battling, he’d be hooked.
That alone made it a good day.
The reel creaked in protest; the line stretched until Sam thought it would snap. Alexander grunted, and finally a thick, long brookie appeared, wiggling desperately in effort to free itself.
“Holy shit,” Alexander said, and Sam laughed. He leaned over, caught the slippery fish and freed it from the hook. He held it out, aware that the boy hadn’t been comfortable with the killing and cleaning of the first one they’d caught, and said, “It’s your catch.”
Alexander looked at the fish, then at Sam.
“You want me to do it?” Sam asked him.
“That’s weak, isn’t it?” Alexander said instead of answering. “That I don’t want to kill it.”
“Nope, that’s human.” Sam shrugged and crouched next to the stream. He put the fish down quickly with a large, round river stone, and cut it open, tossing the guts into the stream. “Killing is part of eating, but that’s something most folks don’t like to think about.”
“But it needs to be done.”
“Unless you’re gonna live on granola and garbanzo beans,” Sam said, shooting the kid a smile. “Plenty of people do.”
Alexander only watched him soberly. “I don’t want to kill anything. Except him. Is that wrong?”
Sam’s chest tightened. “Makes perfect sense to me.” He tossed the fish into the bucket. “That’s two. One more wouldn’t hurt. You up for another go?”
The sudden, shrill sound of Daisy barking made Sam go still. The little dog rarely made any noise, but they were in the middle of the wilderness, and anything could have set her off. Still, he didn’t like it. The dog’s frantic yapping made the lead in his chest bleed into his veins and his stomach clench hard.
“We should go back,” Alexander said abruptly. He looked in the directi
on of the cabin, took a step, and Sam caught him with a firm hand.
“Wait,” Sam told him.
“But—”
The sound of a branch snapping not far away—too close—made Sam suddenly crouch down. He hauled Alexander to the ground with him, and when the boy went to speak, put a finger to his lips in warning. He waited until Alexander nodded in understanding before removing his hand.
Another branch; like a fucking herd of elephants. Someone unfamiliar with the woods, who was off trail and not particularly worried about being heard. Or who simply didn’t realize how far the sound carried, even with the wind and rain and rush of the creek.
Not Lucia, who would’ve stuck to the trail, and who would’ve had Ben with her.
Fuck. Shouldn’t have left them. Knew I shouldn’t have left them. Quarter mile, too far, goddamn it—
There. Just downstream, left of the trail, a large, dark figure wove through the stand of pine. He appeared to be alone and was clearly unused to picking his way through the wilderness, his steps uneven and off balance, breaking sticks and crunching leaves, and making the birds shriek in alarm.
“Misha,” Alexander said in a hushed tone, watching the man. The boy looked up at Sam; terror had shattered his cold façade like splintered glass. “He works for my father. With his brother, Ivan.”
Ivan the Terrible. Lucia’s fear was echoed in Alexander, and Sam deliberately turned away from the horror show his brain produced at the realization Lucia was probably dealing with Ivan at that very moment. Because that way lay insanity. He needed to focus. First, Misha.
Then Ivan.
“Stay here,” Sam told Alexander. “Don’t move until I say.”
“But Lucia—”
“I know,” Sam replied grimly. “One thing at a time, son. Misha and Ivan. Anyone else I should be looking for?”
If anything, the boy went even paler. He nodded. “Enrique. Misha and Enrique are always together.”
“Good to know,” Sam muttered.
He left Alexander and made his way toward the man who was tromping through the forest toward them. One swift glance behind him told Sam that Alexander was listening and staying put—for now—so he continued toward Misha, staying low, using the landscape and the willow bushes that hugged the stream bank to provide cover. His leg ached in protest, but it felt stronger since Lucia had sewn him up, and the pain wasn’t going to stop him, so he only ignored it. Above him, thunder suddenly rumbled, and the rain picked up again as the wind grew stronger. The trees swayed, groaning. Daisy continued to bark, hysterical, agitated yips and howls that made Sam’s heart beat painfully hard.