by LP Lovell
“Go with her, Sasha.” Nicholai hands me the key to her cell. “I want to trust you, little dove, but I will be watching. Always.” He strokes my cheek and my body locks up, the urge to kill him roaring through my head like a drum beat. It’s worse than ever before. The thought of human touch makes me feel sick now. Bloodlust pumps through my veins like pure adrenaline. I have to fight with every last shred of my restraint not to lash out.
He smiles and drops his hand, signaling us to go. Sasha walks beside me, and we wind down corridors until we come to the elevator. I can feel Sasha’s eyes on my face as we descend, but I refuse to acknowledge him. I remain cool and calm, distanced. It’s just a finger.
When we’re outside her cell, I expect to feel something, a hint of anticipation or fear, but I don’t. I feel nothing. The door opens and I see her huddled in the corner of her bed. Dirty blonde hair hangs in her face. A plain gray hoody and tracksuit bottoms seem to make her look paler, more sickly. Of course, this is the first time I’ve actually met Anna face to face since we were children. Those deep blue eyes slowly meet mine, and I see the slightest spark of hope in them. For a second, I am that thirteen-year old girl, clinging desperately to my eight-year old sister as they try and drag me away from her. I see the tears tracking down her little pink cheeks and it jolts me for a moment. But I force all those thoughts and feelings back. Right here, right now, she is nothing to me.
“Hold her down,” I say.
Sasha goes over to her and pushes her down on the bed. “Una?” her voice is small and broken. I take the knife from my thigh holster and grab her wrist, forcing her palm flat against the thin mattress. “Una, please,” she whispers, tears now pouring down her face.
“Lie still. This will be over soon,” Sasha tells her.
I steel myself and bring the razor-sharp blade down on her finger quickly. The blade bites through bone and she screams. Blood soaks into the mattress beneath her, and I grab the blanket, wadding it up and pressing it against the wound.
“Hold this,” I instruct her. She clutches it with a shaking hand as hysterical tears pour down her cheeks. I pick up the finger and walk out of the room, unable to look at her. “Get someone to stitch that,” I say to Sasha.
I stand to one side of Nicholai and Sasha stands on the other. Across from us, Rafael is flanked by two of his own men. The snow is melting now, and a layer of slush covers everything. We’re on the roof of an abandoned parking deck, and everything around us is bleak and gray, reminiscent of the Russian winter.
Rafael’s eyes meet mine and I stare back at him, giving away absolutely nothing. His expression becomes pinched and his shoulders hunch with tension before he glances back at Nicholai. “I offer you reasonable terms, but I want proof of life.”
Nicholai throws his head back on a laugh. “You are demanding for a nobody,” he says arrogantly. Rafael is a powerful cartel boss, but Nicholai thinks himself a god surrounded by his Elite. “Here.” He reaches into his pocket and throws something to Rafael. A plastic Ziploc bag, and in it, is Anna’s finger.
The Mexican’s dark brows pull into a frown as he stares at the plastic bag in his hand. “Is this a joke?”
“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 places his palm to his chest. “Una cut it off herself.”
Rafael’s gaze swings to mine. “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. 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,” Rafael snarls.
“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, his expression otherwise shuttering 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. That’s weird. Frowning, I 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, then lower it 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 breath that I feel like I’ve been holding for months. 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’s thinner, harder with absolutely no evidence that she ever carried the baby in her arms.
“Hello, Nero.” She clutches Dante tight to her chest, one hand resting lightly over the back of his head. Her eyes flick from my face to the gun, 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. She moves over to the crib and gently lays Dante down. Her fingers grip the edge of the crib and her head drops forward. “I was sent 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?”
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." And fuck if that doesn’t kill me a little bit. What the hell did he do to her?
“Come.” I jerk my he
ad 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, and it’s almost like watching a junkie on a come down.
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.
I linger in the middle of my room, fighting the urge to go to her. “Talk to me.”
She goes to the window and stares down 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 brush 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, eyes wild in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s like she’s not even here.
“Morte.”
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?
“Morte, 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 war, and the only way to get past her defenses was to fight her. Maybe we just need to go back to square one.
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 way 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 head against her forearm. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“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 clings to me, her body softening under my touch. Nicholai will never 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, a 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 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, brows pulling together in a small frown. “I’m sorry.” 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’s right there with me, enraptured by every second. 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 on a moan, and I swipe my tongue up the column of her exposed throat. Her body bows towards me, hips rolling with every thrust. She feels like 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 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.
The slightest noise comes 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, walking over 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 fraye
d 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.
We go downstairs and I 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, but I have no idea what to do with it. 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.”
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.”