by B. B. Hamel
But I loved my brother. And boy, was he fast. I hurried, almost tripped, but kept going. I was bundled up against the cold, but the sun was strong, so I was sweating. I wanted to strip off my outer layer, but it wasn’t worth carrying the stuff, and anyway, Papa would be pissed if he caught me.
And Papa wasn’t worth pissing off. Trust me.
“Ant!”
He was faster than me. Better at fishing, better at jumping and tying knots, better at languages.
I was better at math and shooting. I could hit a beer bottle from fifty yards with my eyes closed. He couldn’t hit a freaking barn if he wanted.
But he was my big brother and I loved him.
He reached the big rocks first. He always did. They were a bunch of huge freaking boulders right next to the lake. Papa said the lake was the remnant of a glacier or whatever, and the stones were from a glacier too. He said they were super old or whatever.
Not that it mattered.
I climbed up and sat next to Ant. We stared out at the halfway frozen lake. I pulled my knees to my chest, breath puffing out. “Think we’ll go home soon?”
Ant shrugged. “We usually do when it gets warm.”
“It’s kind of warm out now.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Papa’s got something waiting for us still.”
I shivered. He always had a new game. That was what he called it: games.
But they weren’t games.
It was training.
“Might be easy. We did some hard stuff already.” Ran miles and miles in the snow. Fought each other for hours until one of us walked away bloody. Hunted bears and nearly got mauled.
Worse stuff. Painful stuff. I don’t like to talk about that stuff.
“It’s never easy with Papa. Sooner you accept that, the better.” Ant stared ahead, those ice-blue eyes with flecks of green. I wished I could be as smart as him one day.
A whistle pierced the quiet. My father’s whistle. His fingers in his mouth.
Ant sighed. “See, we shouldn’t talk about him. I swear, he can hear it.”
“Maybe we can wait. We can hide for a while. He might like it.”
“He’ll catch us and it’ll be worse.”
“He showed us—“
Ant put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
I sighed and forced myself to smile. “Yeah. I’m just joking.”
“Good one.” He grinned at me and hopped down off the rocks.
We walked back toward the cabin together. Papa stood down next to the lake wearing his big black jacket and smoking a pipe. The smoke curled around his head like a halo.
I slowed. Ant took the lead. He always did. Papa looked unhappy, his face drawn and serious. Ant never hesitated, even when Papa was pissed. Sometimes, I ran away, or tried to hide, or begged Papa not to hurt me, but Ant never did.
Ant stayed quiet. He said Papa hit harder when Ant tried to argue. He said it was better for both of us.
I wished I could be that brave.
“Boys.” Papa’s voice was the sound of that glacier, the one that dropped those rocks back there. Big and booming and real old.
“Papa.” Ant crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got a game.” Papa’s eyes narrowed. “Take off your coat, Anthony.”
Ant didn’t pause. He stripped it off, tossed it aside.
I wanted to throw up. I hated these games. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he’d make us wrestle and fight again. Ant always beat me—he was bigger and stronger and stuff—but he felt bad about it after. He couldn’t go easy, or else Papa would hurt us both, so he always went hard.
But he said sorry. I loved him so much for that.
“Walk out onto the ice.” Papa gestured at the half-frozen lake.
For once, Ant didn’t leap at his command. “You told us never to go out there when the thaw comes. You said it’s not thick enough.”
“It’s not.” Papa nodded as if he was happy Ant questioned him. “You remember what I taught you? About how to survive if the ice breaks?”
Ant looked wary. I felt scared.
“I remember,” Ant said.
I didn’t.
“Then walk out onto the ice, and when it breaks, I want you to show me.”
Ant stepped toward the lake and stared out at the white and gray expanse.
Papa always had games. Violent games, fun games. Sometimes we liked them and sometimes we ended up hurt. Mostly, we ended up hurt.
We never questioned it. But Ant seemed scared, way worse than usual.
That made me want to run and hide even more.
“Go on,” Papa said. “When you come back, we can go home, and you won’t ever have to come out here again.”
Ant looked back, eyes wide. “Really?”
“You’ve learned all you need.” Papa looked at me. “You have one more year, and then it’ll be your turn.”
I nodded, feeling gloomy. Another year without Ant? Gosh, what a freaking nightmare.
Ant looked happy though. It was a scary thing Papa wanted him to do, but this was the last game. Get through it and we go home.
He walked out onto the ice.
It cracked underfoot, but didn’t break. We knew how to walk real light and to stick to the thicker bits. Ant was good at it, and since he was still just a kid, he didn’t weigh all that much. He moved further and further out. Papa watched until Ant was like fifty feet away.
“That’s enough,” Papa said.
Ant stopped moving, turned to look back.
“Now I want you to jump.”
Ant hesitated.
“Papa,” I said. “The ice’ll break.”
He didn’t look at me. Only stared out at Ant. “Jump,” he said louder.
Ant jumped.
The ice cracked. For one second, Ant stood there, unmoving.
Then it snapped and he fell into the frigid water.
“Papa,” I said.
Ant panicked. He splashed, gasping for breath. That water was nearly frozen and must’ve felt horrible soaking through his clothes. He scrambled for a grip but his fingers kept slipping. He grunted, sputtered water, threw his hands out. He fought to get control but the ice was too slick, and he kept dunking back under, frothing and foaming.
Papa didn’t move, only watched.
“Papa!” I ran down to the lake edge. “We have to help him.”
“Don’t move.” Papa’s voice felt like a kick to my throat.
“Papa,” I said, tears rolling down my cheeks.
Ant shouted something. He flailed, trying to get onto the ice. Papa taught us how to do it right, but I couldn’t remember anymore. Something about keeping calm, shimmying out flat on your belly, spreading out your weight.
Ant wasn’t calm. He was flipping out. He splashed and kicked and slammed his hands against the snowy, slick lip of the hole and tried to get out, but couldn’t.
“Please,” I moaned. “Papa, we have to help him.”
“If he can’t survive this, he can’t survive what’s coming next.” Papa’s jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t move. The pipe smoldered between his teeth.
Ant screamed again. I couldn’t make out what he said. I stepped toward the ice, ready to run after him. Papa could go to hell. I’d let him whip me bloody, I didn’t care, so long as my big brother came out of that lake alive.
But Papa grabbed me and held me back.
I struggled and fought. I screamed for my brother, louder and louder.
Ant flailed less. He tried to slip out, like he remembered how do it finally. But he was exhausted, and he kept getting half way before he slipped or the ice broke again. His lips were blue, his face so white and scared.
Papa’s hands were iron.
“Come on, boy,” he whispered. “Get out of there, Anthony.”
That was the last time I ever heard my father say my brother’s name.
Ant tried. He got half way, his chest out,
his arms spread, but the ice broke again. He plunged down and I groaned as if stabbed in the guts. Hot tears flooded my cheeks. I screamed and struggled but Papa wouldn’t let me go.
I wanted to die with my brother.
Ant came up only one more time. He reached for the lip, desperate. Almost clawed his way out. That lasted another few minutes, but he couldn’t get a grip, and he was slowing. It must’ve been so cold, so freaking cold.
Then he sank down, and the day was quiet.
Except for my screaming.
Papa stayed there holding me back for a long time until I puked from all the yelling and sobbing, and then he carried me back into the cabin.
We never talked about Anthony again after that.
31
Cassie
I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
The monstrosity. The horror.
Roman stared at his hands, his face twisted with emotion three decades old.
“He brought me back to that cabin the next year. We did the same sort of training, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. When spring came, he walked me out on the ice, and when he told me to jump, I jumped. The water was so cold and all my breath rushed out of me. I thought about slipping under to be with Ant, just to spite my father. He could lose both of his boys. He’d deserve it. But I knew Ant wouldn’t want that for me, so I did what my father wanted, and I survived.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out again.
“I’m so sorry.” I touched his leg, leaned my lips against his shoulder. Words weren’t enough.
“I hate my father. I’ve always hated my father. But I was supposed to be the one to kill him, and Oisin took that from me. Now I’m going to kill Oisin for his crime, and everyone in this world will know that I’m made of.” He looked at me, cold and hot all at once. “Ice and death.”
I kissed his lips. He kissed me back with a shocking passion, his fingers tugging at my hair. His forehead leaned against mine and he held me there, his hand curled against the nape of my neck.
“You never should’ve gone through that. I can’t imagine what kind of father could watch his son drown.”
“Now you know why I am the way I am.”
“I’m so sorry. God, Roman, I’m so sorry. You were just little boys.”
“He wanted us to be strong. The life of an Oligarch isn’t easy. In some ways, he was right to prepare us the way he did—but he was wrong to let Anthony die. I think he knew it too. He was never the same after that. I think it gnawed at him, ate at him, and he wasted away to a ghost of himself in his later years. And still, I hate him so much, and I wish my brother was alive.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I hugged him tight, kissed his lips, his chin, his hands, his neck. He held me back and breathed in my hair, not crying, not losing himself, but sitting with a deep, black, dark melancholy that I didn’t think I’d ever quite understand.
He tilted my chin back and looked into my eyes.
“Talking about it helps,” he said softly. “I didn’t expect it would. I haven’t told that story in a very long time. But it does help.”
“I’m glad. I want to be here for you.”
“And you already are, my pretty little wife.” He bit my lower lip.
I trembled for him.
His hands ran over my body. He kissed me deeper, my mouth opening, his tongue rolling against mine. His arms were hot, the passion and heat radiating off him in waves as he pinned me against his brother’s bed. His lips traveled to my neck as he held my wrists up above my head. “Roman,” I whispered, and he groaned in response, hurried unbuttoning my jeans, tugging them off. “Please, Roman.”
He bit my lip hard. I bit him back, groaning, as his fingers slid down beneath my panties.
I wiggled my hips. I was wet, and it was wrong. I shouldn’t be wet right now, not after he told me a story like that, not after he relived the worst trauma of his life. I should’ve screamed or cried or did anything else, but after he was finished and he touched me and looked at me like he needed me so badly, I couldn’t help myself, and now—
God, now, he unbuttoned his own jeans and wriggled out of them. He was hard, massive and thick and made from granite. He pressed himself against me and I opened my legs, only his briefs and my panties separating our sensitive flesh as I ground my hips against him.
His touches were furtive, needy, intense. His lips were steaming and delicious. When he pulled my panties off, ripping them away like paper, I threw back my head in bliss. He took off his boxer briefs and pressed the tip of his throbbing, perfect cock against my dripping entrance—
And slid so deep I felt him press against my cervix.
Again, and again, he thrust hard, killing me to the literal brim, and my back arched, and I screamed his name.
“You’ll be my perfect little wife,” he said, fucking me faster, eyes lost in the moment, in pure passion and bliss. Pleasure rolled around me like a hurricane, and I was lost, so lost, as he filled me again and again, my cunt dripping and spread wide. “You’ll do as I say. You’ll be all mine, for as long as I want to keep you. Say you want to be my wife.”
“I want to be your wife.”
“Say it again.”
“I want to be yours, Roman. I want to be all yours.”
“Your cunt, lips, breasts. Even your scar. I want it all, Cassie.” He fucked me faster, pumping roughly, merciless, the twin bed shaking, creaking. I writhed my hips against him, my swollen clit rubbing against his muscular belly. “I’ve given you everything and now I want to claim what’s mine from you. I want you to come for me Cassie, and I want to fill you up. My wife, my little fucking wife, god I need this.”
He moved faster, faster, and I gasped, finger digging into the headboard, and he looked handsome and perfected as I spread my legs wide and took him as deep as he would go, one intense and gorgeous thrust after the other, making me shake, making me moan, until I felt it peak, and peak, and peak, and I came in a cascade of incredible muscle-spasms and screams, and he kept going, fucking me through my orgasm, the haze leaving me nearly blinded, nearly passed out, and I felt him fill me moments later, his orgasm mingling with mine, bliss and bliss and bliss, and he collapsed to the side and wrapped his massive arms around my body and pulled me tight against him.
We stayed like that for a while, breathing deep.
“I didn’t expect that,” he said after what might’ve been a lifetime.
“Yeah? You don’t sleep with girls in your dead brother’s bed very often?” As soon as the words were out, I wished I hadn’t said them.
But he laughed. “No, not often. You’re the first.”
I rolled over to face him. I touched his cheek, kissed his lips. “Thank you for showing this to me and for telling me about your brother.” I leaned forward, bit his ear. “Will you tell me happy memories about him one day?”
“I would love that.”
I nodded and curled up against his chest, and let him hold me for as long as he wanted.
32
Roman
From the outside, the club was unassuming. Plain black door tucked away in a quiet Manhattan neighborhood. Enormous towers loomed on either side of the old Victorian-style building. All the windows were boarded and painted over, and most folks walked right past without giving it a second look. New York was full of strange, run-down oddities. Just another useless structure, slated for renovation.
I knocked on the front three times before it opened. The doorman was a heavyset man with a permanent scowl. “Are they all here?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, Mr. Lenkov. You’re the last one.”
“Good.” I gestured for Roza and Cassie to follow.
They wouldn’t like that I brought the girls, but this wasn’t entirely for their benefit.
I needed Roza. She was my eyes and my ears, and an integral part of my business. I never went to a meeting without either her or Erick by my side.
Since we said no bodyguards and no guns, Erick was stuck watch
ing the exterior with a sniper rifle. Not that it would do much good if things went wrong.
And Cassie?
Well, I wanted t show her off. And she needed to learn.
The entryway was pure luxury. Gorgeous hardwood floors polished to a gleam and more art than the damn Guggenheim. The doorman led us past several partially open doors, beyond which men were entertained by very expensive and very skilled women, and though I knew there were strange and depraved things going on, not a single sound escaped. Whoever built this place made sure it was perfectly insulated.
Otherwise, all that moaning, screaming, and begging for mercy would ruin the whole vibe.
The doormen took us to the last door on the left and pushed it open. Inside looked like a wealthy sitting room. Couches and chairs were arranged around a low, modest coffee table and set before a gently crackling fire. At the far end, a bartender in all black was ready to pour drinks.
Three men sat dripping with women. Attractive women, skilled woman, women wearing very little clothes. I felt Roza tense up as we entered.
“Roman, there you fucking are.” Torin O’Rourke stood, hands raised in a greeting. He grinned, flashing his perfect white teeth and his boyish smile. Torin was the heir to the massive O’Rourke family treasury. Rumor said they made their money selling weapons in the 16th century, but whether that was true or not didn’t matter anymore. They were richer than the Catholic Church and much, much more dangerous.
The other two men were Bernhard Orchard and Kaspar Baskin. Old Bern didn’t bother standing—he was pushing eighty and probably wouldn’t be able to get back down. Kaspar gave me a tight nod and raised his whisky in salute as a dark-skinned beauty ground her ass down against his crotch. He barely paid her any attention as she did things with her hips most humans could only dream about. His dirty-blond hair was slicked back and he looked like a Nordic prince—muscular chest and shoulders with striking, severe features.
“You made us wait, Lenkov,” Old Bern said, barking with that smoker’s growl.
“And you brought girls.” Kaspar scowled and slapped his lap dancer’s ass. “Get off me, will you? I appreciate the effort though.”