by Rina Kent
“Why can’t you just leave?”
“You just answered your own question. I can’t just leave.”
My fist tightens in his shirt and the first tear falls on to his cheek. The vow I made to Mom to never cry in front of others, to never show weakness to any other human being starts crumbling right in front of me.
I can’t even stop the tears because I’ve been so brutalized in the course of one day. Not only was it the goodbye, it was also the unbearable depression that came with it.
And I guess I’m exhausted. I’m just too exhausted, and that allows me to freely admit that a large part of me is relieved
That relief burns.
Because even though he’s here, he has to leave so he can stay alive.
Kyle flips me so I’m lying underneath him, and I squeal, holding on to his shoulders. The sound slowly disappears when he slides his fingers under my eye, wiping the tears away.
“Why are you crying when I was the one beaten up?”
“You think I liked that? You think I enjoy seeing you like this? You asshole. Jerk—”
My words are cut off when his lips capture mine with raw hunger that confiscates my air. I taste metal from his cut lip, and I attempt to push away so I don’t aggravate it, but Kyle thrusts his tongue between my teeth and twirls it with mine as if he’s been starving for my taste.
The pungent smell of lust and something more potent permeates the air as he robs me not only of my breath, but also my sanity. He smashes every brick I carefully placed around my heart to the ground and walks all over it.
He nibbles down on my tongue, and the sharp sting of pain quickly heightens my arousal before his head pulls back. “You don’t fucking push me away.”
“You…don’t understand…” I’m panting so harshly it’s a miracle I manage to get those words out.
“I understand perfectly. It’s you who doesn’t. You’re my wife. My. Fucking. Wife. Do you understand what that word means? It means we belong together, not far apart.”
“But—”
“No fucking buts.” His fingers latch onto the corners of my underwear and he pulls them down my legs.
I could fight or push him away, but what’s the point when I’m burning for his touch? There has always been an explosive chemistry between Kyle and me. I denied it, tried to escape it, but the fact remains that it’s existed since the first time Dedushka introduced him to me. Back then, I thought he was only a conceited killer; I had no idea he’d invade my whole world in no time.
Maybe if I have, I would’ve acted differently and avoided being tangled up with him. But even as I think that, a small voice whispers that I wouldn’t have been able to change anything.
Kyle’s fingers tease my clit as he kisses my throat, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin before he sucks it into his mouth, no doubt leaving a mark. I wrap my arm around his back, clawing with every sharp bite of his. That only makes him pick up his pace until my whole body is stimulated to the point of no return.
“After this…you’ll leave,” I manage to murmur, not sure whether it’s directed at him or to reassure myself.
The sound of his zipper echoes in the silence of the bedroom and I drag in a breath, repeating, “You’ll leave…right?”
My voice catches when he thrusts balls-deep inside me. Even though I’m soaking wet, Kyle is big and the stretching is real. God, how could I forget the way he’s able to fill me until he’s the only thing that matters in the world?
He slides a hand underneath me and lifts me up so he’s sitting and I’m splayed all over his lap. Holy shit. If I thought he was filling me earlier, the depth right now is nothing like I’ve felt before.
I wrap my legs around his waist and dig my nails into his shoulders. I think I’m going to orgasm and he hasn’t even moved yet.
When he does move, every powerful stroke feels different, almost like he’s touching me for the first time. His thrusts leave the confinements of my body and hit something different inside, almost as if he’s fucking my soul.
“There will be no more goodbyes between us, Princess.” He speaks against my neck, his voice raspy, aroused, but also angry.
I pull back, still looping my arm around his nape, and stare at his face…his beautiful, ethereal face that’s now bruised and bloodied.
Kyle powers into me with the same depth, but his pace isn’t fast. Maybe he also wants to stare at me. Maybe, like me, he feels that our joined bodies are only a bridge for our battered souls.
My fingers stroke the skin of his cheek lightly to not hurt him. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what happened to you. No child should ever go through that.”
“I thought you were sorry for poisoning me.”
“You know I did what I had to do for the brotherhood.”
He wraps a hand around my throat and cages me firmly in place. “How about your fucking husband?”
“It’s because you’re my husband that I wanted you gone.” I strain against his hold, and before he can say anything else, I seal my lips to his. I kiss him slowly, tentatively, as if I have no clue how to kiss. Truth is, before him, I never took the time to learn. I hardly had interest in the other sex or sex in general, but he somehow became my deepest, darkest desire—the one I can’t survive without and the one who might also kill me at the same time.
Kyle’s rhythm picks up and he rams inside me with the urgency of a man who has nothing behind him or before him so he can only live in this moment. Our tongues and teeth clash together, and I keep tasting the metal of his blood, but if it hurts, he doesn’t pull away.
His urgency matches mine. I can taste the desperation in his kiss and feel the unbound obsession in each of his thrusts.
It doesn’t matter that I said goodbye or that this is only temporarily. At this moment, all I can do is get lost in him and pray there will be no way out.
His fingers tighten around my throat and I feel my walls clenching around his dick at the same time. He’s all over me, inside me, around me, and it’s impossible to escape his hold.
The piercing blue of his eyes captures mine as his touch leaves the confinement of my skin and shoots straight into my chest.
He said I poisoned him, but he’s the one who poisoned me. He’s the one who’s firing an arrow at my heart, and I have no way to stop it because he destroyed my fortress.
The orgasm hits me like a slow-burning explosive. I moan, shaking, as tears slide down my cheeks.
Kyle kisses them away as his abs tighten and he spills inside me. I’m tempted to close my eyes to soak in the sensation, but I don’t. I prefer watching him instead, even if his face isn’t the same as usual.
We’re both panting, his breaths mingling with mine, and a sheen of sweat covers our skin.
I lay my head on his shoulder, but I remain silent because the moment I speak, everything will end and I will have to return to the bleak reality where he really has to leave.
And this time, I don’t know if I can handle it.
13
Kyle
Rai is fast asleep, her lips parted slightly and her golden locks splayed all over the pillow.
I’ve spent the last hour watching her; the slight flutter of her thick lashes, the steady rise and fall of her chest under the blanket, and how peaceful she looks—safe almost. Her fair complexion appears bluish in the darkness, ethereal, and so fucking appetizing I want to take her all over again. But at the same time, I love how she drowns into me as she sleeps. How she wraps her hand around my torso and intertwines her legs with mine.
She’s so beautiful, it’s maddening.
My obsession with this woman runs deeper and darker than I originally calculated. The thought of putting distance between us felt like ripping my heart out from between my ribs.
I think it started when I first met her. When Nikolai introduced her to me with a gleam in his usually bland eyes, I wondered what could have made the merciless leader of the New York Brat
va so proud.
At the time, I thought she looked normal like all American-born Russians with her head held high and her eyes sparkling like she wanted to discover the world and all of its galaxies in one lifetime.
The only difference was that Rai didn’t seem like she only wanted to discover the world. Even at that age, she was set on conquering.
The part that stayed with me other than her expressive eyes was her smile. Unlike other spoiled mafia princesses, Rai was too mature for her age.
She might have been spoiled by Nikolai, but she always knew her place and strived to be more for the brotherhood.
Back then, I didn’t realize I was obsessed.
After I left Godfather and the others back in London, my aim was to stay by Nikolai’s side. Not having a place to belong to ate away at my soul, but I couldn’t stay just anywhere; I had to be where I could somehow plot my revenge. So I figured if he trusted me enough to protect his granddaughter, he would keep me around.
My plan worked, but I didn’t count on this woman getting under my skin.
The first time I noticed how much of an effect she had on me was after I left. That morning I woke up and didn’t have someone knocking on my door demanding that I teach them how to shoot or accompany them on a walk.
I went into withdrawal with its buried screams, its burning memories, and its silent breakdown.
And I remained in that fucking withdrawal for seven years. But it’s not withdrawal if it lasted that long; it’s an obsession. As soon as I returned, that obsession grabbed me by the throat like nothing ever had.
It’s different from the obsession pulsing under my skin that’s been demanding I avenge my parents’ death.
One is bloodlust with the need to hurt. The other is still some sort of lust, but it’s like a never-ending ache, the type that carved its place into the very marrow of my bones.
Stroking her hair behind her ear, I brush my lips to her forehead, lingering for a second too long so I can inhale her. Then I carefully untangle her from around me and stand up.
I slide my boxer briefs on and head to the bathroom. I hit the light switch and stand in front of the mirror.
My hands grip the marble counter as I stare at the galaxy of colors. Scarlet red, violet, bluish. That fucker Vlad made a painting out of my face—a chaotic one at that.
My eyes are swollen and the cut on my lip has dried blood all over it.
I should have probably taken care of it a bit more before I got here. Peter had a fright when he saw me. The kid shouldn’t have joined the Bratva at all.
Instead of thinking of mundane things like cleaning my face, the only thought in my mind was that I needed to see her before she completely erased me.
I have no doubt she would live a perfectly normal life without me. I’m the one who kept having withdrawals for seven fucking years.
Reaching into the cabinet, I retrieve the first aid kit so I can clean the wounds.
Vladimir, the fucker, should start picking his funeral song, because he’ll pay. Not only for hitting me, but for taking my wife away from me.
The condescending piece of shit always made it clear that I shouldn’t be with her. She’s a mafia princess and I’m a nobody, a killer who should remain in the shadows and only come out when he’s needed to take care of extracurricular activities.
He’s not wrong, but fuck him and everyone who thinks of me as a bloody shadow.
The padding of feet comes from behind me. I don’t turn around, not wanting her to know I feel her, even when she’s far away.
She already thinks I’m abnormal, and I cemented that fact by telling her about my bloody past.
I never divulged those memories to anyone except for Godfather. With her, the words tumbled out of my mouth so easily, as if I was always meant to tell her about it.
Rai stops behind me and tilts to the side so she can peek at me through the mirror.
Her brows furrow when she makes out the cotton filled with alcohol in my hand. “Does it hurt?”
“It looks worse than it is.”
She slips under my arm so she can stand between me and the counter. The only thing that covers her is a flimsy white gown that teases at her rosy areolas and hardened nipples.
Fuck me. She always looks like sin waiting to happen.
“You don’t have to be modest about it. I know Vlad’s punches hurt like hell.”
“My punch hurts worse.” My tone is flat. I’m being petty, but I don’t like that she thinks any other man is stronger than me.
“I’m sure it does.” She takes the cotton from my fingers and dabs it with some yellow liquid instead of alcohol.
Feeling the need to further prove myself, I say, “I was the best sniper in my group.”
“Your group?” she asks without taking her attention from the cotton.
“At The Pit, we were divided into groups of approximately ten. We trained together and basically lived in the same space.”
“Did you go on missions together?”
“No. We went in pairs of two. We usually had a permanent partner.”
“Did you?”
“Not really, but I guess I spent a long time with Celeste.”
Her movements pause and she stares up at me. “Celeste? That sounds like a girl’s name.”
I hide my internal smirk. “It is. She’s crazy but fun to have around.”
“Then why aren’t you with her?”
“Because I’m with you, Princess.” I try to kiss her, but she places a hand on my chest.
“You’re hurt. Stop it.”
“It’ll hurt less if I kiss you.”
“No,” she scolds, going back to dabbing the cotton, not meeting my gaze. “Was she a sniper, too? Celeste.”
I feign nonchalance. “She can be, but she’s not at my level. We had better chemistry on groundwork.”
She presses the cotton to my lip and I groan, but her expression remains neutral. “Glad you had chemistry.”
“Are you jealous, Mrs. Hunter?”
“I’m not Mrs. Hunter.”
“But you’re jealous.”
“Why would I be? Because of the chemistry?”
“Don’t worry. You and I have better chemistry.”
“Screw you.”
“Finish cleaning me up and I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Why don’t you hit up Celeste for that?”
“And have you jealous?” I attempt to pinch her cheek and she swats my hand away.
I chuckle, and it ends on a grunt when my cuts sting.
“Stay still.” Rai rises on her tiptoes so she can reach up. I grab her by the hips, lifting her, and she squeals as I plant her on the marble counter. I open her legs and settle between them so she’s eye level with me.
She looks so soft right now, tempting, edible, and everything in between. Cleaning my wounds becomes the worst idea possible when all I want to do is to lay her down and pound into her until she screams. Then I would bite that pink nipple through the transparent cloth and suck on it until she’s writhing in pleasure.
Rai aborts the image when she diligently cleans my face. She starts with my mouth then moves to my nose. Her fingers pause when she’s about to take care of the cuts near my eyes. “It might hurt a little.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Have you been hurt like this before?”
“Of course. Being shot makes this look like a child’s game.”
She strokes the pads of her fingers over the scar on my chest. “How did this happen?”
“That was because of Godfather—Ghost.”
“Was Ghost part of your group?”
“He trained us. Godfather is one of The Pit’s first generation. They’re called Team Zero and all have weird names. My group is considered part of the second generation.”
She continues to carefully clean my wound. “What’s the difference between the first and the second generation?”
“The first generation are now old men—and wom
en. We’re younger and prettier, I guess?”
She shakes her head. “Is that the only difference?”
“Well, that and the fact that they were drugged. Their loyalty was ensured by a special type of drug.”
“Is there a clear criterion on how to be in the first or second generation?”
“Not really, but the first generation lost most recollection of their previous lives. We didn’t.”
“That’s sad. Are there many of them?”
“Not really. About a dozen.”
“How do you differentiate between them and the second generation?”
“They all trained us so all second gen know them. Besides, they have weird names: Ghost, Crow, Shadow, Mist, Flame, Scar, Poison, and so on. It’s like a den of vipers. Needless to say, it’s not their real names, but even they don’t remember their actual names.”
“What about you?” Her eyes hold mine hostage, appearing darker in the late night. “Is Kyle your real name?
“It is. This is the name my mother gave me.”
“How about your last name? Is it Hunter?”
I could lie to her, but what’s the point? She already knows my plan, and I’m in no mood to keep her in the dark any longer. I slowly shake my head once.
“Then what is it?”
“Fitzpatrick. My real name is Kyle Fitzpatrick.”
She freezes, her hand remaining suspended in midair as the realization settles in.
“You…are you related to Rolan Fitzpatrick?”
“He’s my uncle.”
“You’re…”
“Irish? Yeah. Half, though. My mum was Northern Irish and she considered herself British.”
“Oh.”
“What type of ‘Oh’ is that?”
“It’s an ‘Oh, that’s what the accent change means’.”
“Accent change?”
“You sometimes speak in a different accent during sex.”
“I do?”
“You do.”
“Mmm. I didn’t notice that.”
“Do you slip into it subconsciously?”
“I guess. I shed it away a long time ago, but it keeps coming back.”
She gently strokes the cotton on my skin. “Why?”