The Monster

by Shen, L. J.

  “No one is going to get over fucking anyone, Fitzpatrick. Now shut up and let me rest.”

  Surprised, I stared at him with open delight. My ploy had worked. I pouted, leaning backward and giving him some space. His hold on my wrist tightened, but he was still so very weak.

  “Let me rephrase … let me rest where I can see you, feel you, and smell you.”

  “You asshole,” I hissed under my breath. “I thought you were going to die.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the Grand Prix dick tour once I’m in a coffin. It’ll have to wait another few decades or so. Sorry.”

  “I was just teasing to see if you were conscious. I thought I felt you move,” I explained, watching as his eyes shut again, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

  “I know, sweetheart.” His tone turned soft, scratchy.

  “Can I do anything for you?” I asked.

  “Can you climb on top of me and ride me?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t do anything for me, Nix.”

  “Everyone is waiting outside. They are worried sick.” I rubbed his uninjured arm. “I should go out and tell them you’re okay.”

  He nodded then grunted again, realizing his mistake. Everything must’ve hurt, and I made a mental note to ask the nurses to up his morphine dose.

  “But I’m not going to go out there until you promise me something,” I warned.

  His eyes were still closed when he asked, “Yes?”

  “You asked me to quit my job, and I did, even though I did so with a heavy heart, knowing I won’t be able to help so many people who are in pain. Now I’m asking you to bow out of the battle with the Bratva, Sam. No more bloodshed. No more. I don’t deserve to become a widow because of your pride. Give up Brookline. Turn your back on this side of the city. Troy never took it over for a reason. Promise me.”

  “It is not in my nature to lose.”

  “Yet sometimes—not often—you will. You have to lose Brookline or you’ll be losing me. This is an ultimatum, Sam. I will not be made a widow at twenty-eight.”

  He opened his eyes, looking at me, surprised.

  His voice dropped low. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes,” I said simply.

  I had to do this. For him. For myself. For his family and our future children. If he cared more about a piece of Boston than he did about me, marrying him was going to be a mistake. I felt oddly reassured by that simple logic. We held each other’s gaze, silent for a moment. His jaw ticked with annoyance.

  “I can make this work,” he said. “I’ll talk to Vasily.”

  “Give up Brookline.”

  “I’ll get more security.”

  I shook my head, standing up from the floor, wiping my cheeks clean of tears.

  “I’m sorry, Sam, but it’s not enough. I’m not putting my heart in the hands of a man who won’t take care of it.”

  “Goddammit, woman.” He turned his head sideways, closing his eyes, swallowing hard. “Fine. Fine.”

  I knew how difficult it was for him to say this, to make this sacrifice. I leaned down and kissed his cheek softly.

  “Thank you. I’ll go tell the others you are awake.”

  Stepping backward and getting ready to leave, I turned around and heard his voice, sharp and cutting like glass.

  “That’s what it feels like, doesn’t it?” he wondered, half in awe. “Love. I can’t believe I caught feelings like some fucking amateur. So many of them, too. This is deplorable.”

  I grinned, glancing at him from behind my shoulder. He shook his head, scowling at the wall.

  “Say that again,” I said.

  “I’m a fucking amateur.”

  “The love part.” I laughed.

  He turned to glare at me.

  “I love you, you little fool. I insisted on no prenup because I didn’t want you to run away, not because I cared about the money. It was never about the money. Even when I took the job with Gerald and Cillian, there was one thing I cared about, and it had nothing to do with power. I had that before I set foot in your house. I wanted to be close to you, even if I hated not being able to have you. I visited your father on a weekly basis. This thing was bigger than both of us, but we had a lot to lose.”

  The idea that I wasn’t the only one who waited to catch glimpses of him made my heart stutter. I walked back to him, gently placing my hand on his cheek. He curled his fingers over my arm, looking up at me.

  “I was close to blowing it all to shit, wasn’t I? You and me. The night you ran away into the woods. I could feel it.”

  I shook my head.

  “I never stopped loving you, Sam. Even—and especially—when you least deserved my love.”

  “Kiss me, Nix.” He tugged me down to him. Our lips met. His were cold and dry and chapped, and I quivered, wanting to cry with what he’d been through. I pressed feathery kisses around his mouth, chin, and neck, smiling down at him, kissing his forehead one last time.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “I fucking live for you,” Sam retorted. “Literally. I’m about to give up a lot to have you.”

  “So you should.” I walked away, taking one last glance at him, knowing we were going to have a million more goodbyes.

  And a million more hellos, too.

  I ran to the waiting room, breaking the good news with a rush of stuttering words. Sparrow squealed and darted toward the room. My parents let out a relieved breath, though I wasn’t entirely sure what my father was doing here in the first place. Was it the guilt of keeping us apart for all these years?

  Cillian and Hunter were the only ones who didn’t look visibly delighted by the news. They glared at me hard as I rehashed the moment in which Sam woke up, obviously omitting the lovey-dovey stuff that would make them gag.

  “Hey, Ash, can we speak to you?” Hunter cleared his throat, throwing a glance at my parents. “Alone.”

  He turned around before I could answer, marching down the hallway. Cillian followed him wordlessly. Frowning, I went after them, something cold and stony settling in my chest. This didn’t sound good.

  They stopped when we reached the junction between the elevators and the emergency exit, a good length away from our parents. They both turned to look at me. All I needed was one look to figure out that they knew everything.

  “What have you been playing at, Aisling?” Cillian demanded, his voice like icicles dripping down my skin, causing goose bumps to rise in its wake. “We went to the front desk and asked for you when we first arrived here. We couldn’t reach you on your cell, so we thought to go downstairs and check. The receptionists told us there was no Dr. Fitzpatrick in the hospital. Ran through the database. In fact, we went as far as going to the gynecology department ourselves to look for you—maybe you weren’t registered yet because you are still doing your residency—but I’m sure you know we came back empty-handed.”

  “You are working somewhere,” Hunter pointed out. “The long hours, the hospital scrubs, your disappearing acts during dinners. What the hell is it you’ve been doing?”

  I must have turned pale because even though they still looked at me like they wanted to kill me, they schooled their faces and stopped showering me with questions. I knew I had two options. Come clean and own up to what I did for almost a year or let them live with a half-assed lie. A lie wouldn’t be so harmful. After all, I quit.

  Still, I couldn’t lie to them. Not again. My lies were piling up neatly on my conscience. Besides, I could no longer pretend to be someone I wasn’t. Someone tailor-made for my family to ensure they were happy and fulfilled and proud of me.

  My parents.

  My brothers.

  My professors.

  Even the late Ms. B molded me into the woman she wanted me to become.

  No more.

  So I told them. I opened my mouth, and the truth came out. About Dr. Doyle. How we’d met. About Ms. B’s death and how it affected me. About the first time I saw Sam. How it wasn’t
the day the Fitzpatricks had invited him over along with the Brennans, but months before that. I told them I had quit. That I couldn’t put myself at risk anymore to help others. That Sam bent my arm and wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s the first and last thing that fucker did right,” Hunter mumbled, pulling me into a hug, pressing me close to his heart. “Fuck, Ash, I’m so sorry. We were so wrapped up in our own shit, we never really stopped to consider what you were going through after your governess died. It didn’t help that you always looked like you knew what you were doing. The perfect daughter.”

  “He is right,” Cillian said pithily. “We neglected you for far too long. We’ll be rectifying that in the future.”

  “So…” I looked between them “…you’re not judging me? For what I did?”

  “Judging you?” Cillian lifted a brow. “You just proved to be a true Fitzpatrick. Darkly complex and terribly pragmatic. I’m proud to call you my sister.”

  Ten days later, I got out of the hospital. Aisling and Sparrow doted on my ass like I was a baby, fussing over me and checking on me every single hour, dropping my masculinity levels to new lows I was pretty sure only poodles with designer haircuts had suffered.

  The first two days, I humored them, mostly because I was trying to play nice with my fiancée. By day three, however, I made the executive decision to throw all the fucks the doctors had asked I give about my health out the window.

  “Nix, stop.” I caught her hand. It rested on my chest in our apartment—yes, our apartment—as she patted my forehead with a hot, wet cloth. “No more of this bullshit. I’m going back to the streets tonight.”

  Her peacock eyes widened in horror, her rosebud mouth pouting.

  “You’re still recovering.”

  “I’m bored out of my ass, and I have a job to do.”

  “You can do it when you’re feeling better.”

  “I’m feeling pretty fucking great. Would you like me to demonstrate?” I raised an eyebrow, my eyes dropping to the impressive bulge in my pants. No matter my physical state, whenever Aisling was in the room so was my need to fuck her through the mattress, floor, and earth.

  “We had a deal, remember?” She withdrew her hand from mine, stepping back, standing in front of me in our bedroom.

  “Yes, my love. I was right fucking there when we had it.” I smiled impatiently.

  It was one thing to give up half my kingdom for her. It was quite a-fucking-nother to be happy about it. “Yet another reason why I need to get my ass out of bed and take care of business. Give me my phone.” I snapped my fingers toward the nightstand.

  She quirked an eyebrow, knotting her arms over her chest.

  She was my fiancée, not my soldier. I had a long way to go when it came to treating her like the princess that she was. Mostly because I’d never had to treat anyone well my entire life.

  “Please. And thank you.” I grinned wolfishly, and she picked my phone up, handing it over to me.

  “Who are you calling?”

  I already had the phone pressed to my ear. “Troy.”

  “Where are you two going?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You’re always going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?” She sighed but looked happy about it. I grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled her down for a filthy, deep kiss.

  “Not at all. Sometimes I’ll keep you on your back, too. And on all fours. But whatever your position, I promise you’ll fucking enjoy it.”

  The following evening, Troy parked in front of Vasily Mikhailov’s Russian deli in Brookline. He tossed me a doubtful look.

  “You sure you wanna do this? You can tell her you did it, and she’ll be none the wiser. I know you’ve worked hard to conquer Brookline.”

  “Whatever happened to chewing more than I could swallow?”

  “Just playing devil’s advocate before you make a move.”

  “You don’t have to play devil’s advocate with me. I know what goes on inside the devil’s head.” I pushed the passenger door open, sliding out and cocking my gun as I did. I heard Troy doing the same behind me. We rounded his car, popping the trunk open. Vasily’s daughter, Masha, blinked at the sudden light coming from behind our shoulders, her mouth gagged, her hands and feet tied together behind her back.

  I smiled cordially. “Miss Mikhailov, thank you for contributing to our cause.”

  She murmured something hysterical around the fabric covering her mouth, but I couldn’t distinguish it.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “Never mind. You were never captured for your conversational skills. Only as a pawn to ensure your daddy knows I will slaughter you if he doesn’t bend to my will.”

  I hoisted her up over my shoulder, marching toward the deli.

  The bell above the deli’s door chimed as we stepped inside. I aimed my gun toward the shop owner with my free hand, an elderly Russian man with a weather-beaten face marred with red and blue from years of braving the cold. Masha was still draped over my shoulder, like a pig on its way to slaughter, still dressed in the same expensive coat and designer heels she wore on her shopping spree this morning.

  “Where’s Vasily?” I clipped.

  The man’s eyes flared at the sight in front of him. Masha thrashed desperately, trying to wriggle out of my hands.

  “I … I …” he started, knowing full well he was not allowed to let people into the back office. That was where his boss was situated.

  I turned my aim from his head to Masha’s spine, digging the gun into her bones. “Better fucking hurry or you’ll have to explain to your boss why his daughter’s guts are spilled all over your floor. I’m guessing it’ll be a bitch to clean up, too. Though, I doubt he’ll spare your life after letting it happen.”

  “Come with me!” the man blurted out, jumping from his place behind the counter, rounding it and pushing an old wooden door open.

  The place smelled of pickles, dried meat, and smoke. I followed the man’s back, Troy at my heels. After passing through a narrow, dusty corridor we reached another door. He opened it.

  Vasily was at his desk, surrounded by three of his high-ranked men. He had the pointy, fox-look of a comic book villain, which he highlighted with good suits and bad manners. But not even a fucking ball gown could hide the fact that his face was riddled with knife scars. My initials—S.A.B.—were carved into his forehead, jagged and white.

  His bodyguards were on alert, two on each side, all of them possessing the peculiar look of semitrailers and similar IQs. The middle-aged man with silver hair and pale blue eyes looked up at me, putting his cigar down in an ashtray, sending smoke whirling to the ceiling.

  “Brennan. You’re alive.”

  “And you’re surprised.” I rearranged Masha on my shoulder. Even though I used my healthy shoulder to carry her and not the one his men put a bullet through, I still wasn’t my usual self. Normally, carrying a woman of Masha’s slight weight was akin to wearing a goddamn scarf.

  “And I see you brought your daddy.” Vasily’s eyes slid from me to Troy, who stood beside me.

  “Seemed fair,” Troy clipped dryly, “seeing as you have an entire army surrounding you. Not used to doing the dirty work anymore, are you, Vasily?”

  “And it shows. Two bullets, and not one pierced my heart,” I tsked, shaking my head. “My toddler nephew has better aim in the toilet while potty training.”

  Masha twisted in my arms, responding to her father’s words and tenor. I drugged her a little—enough to keep her silent and easy to manage—and I knew these animals were wondering if I used the opportunity to shove my dick in her, and maybe even arranged it so a Brennan bastard was inside her to ensure the Bratva could never touch me again.

  “What do you want?” Vasily demanded, darting up from his leather seat. “You obviously came here for retaliation, so just spit it out. And no, my daughter cannot be a part of the deal. She is an innocent. We have a code,” he growled.

  “You have a code,” I corrected
. “I lack morals and fucks. So it is either my way or the highway, and considering you were very close to sending me to an early grave, you better take my terms, no stipulations and no negotiations.”

  “Speak!” Vasily slapped a hand over his desk, seething. “And put her down, for God’s sake!”

  “I’ll give you back Brookline, but you will hand me monthly protection money. A percentage of all your businesses,” I said flatly.

  Vasily’s eyes narrowed.

  “Protection from what? We are the Bratva! We protect ourselves.”

  “Hey, I never promised to make sense.” I shrugged, and Masha moaned against my shoulder, weeping through the cloth covering her mouth. “But right now, I have soldiers everywhere in your territory. I am making more money than you ever did here. If you want me to retreat, you need to make it worth my while.”

  Vasily stroked his chin, considering my proposition. His men were ready for battle—I could tell by the way their muscles bunched under their shirts.

  “Have you touched her?” he asked, his Russian accent thickly coating each word with worry.

  “No,” I said honestly. “I require my women to be willing and conscious.”

  I also prefer them to be just one woman—Aisling. I still couldn’t believe she made me go through with this. Give up such a strategic part of Boston. Love was a bitch, but it was something I had to endure in order to keep Nix.

  “Put her down,” Vasily repeated, his voice shaking slightly. In all the time I’d known him, Vasily Mikhailov’s voice had never wavered. He was scared.

  “Concede,” I hissed.

  He lowered his head, so close to defeat the despair was tangible in the air.

  “What’s your protection rate?”

  “Eight percent of all your businesses’ clean profit.”

  “Six,” he clipped, jotting down something on a piece of paper resting on his desk, already making the calculation.

  “Eight. Love is priceless, Mikhailov,” I reminded him.

  He looked up. “Fine. Now put her down.”

  I put Masha on the floor. She flailed, her eyes erratically looking for her father among the shadows of people in the room. Vasily ran to her, crouching down and removing a knife from his Italian loafers. He began tearing the ropes that tied her together, whispering Russian endearments in her ear, his face contorted with emotion.