Reap

by Tillie Cole

  He held my hand, unmoving, against his cheek. When he did draw it back, he took four of my fingers and began running them down his cheek. He repeated the motion over and over, my fingertips grazing against his unshaven skin. His eyes seemed to plead with mine, but for what?

  The desperate look on his face was so earnest and forlorn that I had to fight for breath. It was at that moment I saw the man before me. Not the Jakhua killer, not the forbidden Kostava heir, but the residual spirit of the man he was without the poison of the drugs. Somehow it shone through, even though he appeared nothing more than a freak, a monster created at the sadistic hands of a bitter, twisted tyrant.

  Zaal jerked on my arm again, recalling my attention to him. His head bowed like he was urging me to understand him. I wanted so badly to know what he meant.

  I wanted him to talk. Christ, did I want him to speak.

  Then I wondered for a moment if he could talk. Lord knows what Levan Jakhua had done to Zaal’s body over the years. My stomach sank. Maybe he had ruined Zaal’s ability to speak. Maybe he had taken his voice away.

  Zaal began moving my fingers down his cheek again, across his forehead and along the other side of his face and I refocused on this strange action.

  His eyes then darted to the bowl. And it dawned on me. I understood what Zaal wanted. He wanted me to clean his face.

  “Your face?” I asked. He stilled on hearing me speak. “You want me to bathe your face?”

  His beautiful, hopeless eyes closed for a fraction of a moment. He was saying “yes.”

  Wiping a stray tear that had escaped the corner of my eye, I withdrew my hand and moved to the bowl. I reached in the bag I’d brought down and retrieved a small facecloth. Seeing a bottle of water behind Zaal, I used the remnants of the water to dampen the cloth, adding soap. Zaal watched me the entire time. His previously stern eyes had softened. And the almost-kind look in his eyes, set against the raw, intimidating features of his face staggered me.

  I inched closer to the position I was in before. And I noticed something for the first time. Zaal’s chest rapidly rose and fell the closer I got to him. I was bringing something out in him. He was affected by me, and I couldn’t believe just how much I was affected by him.

  Taking the cloth, I pressed it against his cheek. Leaning in, I felt his warm breath ghost over my face. I saw the veins in his neck stand out with every soft stroke I made. And this close, with the removal of the weeks’ worth of dirt and grime on his face, certain features came to light. His skin was smooth, his lashes so dark; it was almost as if kohl liner had been applied to his upper eyelid. The effect of it framed his jade eyes perfectly. Jade eyes that never once moved from mine. Jade eyes that on closer inspection, completely stole my soul. The color was breathtaking, his irises pure bright green, no flecks of brown, just the cleanest and most beautiful of colors, heightened by his dark Georgian features.

  But what held me captive, what stirred something inside me was something quite inconsequential. Three small beauty marks, three delicate moles lying just to the side of his left eye. They made him appear human, not the animal, the fierce wild monster he’d been conditioned to be. These three moles promised me that here sat a person. Underneath the scars, the muscles, and the tattoos was a hurt and lost man.

  I washed Zaal’s face. Even when it was clean, I didn’t want to stop touching his face. I didn’t want to stop running my hands over his high cheekbones, along his broad forehead, and across his strong jaw. It was apparent he craved my touch as much as I loved to touch him. When I moved to withdraw my hand, Zaal lifted his hand and placed it over mine.

  My palm was flat to his cheek.

  We breathed in unison.

  There were no words, no sounds, just my skin connecting with his.

  Before long, Zaal’s eyes closed. By the shallow breaths he was taking, I knew it wouldn’t be long before he fell to sleep. His body was exhausted, the result of dispelling whatever hard drug was flowing through his veins.

  Yet his hand didn’t move off mine. Zaal’s head was angled just so, as though he was leaning into my touch.

  My heart skipped several beats. I couldn’t take the feelings coursing through my body. I couldn’t take what being in Zaal’s presence was making me feel. Like something I had to keep at bay was clawing its way to the surface.

  Once I was assured he slept, I gently removed my hand from his face. A sudden wash of emptiness flowed through me. Lifting the washcloth, I slipped it back into the bag. I then pulled his sweatpants up as far as I could manage.

  Zaal didn’t stir.

  As I moved away, I stared down at the remaining heir to the Kostava clan. Any hate I’d harbored had disappeared.

  Confused, and more than disturbed at the events of today, I picked up the bowl and my bag, and walked to the stairs. I tried not to look back, but my heart physically ached at the thought of leaving him down here in this hell of a basement alone, no light to comfort him, no me to press my palm to his cheek and help him relax.

  Unable to stop the pang of guilt ripping through my chest, I forced myself to reach the top of the stairs and open the door. I raced to the bathroom, deposited the dirty water, and moved to the kitchen to lock away the key. But as I walked into the room, Savin and Ilya were both staring at me, both wearing the same look of disappointment on their faces. I glanced down to the cut surveillance monitor beside them, the screen now filled with nothing but white noise. I shook my head at their anger.

  Ilya moved forward as if to speak, but I held up my hand. “Don’t,” I ordered with a hard voice. “I’m going to my room.”

  Turning on my heel, I ran up the stairs and into my bedroom. In seconds I was in the shower, my mind drowning me in the memories of what had just happened.

  I pictured Zaal’s eyes softening as I cleansed him. His hand moving my fingers against my face, silently begging me to wash his face. And then him falling to sleep as he pressed my palm to his cheek; drifting off to sleep fully trusting me, a stranger.

  I ran my hands down my cheeks. I felt torn. Because I felt. I felt something for him, my enemy. Heat coursed through my body as I remembered stroking him, remembered his hand guiding me to make him come, his stuttered breathing, and the look of pure pleasure that spread across his face as he released on his stomach.

  Unable to fight back a moan at the memory, my hand slipped down my soapy body to where I needed it the most. My fingers ran across my clit and I cried out at how badly I needed release, too. The memory alone of his grunts and rumbled growls brought me to the edge. My back braced against the wall as I circled my fingers faster and faster, long moans slipping from my mouth. Then when I imagined him staring in my eyes as his jaw clenched, he roared and came, white streams of his cum in contrast with the olive tone of his stomach. I cried out as pure pleasure ripped through me. My body curled inward at the force of how strong I came, gasping for breath in the aftermath.

  Standing under the heavy spray of the water, I washed away the wetness that was coating my inner thighs. I jumped out, toweling myself off.

  As I lay on my bed, a wave of shame took hold. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling like I was betraying my own blood. What would my father say if he knew what I’d just done with the enemy?

  But no matter how hard I despaired, I couldn’t seem to regret Zaal.

  I wanted him.

  But I knew I couldn’t go down there again. I owed it to my family.

  In ten minutes I’d dried my hair and crawled into my bed. I just wanted to curl up and forget it all for a while.

  As soon as I pressed my cheek against my palm searching for sleep, the memory of Zaal doing the same stirred a need in my body, a need for him.

  Lifting my hand to my laptop on the dresser, I pulled it open to find my guards had reattached the surveillance feed. I fell into a fitful sleep watching a now-clean Zaal sleeping deeply.

  His usually pain-riddled face now expressed nothing but peace.

  Chapter Eight

 
Talia

  I didn’t leave my bedroom all day. In fact, I never even left my bed. I’d forced myself to stay away from the basement. I’d forced my self to stay locked the fuck away, period. I’d forced myself to fight my instinct to run to Zaal.

  I’d tossed and turned all last night, memories of my babushka plaguing my dreams, filling me with guilt. Memories of her stroking my hair as I fell asleep as a child, telling me about how she met her true love …

  “I was only a child really, Talia. But one look at your grandfather and I knew. I knew he was my soul’s other half.”

  “You did?” I whispered in awe.

  Babushka smiled. “I did. It was his eyes. He had the kindest of brown eyes.” Babushka huffed a laugh. “Of course, I knew who he was. He was a Tolstoi, every Russian knew the Volkov Bratva, but I remember seeing those eyes and knowing that as violent as his life was, he was not.” I watched as Babushka’s eyes filled with water and my stomach sank. She missed my grandfather so much. I could see the racking pain in her eyes.

  “Babushka?” I whispered and she pulled me closer into her side.

  “Your dedushka was my life, Talia,” she said in a sad voice, “And one day, a man will enter your life and you will know, without a doubt, that he is yours. I can’t explain it, but something will snap within you and from that day forth, you’ll be his and he’ll be yours.”

  I smiled against my babushka’s chest, and echoed, “I’ll be his and he’ll be mine.”

  “A good Russian boy. A man from our way of life. A man your papa will approve of, will welcome into the Bratva to stand but his side. A man your family will be proud to have as their son.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said excitedly, and closed my eyes, trying to imagine what my true love would be like. I smiled further just picturing my father shaking my love’s hand, with a proud and happy smile on his face, my heart full with the knowledge that I’d chosen my true love well …

  I blinked fast, trying to chase the tears from my eyes. Trying to swallow back the nausea creeping up my throat. But Babushka’s words stabbed at my brain. I can’t explain it, but something will snap within you and you’ll be his and he’ll be yours. My heart beat at a furious rate as Zaal’s face flashed in my mind and, at that one simple thought, my heart swelled and filled with warmth.

  Something within me had snapped.

  The minute my hand had touched Zaal’s skin, and those jade eyes had seared mine, I knew something within me had fundamentally changed.

  Sighing in shame, I gripped the comforter in my hands and fought back my tears.

  Why him? Anybody but fucking him!

  You can’t do this, Talia. You can’t have him. You can’t want him like this! I scolded myself as I jumped from my bed, unable to sit in this goddamn room any longer, hiding, shying away from the overwhelming pull to the man in the basement. I showered and dressed, all the time replaying last night’s dream in my head. I thought of Babushka and guilt took its firm hold. She would be so ashamed of me. Me! Her favorite. I knew I was letting her down. And I couldn’t fucking bear letting her down.

  Running down the stairs, I reached the kitchen, brushing my hair back from my face in nervous frustration. My hands were trembling and my legs had the consistency of Jell-O as I drank in the darkening sky outside the large-framed windows.

  Just breathe, I told myself. Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and breathe.

  I sucked in a breath. I closed my eyes. But all I saw when my eyelids drifted shut was him. His large olive-skinned body, his long black hair, and those green eyes. Those soulful green eyes that would fix on me as though he could read my mind, speak directly to my soul.

  Shivers broke out along my skin at the mere memory of his taut body, at the sight of those three beauty spots beside his left eye that had me transfixed.

  Snapping my eyes back open, my hand drifted to my precious, treasured necklace and I felt my eyes sting with betrayal once more.

  I had to forget about him.

  He wasn’t mine to have. He couldn’t be.

  It was a stupid naive obsession.

  The whip of the winter wind thrashed against the house windows’ glass as I stood motionless in the center of the vast kitchen. It howled and whistled and my hands curled into fists, only to slam down on the granite top island with my anger bubbling up inside.

  I breathed hard, ignoring the throbbing of my now-injured hand, trying to rid my attraction to the damn man out of my mind. But the more I tried to expel the vision of him in my head, the more prominent his features became, every inch of him in perfect, infallible detail in my mind.

  Whipping around, I searched the room for a distraction, my muscles jerking like a drug addict trying to avoid their next fix. My head told me to not go down and see him again, to not give in. My head told me to not go to the security room and check in on him on the basement’s surveillance feed.

  But my heart propelled me forward, and with a careless abandon I found myself in the byki’s small security office staring eagerly at the main screen.

  I stayed that way for a while; staring, trying to avoid the inevitable craving I knew I was going to cave into viewing.

  Because I was obsessed.

  I was obsessed with 221, and could no longer lie to myself that it was just intrigue, that it was simply a harmless bit of self-indulgent interest. It was more. I knew it was more.

  I fucking hated myself for the fact that it was more.

  Slowly reaching out, my index finger found the On button for the feed and the large screen came to life. And there he was, lying on the black rubber floor, wrapped in chains and static in motion.

  As soon as my eyes found his slumped, broken frame, my heart raced in my chest and my lungs seemed to squeeze at the sight. My skin grew hot, and an ache formed between my legs. I wanted to touch him again. I wanted to hold him in my arms.

  I stood there like a statue glued to the ground for what could have been hours, and as the minutes ticked by, the gold necklace around my throat suddenly felt like an open flame brandishing my skin. It was burning me, burning me with guilt.

  And just like that, I knew I had to get away from this place. I needed distance. I needed to clear my mind. I needed to pull myself together, get away from the temptation.

  Shit. I needed a Goddamn drink. Or two.

  Seeing my byki, Ilya and Savin patrolling on the far west of the property’s extensive grounds, I knew it was my chance to get away alone.

  Without hesitation, I ran to the kitchen closet that held the car keys and took the nearest set I could find: the Mercedes. Running toward the front door, I slammed my hand on the button that opened the electric security gate and, grabbing my purse, burst out of the front door and beelined for the Merc.

  In seconds I was at the blacked-out C-Class 250 and, with a lead foot on the gas pedal, roared out of my family’s isolated Hamptons mansion, quickly hitting the open road. Destination: Brooklyn.

  As the miles passed by, the trees a blurring stream of brown, a dull ache set in my chest.

  I needed this, needed to breathe the Brooklyn air. And I needed my best friend. Keeping my eyes on the dark country road, I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell. In seconds I’d found her name and the call connected.

  “Hey, girl!” Kisa’s soothing voice greeted. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Kisa,” I said anxiously, “can you meet me for a drink in a couple of hours?”

  Kisa paused then asked, “Tal, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “I’m driving back to Brooklyn. I … I just need to get back for a while, is all.”

  More silence. Then, “Talia, you’re worrying me. Why are you coming back so soon? Has something happened?”

  I sucked in a breath, and explained, “Kisa. I need to talk to someone. I’m going insane. And I’d really like a long fucking drink of vodka to accompany that chat. So? Can you meet me?”

  “I’m at the Dungeon, Tal. I’ll be here awhile more.”


  My heart fell, but I exhaled a relieved sigh when my best friend offered, “How about we meet at Brighton Beach for a walk? It’s close to the Dungeon, I can get away easier.”

  I rolled my eyes at Kisa’s alternative plan, but couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up my throat. “You never were one for the bars, were you, dorogaya moya? Always been the good girl,” I teased.

  Kisa laughed in return, clearly easing her worry for me. “And you’ve always had to be the rebel, haven’t you, Tal?”

  My laugh turned into a guilty cough. Kisa was right. I’d never walked the “good old Bratva” woman’s line. My father had given up trying to keep me in check. I was his little girl and could wrap him around my little finger. But this, what I was doing with 221? I knew he’d never forgive that.

  “Tal? Do you want to meet at the beach?” Kisa asked, breaking my inner self-chastisement.

  “Yeah, we can meet at the friggin’ beach,” I agreed, “but, Kisa?”

  “What?”

  “Make sure you pick up a bottle of Grey Goose and bring it with you, okay?”

  “Tal—”

  “Don’t worry, Sandra Dee,” I interrupted. “I’m not going to make you drink. That liter of Russian perfection is all mine.”

  Kisa’s light laugh filtered through the car, instantly making me feel better. “Tal?” Kisa said as her humor faded to silence. “Drive safe. I’m worried about you, girl. You don’t sound right.”

  With a steady voice, I assured, “Don’t worry about me, Kisa. I’m good, as always. Nothing ever fazes me for long. Whatever this is, I’ll get over it.”

  My unyielding grip on the steering wheel told an entirely different story.

  * * *

  By the time I hit Brighton Beach night had fallen, bringing a blanket of darkness. As I drove slowly through my hometown, past the gloomy abandoned streets, past the boarded up stores and bankrupt restaurants, the rundown shell of houses and the homeless people huddled on the floor, I shook my head.

  It was like another world out here. If you were a part of the Bratva, if you were Russian, Brighton Beach was a haven. No cops interfering with business, hoards of loyal people from the motherland, sharing culture and wealth. But if you were any other nationality, you were forgotten, a piece of nothing to the Mafia that controlled the dingy streets.