WASHED AWAY

by RC Boldt

  This time when he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t immediately move away but frames my face with his hands. My breath hitches in my throat at the reverence in his gaze, but the ardent affection coloring his voice is what truly robs my lungs of all oxygen.

  “I’m yours.” Gently, he drops delicate kisses to each corner of my mouth. “I’m all yours. Promise me you won’t forget that.” An odd brand of urgency is threaded in his words, but when I peer up at him in question, I’m only greeted by his intense gaze.

  “I won’t forget,” I answer softly and place a light kiss to his lips. “I promise.”

  “You two done making out?” Saint’s voice greets us, and I jolt in surprise to find him a few feet away at the end of the hallway. “Thought I might break out some good ole Colombian rum.”

  “That’s my cue to grab my water and head back to bed.” I give Liam a quick kiss and scoot past him. “You two can catch up.”

  Saint’s brows descend. “That invite was for both of you.”

  “I know.” I pat his arm on my way past him to the kitchen. “I’m actually pretty worn out from…” My eyes automatically find Liam’s, and a blush spreads over my cheeks. I drag my gaze back to Saint only to find him rubbing a hand over his mouth as if to cover a smile. “From everything that’s happened.”

  “Right.” His mouth twitches. “Well, you better rest up, then.”

  I rush around the corner, seeking a haven in the kitchen. Once I have my glass of water and their voices spill through the doorway as they retreat to the living room, I head back to the bedroom.

  I wasn’t lying when I said I was worn out. The stress of the unknown has taken its toll on me, but on the flip side of that is the delicious exhaustion and soreness from Liam having his way with me.

  Inside the bedroom, I drain the remainder of my water glass and turn off the light. When I crawl beneath the cool cotton sheets, the scent of Liam lingers, and sleep comes quickly.

  Chapter 60

  LIAM

  “A part of me feels like I should just hand this over”—Saint hefts the alcohol in one hand—“and let you chug it straight from the bottle.” Disappointment and exasperation color his voice, and I get where he’s coming from.

  I feel the same damn way.

  When he tacks on, “You’re sure digging your own grave even deeper,” I grind the heels of my palms against my eyes.

  I heave out a sigh and lean forward in the armchair, the leather sounding its own discreet protest at the movement. Resting my elbows on my knees, I stare sightlessly at the hardwood floor, scowling at it like it’s responsible for my shitty decisions.

  “Every time I say I’m gonna do it, I fucking choke.” I drop my chin to my chest in defeat. “I can’t do it.” My voice grows thinner, barely audible. “I can’t do that to her.”

  Saint remains silent for a long moment, letting my admission hang between us. An ice cube clinks, one dropped into each glass before he pours the rum. He pads over to me, his outstretched arm offering me the glass. I accept it gratefully and peer into the contents.

  The faint crinkling of the leather chair opposite me sounds as he sinks into it. “Good thing I opened up a new bottle, then. I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna need it.”

  When I lift my head, he raises his glass in a toast, his smirk part amused, part resigned. “To shitty decisions and being love-fucked.”

  A dark, humorless chuckle erupts from deep within me, resignation blanketing me. I raise my glass, ready to echo his words, but he stops me with a hand.

  When he speaks this time, his tone is thoughtful but firm, and I get the impression he’s drawing from his own experience. “To everything being okay in the end.”

  Brows lowering, his eyes bore into mine as if attempting to ingrain his words on my brain. “And if it’s not, then it’s not the end.”

  Saint left the bottle on the liquor cart and headed to bed for the night. That goddamn bottle taunts me like I’m a fucking alcoholic teetering on the edge of relapse.

  His parting words echo in my head. “Take it from me—the past only haunts those who let it.”

  Once I’ve drunk nearly a third of it straight from the bottle, the flavor no longer registers on my numb taste buds. As I stare blindly across the dimly lit living room, my fingers fumble, reaching for what I always stuff inside my left pocket.

  I draw out the folded paper, the well-worn and frayed edges of the photograph reminding me of how many times I’ve looked at it. How many times I couldn’t accept that they were really gone.

  I trace a finger over their smiling faces, vividly recalling when I received the news. The call had come in shortly after I’d been offered another job and declined it—for the third time.

  I’d been getting my things situated to make a round of house calls when my phone rang. As soon as my eyes laid on the out-of-area number, ominous premonition had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Somehow, I knew I wouldn’t be receiving good news.

  And I’d been right.

  In the blink of an eye, everything had changed.

  My family—my parents and younger sister—died an agonizing death. The declared cause had damn near broken me. It had been inconceivable to consider.

  If that wasn’t enough of a mind-fuck, I later received information that indicated their deaths hadn’t been so cut and dry.

  It had been my fault all along. I hadn’t protected my family well enough, and they paid the ultimate price.

  I had changed my life, switched jobs to leave behind my past, trying to be a better son and role model for my younger sister. And it had all been for nothing.

  I vowed to make whoever was responsible pay with their own life—and I’d sure as hell make it an agonizing death.

  As I trace my finger over my family’s smiling faces, an invisible fist clenches my chest unbearably tight.

  “No matter what I do, I’m gonna hurt someone.” My ragged whisper is nearly inaudible, my words slurred a bit from the effects of the alcohol.

  Grief pummels me, and I pinch my eyes closed. “I’m sorry.” I press the photograph to my lips, my muted words muffled against the wrinkled surface. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  Chapter 61

  ALEXANDRA

  It’s as if someone magically snaps their fingers, dragging me from a dreamless sleep and hurtling me headfirst into a nightmare.

  The strike from his punishing backhand has me spitting out blood.

  Though the yacht travels smoothly along the choppy waters, my stomach twists sickly. Perhaps it’s not so much seasickness as my current affliction with double vision from their previous hits.

  I force my words from between clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this?”

  Sergei, head of the Bolsevska Bratva, settles his eyes on me, animosity simmering beneath the surface. “Because you’ve become a very desirable commodity.”

  I have no idea what the hell this bastard’s talking about. My head seems to have formed its own heartbeat, throbbing incessantly from when his damn henchmen knocked me unconscious earlier.

  It serves as little consolation that I landed some punches beforehand. The blooming purple bruises beneath one asshole’s eyes and his swollen nose and the other, who sports a bloody bottom lip, are proof of this.

  I try my best not to show that I’m working on loosening my wrists from where they’re bound behind me. They plunked me down in this chair against the side of the yacht, but these motherfuckers evidently missed the lesson on how to tie knots—thankfully.

  Sergei smirks. “You did me a favor by killing Nikolai and his men. They were considering defecting, but you took care of that.”

  The look of appraisal he gives me makes my skin crawl. “Very impressive of you. Especially as an amateur. But you don’t realize where it trickled down from, do you, Alexandra?” An evil glint gleams from his eyes. “You don’t realize the nuances behind your father’s death.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  I receive another
brutal backhand from his asshole henchman, and agonizing pain lances along my cheek, but I don’t care. These bastards don’t deserve to even give mention of my father.

  He oozes arrogance, and his laughter is noxious. “Grigory Yurchenko raised you to be a little spitfire.”

  Shoving aside his suit jacket, he plants his hands at his hips. “It’s a shame I can’t treat you to the same death.” He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Sadly, I must relinquish you to the one who’s already laid claim.”

  My vision swims before me, but I manage to disguise that I’ve successfully loosened the binding on my wrists.

  “My father was soft in his old age.” Sergei’s eyes frost over. “He never should have allowed Grigory to retire.”

  “Your father’s probably rolling in his grave for how you’re handling shit,” I bite out.

  His gaze lances at me like the sharpest-honed blade on my flesh. Shaking his head, he directs his attention to the man standing off to the side. The one who’s been dutifully delivering backhands at Sergei’s every whim.

  “Rough her up as you like, but we agreed to deliver her.” That menacing grin graces his lips once again. “As long as she’s still in one piece and has a pulse, it’ll do.”

  Then he turns and disappears down the stairs of the boat.

  I muster all my concentration to battle against my double vision and focus on the weapons holstered on the nearby henchmen. They’ve already underestimated me. What they don’t realize is that my vengeance runs deeper than the average kind.

  It’s fed by anguish and love. Heartache and longing.

  They killed my father. They murdered Grigory Yurchenko, the man who saved me. No one nor any amount of money can replace him.

  No amount of bloodshed can bring him back. I know this. But eliminating those tied to his murder makes me feel like I’m making a difference. As though I’m exacting vengeance on Papa’s behalf.

  And I’ll willingly lay down my life in order to do it.

  Another man emerges from the shadows, reeking of wealth from his tailored three-piece suit to the shiny loafers at his feet. I recognize him as the one who pummeled me in the ribs with his steel-toed boots after I was dragged on board. The ache in my ribs increases tenfold at the sight of him.

  Raising his gun directly at me, he nods at the henchmen on either side of me. I’m unceremoniously jerked up from the chair, their fingers digging into the flesh of my upper arms with punishing force.

  My legs are unsteady beneath me as dizziness plagues me, but I pretend my wrists are still tightly bound. Flexing my fingers from behind me, I prepare myself for action.

  This is it. This is your only chance. Just aim like you would with your knives.

  One edge of the man’s mouth quirks up. “The agreement said you were to be alive.” His eyes narrow viciously. “It never said you couldn’t have a few holes in you.”

  Eyes trained on his trigger finger, I reach out in either direction, grabbing the holstered weapons from the bastards at my sides. Firing at the asshole in front of me first, I shoot the other henchmen at close range and jerk away from them.

  The first bullet nails me in my lower side, and the fierce sting of gunpowder has me dropping one of my weapons to clutch at my fresh wound.

  The next bullet lodges in my hip, and the momentum sends me hurtling backward, slamming into the side of the yacht.

  I can’t tell who fires on me next as my vision grows hazier, but I’m hit in the upper shoulder. Bracing myself against the side of the boat, I quickly return fire in the general direction, willing my vision to clear.

  Papa must be looking out for me because my two bullets send the asshole stumbling backward, gun dropping from his hands as he clutches his chest.

  I don’t have time to celebrate that small success. The unexpected decrease in speed of the yacht has me wavering on already unsteady feet, and another asshole charges at me with a gleaming blade.

  My actions are slower now, and I know it’s due to my wounds, the blood soaking my clothing. The man carves a path along my lower side, and I fire a bullet at him close-range, hitting him between the eyes. Before he drops to the floor, I grab the knife from him, relishing its familiar weight in my grip.

  Somehow, gritting through the near-blinding pain of my wounds, I maintain my hold on the gun and knife. When I pull the trigger to fire the final bullet at the motherfucker in the suit, it only hits him in the collarbone. My aim is fucked, afflicted by my dizziness.

  Tossing the gun aside, I stare into eyes that possess an unworldly evil, yet something about them piques at something in the recesses of my brain.

  I force my fingers to grip the knife properly, just like I learned long ago. Although, back then, I never used a person as my target.

  He smirks. “It’s over, Alexandra. Your next stop is hell.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” I fling the knife at him, and it lands, embedding itself near his collarbone just as he pulls the trigger.

  I try to turn and dodge the hit, but my body doesn’t cooperate. It moves too sluggishly, and his bullet hits me in the shoulder again. That impact, combined with the abrupt halt of the yacht, knocks me off-balance, sending me crashing into the unforgiving side of the vessel.

  Then everything goes black.

  The earth moves beneath me, and the choppy motions ignite overwhelming pain throughout my entire body. Someone kicks me in the side, and it sends fresh agony rippling through me.

  My eyes flutter open the barest fraction, and all I can determine is that I’m on board a small speedboat, the waves violently crashing against the vessel.

  I fade out of consciousness before two pairs of hands lift my body, only to let me slam down upon an unforgiving, gritty surface.

  Darkness draws me back in its web, and I welcome it. My final thought is the regret that I failed in exacting vengeance for Papa’s death and comfort in knowing we’ll be together once again.

  My mind operates similar to a movie, rewinding back in time. I’m watching from above, witnessing a younger version of Papa and me.

  He moves us around every year or so, but he makes it an adventure, painting it with excitement each time. He teaches me everything, claiming that organized schooling only relies on regurgitating information and not enough real-world application.

  Papa helps me learn so many skills I never imagined I’d master. I especially excel at handling a knife and hit my target nearly every time I practice.

  Time fast-forwards to my late teenage years. We settled in Tunisia, living off-grid, and he’d built a separate cabin for me, well-hidden in the forest bordering the property and his main home.

  Nowadays, I truly understand Papa’s reticence and paranoia over the years. Once I was old enough, he confessed his past over our morning coffee.

  “I was part of the Bolsevska Bratva for many years. My childhood friend, Mikhail, took the reins after working his way up the ranks. It’s unheard of, but the former leader had no one to hand it off to.”

  He trails off for a beat before resuming, tracing his finger along the rim of his coffee cup. “Mikhail and I, we had an understanding. Honor was critical. It played a key role in everything we did.” His lip curls up as if he’s just tasted something rancid. “If a man did not have honor, he had nothing.”

  Shocked into silence, I wait with bated breath for him to continue. My father used to be involved in the Bratva criminal organization?

  “When I met Irina, I knew she was it for me. But she wanted nothing to do with that part of my life. Wanted nothing to do with a man who had criminal ties.”

  He releases a sigh filled with regret and longing. “I loved her more than anything, but I was also grateful for her because she made me want to be a truly honorable man. Not a murderer. Not the second-in-command for the Bolsevska Bratva.”

  He takes a slow sip of coffee before continuing. “I went to Mikhail, knowing full well he could execute me right there for being so bold.” A rough laugh escapes him. “But my old
friend knew me well. He knew I had always served my time honorably. He released me and wished me well.”

  Though Papa’s tone is void of happiness, I can’t help but prod hopefully. “And then you married Irina?”

  His blue eyes rest on me. “Sadly, no. She couldn’t put her trust in the word of anyone involved with the Bratva. Which I understood.”

  My mouth parts in indignation because my papa is a good man, regardless of what he’s done in the past. Not a day has passed when I haven’t been grateful to him. He does everything he can to keep me safe and to teach me to be self-sufficient and resilient.

  Just like from day one, he is and will always be my hero.

  He places his hand over mine on the table. “I never expected you, but I sometimes wonder if there’s something to that thing called fate.” Blue eyes shine with affection, warming me through. “Because it was on my final job for Mikhail that you and I became a family.”

  He lets that settle in for a moment. Finally, I pose a question I’ve been pondering for years now. “Why did you choose me that day?” I’ve always wondered what made him offer an unknown child a future—a home.

  His features soften. “Your bravery called to me.” His eyes take on a faraway look, and I imagine he’s revisiting the moment he found me hiding with my mother’s body. “Someday, you will have that moment when you must decide whether to take the easy road or the hard one.

  “I knew it wouldn’t be easy, that you could end up in danger once again. But I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. To choose the easy road.” His tone grows fierce. “To leave you behind felt wrong.”

  My throat swells with emotion because that was both the worst and best day of my life. “I’m grateful you chose me.”

  “As am I. But I tell you this now not because I wanted to take a trip down memory lane.” Lips flattening into a thin, punishing line, he exhales slowly. “Mikhail’s son is not cut from the same cloth.”