The Monster

by Shen, L. J.

  “But I’m sending you with a message and a souvenir. The message is as follows: tell Vasily that I am going to have his head on a plate if he as much as tries to breathe in my direction again. Last time, I cut his face. Next time, I am going to decapitate him completely.”

  The teenager nodded almost violently.

  “W-w-what’s the souvenir?” He peeked at Sam through one eye, the other one squeezed shut in fear.

  Sam smirked crookedly.

  “This one is something to remember me by. A farewell. A reminder. A warning. Are you left or right-handed?”

  The kid didn’t try to beg for remorse. He bent his head obediently.

  “Right-handed.”

  Sam fired a shot, the bullet grazing the teenager’s right arm, going straight through his nerve system.

  “Here. This’ll ensure you’ll be a crappy aim for the rest of your life and choose a different occupation. In case you’re thinking of finishing your daddy’s job …” Sam chuckled.

  Blood pooled beneath the young man, but he didn’t make a move to press a hand to his wound.

  “Thank you for sparing my life, sir.”

  Sam hoisted me over his shoulder, blood still trickling down his arm, and led me to his car. His blood ran the length of my thigh, and I shivered with unexpected desire.

  I felt protected and wanted to protect him, and if that wasn’t majorly screwed-up, I didn’t know what was.

  “Never interfere with my business again, Aisling, and never, ever show your face when we bump into my enemies.” He tugged my pants and panties down my upper thigh, the cold night air stinging my skin. Sam sank his teeth into one of my ass cheeks, biting hard.

  “They’re your enemies, not mine.” I involuntarily thrust my thighs against his shoulder, begging for more. He opened the passenger door, tossing me inside and buckling me up like I was a toddler.

  “They’ll think you’re my weakness.”

  “They’d be wrong.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Very astute of you, Einstein,” he snapped. “But I’ve never been seen with women before. They’ll jump to conclusions.”

  “Is that why you won’t marry Becca?” I challenged. “Because you wanted to spare her precious life?”

  “First of all, who the fuck is Becca?” He rounded the car then started it.

  “Are you serious?” A hysterical laugh bubbled from my throat. “Becca is the woman you took to the charity event.”

  He drove away from the Back Bay and outside city limits. Boston’s skyline slid away through the windows, giving way to wildland. It made sense that Sam wanted to lie low for tonight, but what did that mean? Were we going to stay together, wherever it was? Where was he taking me?

  “I thought her name was Bella,” he said.

  “Nope,” I snapped.

  “At any rate, yes, part of the reason why I’d never take a wife is because watching an innocent woman die because of me is not on my to-do list.”

  “Sparrow didn’t die,” I pointed out.

  “Troy was a fixer. A mostly good guy doing bad stuff. I’m an underboss. An all-around monster. I dabble in many things and have enough blood on my hands to fill up your Olympic-sized pool.”

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, tired of being repeatedly reminded how far from the realms of commitment Sam was. He didn’t want a wife, a family, children; even though he protected me, prevented me from dying tonight, it was more about his newly found moral code than his affection toward me.

  “The Brennan cabin.” Sam tapped a cigarette pack flat against his muscular thigh, fishing one and tucking it into the side of his mouth. “A nice reprieve for you from your family.”

  “Yeah…” I turned my head to the window “…I already feel so much more relaxed.”

  Sam chuckled, lighting up his cigarette, yet again ignoring my acute disapproval of what he was doing to his body.

  “You saved me tonight,” I said throatily, bracing myself for disappointment when he shut me down. I knew he would, too. Sam Brennan didn’t allow himself to feel anything. Especially toward women.

  His eyes remained fixated on the road.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “Because you’re my boss’ daughter.”

  “You don’t care about my father,” I said.

  “True. But I do care about his money. I’m on the fast track to becoming one of the richest men in Boston. Keeping you protected is in my best interest.”

  “So it had nothing to do with me,” I muttered.

  Why was I doing this to myself? Why?

  “None whatsoever, Nix. I would do the same for Hunter. For Cillian. Even for your deranged mother. You are business to me, sweetheart. With a side of pleasure every now and again.”

  I didn’t say another word the entire journey.

  I’d already heard everything I needed to know.

  Sam may have been a good underboss, but he was a terrible potential realtor.

  He was being modest calling the place a cabin. It was more of a ranch, one like my brother, Cillian, owned. It was smack-dab in the middle of the woods.

  The place was so remote, there wasn’t even a paved pathway for the car to get there. The Porsche trudged through gravel and sleet the last few miles to get to the front door.

  Sam got out of the car and threw the door open for me. I followed him inside as he began flicking the lights on. He turned on the central heating, scanning the living room and open-plan kitchen for any signs of a break-in.

  The place was freezing. First, I tended to the wound in his arm. Removed the bullet and did some light stitches. Then, I hugged myself, realizing all of a sudden that it was the middle of the night—two maybe three in the morning—and I still hadn’t had lunch, dinner, or a shower. The last thing I ate was a Nature’s Valley granola bar in the morning, and as we were all aware, those bars tended to crumble so badly you only consumed about thirty percent of them. My stomach growled, demanding to be fed, giving zero F’s about the life or death situation I’d just escaped.

  “I’ll see what we have in the fridge,” Sam said without turning around, and my skin prickled with heat when I realized he must’ve heard my stomach.

  As it turned out, there was absolutely nothing in the fridge.

  The heating was taking too long—maybe it was broken; Sam said the place hadn’t been occupied in years—so as far as a relaxing retreat went, this resort got one star and a scathing review on Yelp.

  “You’ll have to settle for something canned,” Sam clipped. “Refried beans.”

  “I don’t know how to make them.” I stood on the opposite side of the room, looking down, humbled by my own privilege.

  Sam spun in my direction. “You don’t know how to heat a can of refried beans?”

  “I’m guessing you do it without the can.” I looked sideways, wanting to die of embarrassment.

  “You made me chicken soup,” he reminded me. I nodded seriously.

  “Ms. B had taught me how to make it. It’s the only thing I know how to make because it was the only thing she could keep down when she was sick. I can’t even make an omelet.”

  With a growl, Sam opened a tin of refried beans using his metal key, tossing the can-shaped congealed beans into a pan. It looked about as appetizing as fresh manure and smelled similar. Still, I stood close to him as he prepared the food, mainly to catch the warmth of the fire coming from the stove. I ate straight from the pan. It was horrible, but I knew better than to complain. I imagined canned food was a luxury for him before the Brennans officially adopted him. I had no right to complain.

  As for me, I suspected this was the first time I’d eaten anything from a can. I always had food made from scratch, prepared by our cook who used fresh produce, seasonal vegetables and fruit, and herbs.

  Of course I didn’t share this with Sam. Already, he mockingly referred to me as a princess. There was no need to give him any more ammo.

  “The heating is not working properly. I
think at this point, it’s a given.” I took the pan to the sink and began to rinse it clean. The water was freezing cold. Sam sat at the dining table across from me, looking mildly entertained. I think he took joy from watching me do everyday chores. Little did he know I was my mother’s maid.

  “My apologies. There’s a Waldorf Astoria across the road,” he drawled.

  “Very funny. Thanks for the ride home, by the way. Highly appreciated,” I said sarcastically, drying the pan and putting it back in the cupboard where it belonged. There were some refried beans still stuck to it. Call it my little revenge. I liked to take my wins where I could get them.

  “Stop being a brat.” His tone had an edge now.

  “Why? It’s exactly what you expect from me,” I sniffed. “Admit it. You think the worst of me and my parents. And while I suspect you don’t hate my brothers, you are far from the realm of respecting them.”

  Rather than answering me with words, Sam got up, snatched a few throws from the couch, and stomped into one of the rooms.

  “Master bedroom is the first door to your right. Don’t bother trying to seduce me in the middle of the night. I fucked you out of my system and don’t need a repeat.”

  I watched his back retreat, stunned with his brashness. He slammed the door behind him. I wondered why he’d given me the master bedroom and not the extra one.

  Because, mon cheri, even though he says he doesn’t like you, I suspect he really quite does.

  It was the first time Ms. B and I weren’t in complete agreement.

  Shaking my head, I carried my purse to the master bedroom, slipping under the blankets, which were cold as ice and did nothing to warm me up.

  For the next hour, I tossed and turned, staring at the patterned ceiling, wondering how they’d decorated it.

  Sleep didn’t come, even when I willed it, begged for it. Adrenaline ran through my bloodstream like poison.

  The brush up with the Bratva.

  Sam saving me.

  The way he’d rejected me before I’d even offered myself up, all while cooking me dinner and giving me the master bedroom.

  Was he my protector or adversary?

  I was tired of sorting through his mixed signals like it was Halloween candy, separating his actions by brand, intent, and flavor.

  Whatever his reasons might be for treating me this way, I intended to keep away from him.

  I was tired of chasing him around. Even though he’d done his fair share of showering me with averse, cold attention every time he wanted to get in my pants, there was always a static undercurrent between us. I was the pursuer, and he was the somewhat amused, precious prize. He tossed me around and played with me whenever he had a few minutes to burn but always went back to ignoring my existence.

  This had gone on for a decade, reaching its peak these past weeks.

  And I knew, with a clarity that stole my breath away, that I could spend the next decade being his casual plaything just as easily if I let it happen.

  But I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had aspirations. Dreams. Goals.

  It was time to cut the cord. Not just with Sam but with everyone else in my life who assumed I’d cater to their every need and whim.

  An hour and some change after I tucked myself into bed, I heard the door to the master bedroom creak open. I rolled in bed, turning toward the door.

  Sam stood on the threshold, fully clothed in his suit, his hair a tousled mess, like he ran his hand through it a thousand times.

  “Fine. I’ll fuck you one last time.”

  I rolled onto my back, sighing as I whispered to the ceiling.

  “Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou?”

  He chuckled, stepping inside, interpreting my sarcasm as invitation.

  Why wouldn’t he? I’d never denied him anything. Not when he intended to sleep with someone else the night I showed up at his apartment. And not at the charity event, when he brought a date who looked freakishly similar to me.

  And tried to sleep with her, too.

  “This’ll be the last time, Fitzpatrick. A farewell. There’s a reason why your brothers pay me extra not to touch you, and you just got a taste of it tonight. I’ll make your life a living hell and a short living hell at that.”

  “Newsflash, Sam, you’re already doing that.”

  He shifted closer but still far enough that I realized that despite everything—who he was, what he did, the general callousness of him—he was waiting for an explicit offer. He didn’t want to pounce and take me on his own terms. He wanted me to come to him willingly, desperately, lovingly.

  Neither of us made a move.

  I didn’t invite him into my bed.

  He didn’t leave the room.

  My thoughts swirled around in my head like the snowstorm outside, and I dug my heels into the mattress, refusing to give in to the urge to feel his body over mine, his skin against my own, his hot, sweet breath everywhere. His heat was irresistible in more ways than I could count.

  “Well?” he spat out, all but sneering. “Am I going to stand here for long?”

  Kicking off the blankets, I darted past him, out the door. He whirled, his brows pinching in a frown, following me to the living room.

  I plopped down on the carpet, jamming my feet into my sneakers, lacing up.

  “What are you doing?” he growled.

  “I’m tired, Sam. Tired of you. Tired of us. Tired of this cat and mouse game. There’s only so much push and pull I can tolerate before it gets repetitive and abusive. You want me? You’ll have to get me. The hard way. I’m going to run, and you are going to catch me. If you don’t, you’ve missed your chance. How about them apples?”

  He stared at me like I was crazy.

  It was nighttime, and we were in the middle of the woods, in the midst of a never-ending snowstorm, with no cellular reception, no heat, and no food.

  He had a point.

  Scooping my phone, I slid my arms into the long plush sleeves of my coat. Sam stood there, motionless, watching me.

  “You’re not roaming the woods,” he said dryly.

  “You can’t tell me what to do, Brennan. You’re the hired help,” I spat out, bitterness exploding on my tongue. I was hurting because of him, so I wanted to hurt him back.

  That was the excuse I gave myself, anyway, yet it didn’t make me feel any less horrible.

  It was probably exhausting to be him. To constantly look for people’s weaknesses, press them where it hurt, and never allow yourself to be exposed.

  The word ‘help’ seemed to set him off. He pounced on me so quickly his movements were a blur as he slammed me against the floor, my back plastered against the parquet wood. His arms bracketed me on either side of my head. His body was flush against mine. I tried to kick him in the groin, but he dodged me easily.

  “I don’t fucking think so, Nix. You don’t get to call me the help and live to tell the tale unharmed.”

  Feeling my eyes flaring, I was surprised to discover I didn’t fear him. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me. Not physically, anyway. After all, he said it himself—his kingdom was on the line. His fate was entwined with my family’s. This was the way it had always been.

  It boggled my mind that I’d ever thought he would stand against my father and my brothers. Insist on being with me. Even if he hated my family, he still needed it. For more money and power. We were his door to Boston’s upper crust, and he wasn’t going to let it slam in his face. Not because of me.

  If the men in my family paid him to keep his hands off of me and found out what we did in secret, in the dark, it would be the end of their business relationship.

  I also wouldn’t put it past Sam and Cillian to try to kill each other.

  “You can’t harm me more than you already have, you fool.” I writhed underneath him, attempting to push him away. “Unfortunately, I’d never be able to hurt you the way you hurt me, but at least I can stop loving you.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” he said grimly, re
aching for his boot and yanking out a small dagger. He took my fingers and curled them around the handle. He directed my hand to the center of his throat.

  “You want to hurt me? Go ahead. You should know where my carotid is, Doc.”

  I slid the blade across his neck, to the pulsing artery calling for me, faint blue against his endless, smooth brown skin. My hands shook and my teeth chattered.

  His eyes bore into mine. “Now be a good monster and kill me, Nix.”

  I tried to poke the blade against his skin, to push it through, to cut him, even a shallow nick, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t inflict pain on him. I caught my lower lip between my teeth, struggling, panting, trying desperately to push through, to make him bleed.

  I shook all over.

  The knife fell to the floor with a dull thud beside us.

  “I can’t!” I roared. “I can’t hurt you, no matter how much I hate you. And I do hate you. Because I love you. I love you and you treat me like garbage. What do you want me to say? That I’m jealous of your dreams because you belong to them at night? Because I am. I cannot breathe, eat, or blink without thinking about you, Sam Brennan. You’ve conquered every inch of me before you’d even touched me. After you did, things got worse. Way worse. I’ve always loved you, Monster, but the more I get to know you, the more I wish I didn’t.”

  Getting it out there, in the open, felt like shedding old, dead skin. Even if I knew I was putting myself in a position of weakness, I was still happy that I did.

  If my confession stirred anything inside him, Sam didn’t let it show.

  In fact, he made it a point to keep my arms pinned with one hand as he jerked down his slacks, kicking my legs open and pushing my pants down.

  “Rape? That’s the only thing you haven’t done to me yet,” I spat in his face, seething. Having him was a torture because it reminded me he would never be mine.

  He stopped undressing us.

  “You think I’ll rape you?” His eyes were hooded, the hint of a sneer on his face.

  “I know you will, if you enter me,” I kept my voice steady, “because I don’t want you to touch me.”

  “Then what the fuck was that love declaration a second ago?”