Provoke

by Ryann, Olivia

  Provoke

  Olivia Ryann

  Author’s Copyright

  Copyright Olivia Ryann 2018

  Editing by Teresa Banschbach

  Cover By CoverIt! Designs

  May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This story features characters from my Cherish series, but it absolutely does not require any previous knowledge. ;)

  — Olivia

  1

  I had this coming, I know.

  As the two men take turns pummeling me with kicks to my torso and back, I almost regret starting this fight.

  Almost.

  “Fuck,” I mumble as my face presses into the grit on the ground in the darkened alley. I wince. I’m in a world of drunkenness and pain, my stomach sour from the rough whiskey I’ve been drinking, my ribs are bruised and cracked. The walls rise up around me. It’s just me and the two men who stand over my body, kicking me with everything they’ve got.

  They look down at me, their expressions hard.

  One of the two assholes that I’m fighting winds up and kicks me again. Pain blossoms brightly as his foot lands against my ribs again with another sickening thud. I subconsciously curl in on myself a little, even though I picked this fight on purpose.

  Violence is what I do. It’s all I know. I’m an Aetós man, after all. All three of us brothers were raised by the same chaotic streets, choosing a life with the mafia in order to survive.

  I groan when he kicks me a final time, his foot bringing the sweet sting of pain.

  At least I’m familiar with this kind of pain.

  The asshole spits on me, firing off a burst of rapid-fire French. Between the intense pain and all the whiskey in my system, I can barely understand him. “Fucking stay down, eh? Learn your lesson, you fucking cunt.”

  I don’t do anything, don’t signal my intentions either way. The other man just shakes his head.

  “Let’s go, man. We have better things to do than to fuck with this idiot.” His French is a little slower than the other asshole’s, and I can understand it better. Either that or I’m getting more sober.

  That would be bad. I consider that if I don’t start to try to fight these two again, there will likely be more whiskey in my night. Screwing up my face, I decide to let them walk away.

  After all, this is the fourth fight I’ve been in this week. My face is still swollen from the sucker punch to the right eye I got last night. There are always more assholes in fucking every bar in every fucking town in the whole entire world.

  And as long as there is whiskey to be had, I plan on fighting as many of them as possible before some French connard punches my clock for the last time.

  I lie there for another moment, soaking in my stew of self-pity. Drunk and exhausted, I remember just how exactly I came to be here.

  I’m a killer, born and raised by the way of the bullet. My brother Arsen was too until he mouthed off to me on the wrong day. Then I fought with him and left him bleeding out.

  I took the only thing that I had left, my family, and I killed that as surely as I watched Arsen’s blood pump out onto my hands. I don’t regret anything else, but killing my brother…

  That’s unforgivable.

  And now?

  Now, I’m just lying here on the ground, face down in the dirt and muck, feeling like… like I’d rather cause numbness by drinking and picking fights than sort out the emotional aspects of my murderous tendencies. When I feel the pain on my face or ribs, I can exist in the moment.

  Lurching upward with a groan, it takes me several tries to get to my feet. I stumble back inside through the bar’s backdoor, making it to the bar. My ribs are fucking painful; it hurts to breathe. The bartender takes one look at me, my dress shirt dirty and ripped, my face all busted up. He just shakes his head.

  “Non,” he says, jerking his thumb outside. “Aller.”

  Normally I would make a scene, but at the moment, I’ve had all the fight beat out of me. Sagging a little, I turn and leave the bar by the front entrance. It’s rather warm outside, a typical June night in St-Malo. It’s perfect weather for being on the French coast, I think.

  Too bad I’m too drunk and too numb to really enjoy anything at all. Clutching my ribs and trying not to breathe too hard, I stagger down the broad cobblestone street. Ancient buildings rise on my left and my right, boxy, brooding, and austere.

  I come to my hotel, a single unmarked doorway with a creperie to the left and a boulangerie on the right. Heading inside, I go up a flight of ancient stone stairs, wincing with every step I take.

  There’s a hotel desk there with a bored-looking concierge working, but I avoid him. I might have bought the silence of everyone on the hotel staff, but that doesn’t mean I want to feel their judging gazes. No more than I want to answer their silent questions.

  What happened to you?

  What happened to your face?

  Monsieur, do you need help?

  Tucking my head down, I barrel past him to a long stone corridor, going to the last room on the end. The room is basic, the wooden furniture looking so old that I’m almost afraid to touch it. A bed and a small table, with a fireplace and a large leaded window.

  As soon as I get inside, I head for the fireplace mantel. There’s a tumbler of whiskey that I left there, waiting for me like a lover on a cold night. I sip the whiskey, wincing as it burns its way down my throat.

  I stare out the window for a while, ruminating on why I am here. In St-Malo, I mean. After all, the booze and the company of pretty whores can be found anywhere.

  After I killed my brother, I had some time to look at the wreckage of my life. To wonder how I got to that point, the point of walking away from the smoking husk of my existence.

  When I think about it, I know without a doubt, that my life would’ve turned out very differently if I’d never met the man I called Uncle. Uncle never would’ve taken three boys under his wing. Never would have introduced us to the mafia. Never expected us to kill people when we were barely teens, without so much as a hint of remorse.

  Maybe we would’ve starved without Uncle around to feed us. God knows we never had anyone else looking out and keeping us…

  Well, safe isn’t quite the word.

  Keeping us intact, in body at least. But our souls?

  Like my brothers, I was willing to sacrifice that if it meant a warm place to sleep and food in my belly. Even if it meant that I would lose a part of myself that I could never get back. The part of me that shied away from violence, that didn’t know what it was to wake up with blood-stiffened clothes and realize it was from my last victim.

  I don’t know if I really liked killing, originally. It made me uncomfortable, thinking about snuffing out the essence of another person. That was back when I still held some things sacred, among them the holy rites of the Church.

  But I know that now, my soul is so caked with the blood of enemies of the family… it’s dirty and stained, it will never be clean. I’m twisted. Sick. Depraved.

  And I have acclimate
d to that. Better yet, I’ve thrived. The blood on my hands may never wash off, but it has nourished my soul, fed the black and monstrous part of me until it grew to overtake my entire being.

  I empty my tumbler and root around for more whiskey. There are a couple of empty bottles by the window, but no whiskey in either of them. Stumbling over to the bedside table, I pick up the phone. As soon as I hear a human voice, I demand that more whiskey be brought to my room.

  I hang up and go back to the window, squinting out into the evening. Fuck, I must be drunk if I’m having this much trouble seeing the street below.

  I see a figure walking by and to me, he looks like Father Derrik. More accurately, he’s a blond-is guy wearing all black. I squint at him again, but he just continues on down the street.

  Father Derrik. Now there’s a man who is just begging for something violent to happen to him. When I first crossed paths with him, he’d only just left the Roman Catholic Church. With his blue-eyed good looks and religious intensity bordering on fanaticism, Derrik had nowhere to go but up.

  I know that he had Aurelia murdered. The pretty blonde girl I once thought would change my life, died suddenly… and it was as if a light went out. Everything grew dimmer, especially, my already blackened soul.

  That’s why I’m here in France. I have a pact with the devil, God, and everyone in between that I will die for all my sins… just as soon as the good Father does. So, I’m hunting Derrik by day, getting insanely drunk by night. Sleeping with anyone who has the vague look of Aurelia, the love of my young life.

  Would Aurelia approve of what I am doing? Almost certainly not. But then again, she didn’t really understand what she saw in me, the flicker of attraction she felt when she looked at me. She didn’t know about my past, about the things I’ve done.

  The things I still do.

  I may seek death, but I won’t be satisfied until I can take my enemy with me. It’s only right.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  “Come in,” I call, not bothering to turn from the window.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” a man says, entering with another bottle of whiskey. “I’ve brought what you asked for.”

  “Set it down on the mantel and leave.” I square my jaw and fold my arms across my chest, in no mood for talk. He creeps over to the mantel, setting it down.

  The thought occurs to me that I don’t have to be alone tonight. Really, I don’t have to ever be alone, but I can’t stand to have a woman hover near me, wringing her hands.

  It reminds me too much of Arsen and his girl Fiore.

  No, I just want a whore, someone who will do her job and then leave of her own accord.

  “Get me a girl,” I say over my shoulder to the man, who is almost out the door. “A blonde.”

  “At this hour, monsieur?” he asks hesitantly.

  I turn to him, my eyebrows arched. “You question how I live my life, do you?”

  He folds in an instant, bowing. “No, monsieur. Forgive me. I will call around at once.”

  Flapping my hand, I shoo him off. “Go.”

  I stare out the window once more. I wonder if he will do as I demand with any sort of quickness, or whether the whiskey will pull me under the dark waves of sleep first.

  2

  “You’re the lucky one, of the two of us,” my younger sister Amabel sighs. She runs the stiff brush through my long auburn hair again, seemingly unconcerned about how rough her touch is. When I make a soft whining noise, she grits her teeth. “Really, Rue. Try to be a grownup. That’s what Prince Henrik expects of his future wife.”

  I grab the brush before my sister can make another pass at my hair with it. Turning toward her, I frown. “I’m sure he also expects me to have some hair, don’t you think?”

  My sister leans in and wipes at my face with her thumb. “Oh, I guess that’s a cluster of freckles and not a smudge. Hmmm.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know I shouldn’t, because that is a sign of an insincere heart. Father Derrik preaches about all the different types of hearts that are found in non-believers: insincere, devious, malicious, impious, and envious.

  I don’t want to be any of those, really I don’t.

  It’s just that at eighteen Amabel is two years younger than me, and she loves nothing more than to rub her flaxen hair and green eyes in my face. Our whole lives she’s been praised for her looks, where I might be complimented on my ability or doing something well.

  Unfortunately, the difference in compliments is pretty apparent, especially between the two of us. We’ve always been in a strange kind of lockstep, comparing every shared experience.

  Well, almost every experience. There is a strained kind of jealousy that emanates from Amabel every time I am called into private confession with Father Derrik. Not everyone is as unlucky as I am to need such intense sessions… but Ama is resentful, bordering on covetous, of the time the Father spends with me.

  She shouldn’t be, though. I sigh.

  “You have freckles too, you know.” I stand up, looking around my room. Here at the cloister, we are given very little and expected to be thankful for it. With a bed and a wardrobe as my only furniture, my cramped room is adorned only by a cross and a tiny window, high up on the wall.

  Ama doesn’t say anything, she just looks cross. I lay the hairbrush on the bed and walk over to the wardrobe, pulling its doors open. “What should a girl wear to meet the Prince?”

  I cock my head, considering the dozen fine new dresses that were delivered to my room, along with the news that I am going to marry Prince Henrick. Ama makes a small sound, but I don’t turn my head to look at her. I know that she’s eaten alive by jealousy, just as she has been about anything good that happened to me our entire lives.

  I can’t help but rub her nose in it just a little. Me, Rue Büchel, marrying the Prince of Montenegro? It seems impossible. I was confused at first, wondering if they meant for Amabel to marry him instead of me. But then…

  Then I found out that Father Derrik had a hand in naming the future Princess.

  My face presses into a frown. Even thinking about Father Derrik steals all the happy thoughts right from the room. I know that as the head of our church, Father Derrik should inspire the most benevolent thoughts from me. I’m failing as a Christian, and as a disciple of The Way and the Light.

  Momentarily distressed, I blow out a breath. I won’t think about the Father, not now. Not today, when I’m supposed to meet Prince Henrick.

  Ama sighs and flounces over to the wardrobe, elbowing me aside. “Let me choose something. You’re sure to choose the wrong dress.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Doubtful. I mean, they are all the same thing. All white or pink, all probably expensive.”

  I reach around her, pulling one of the dresses out partially. It’s a white sheath dress, with a beaded pale pink rose detail on one shoulder.

  “Ugh, no. That’s not the first impression you want to make on the Prince. Let’s see…” She flips through the dresses, finally fishing one out and holding it up. It’s strapless and tea-length, white tulle with little cherry blossoms embroidered all over. “This one. This one will make him think, she could be my Princess.”

  I reach out with timid fingers and feel the tulle of the skirts. The dresses feel wonderfully soft against my fingers, worn rough from my regular chore of scrubbing the floors.

  Actually, everything about this wedding feels odd. How is it that I was chosen, when so many are more pious, better born, and prettier than me? I bite my lip.

  “The dress?” my sister nudges me. “I still think that this one is the best.”

  “It is nice. I think… I think that’s for a more formal event, though. I should go with the sheath dress, I think.”

  Really, all the dresses are too nice for me. I haven’t taken a vow of poverty like the Sisters have, but I have spent half my life around them. Nuns of the Church of The Way of Light abhor things that people from the outside world value. They believe that the
pure heart does not envy anything… and the heart certainly doesn’t go around showing off what few nice things it has.

  A knock sounds on my door. We both turn, shrinking a little. The door opens and a no-nonsense nun wearing a habit as grey as her hair sticks her head inside. Her mouth is already turned down, as it always is.

  “There you two are,” she scolds. I think that scolding is just her automatic way of addressing anyone else. She doesn’t have another setting, it seems like. “Prayer is in half an hour. Just because you’re having a visitor this afternoon does not excuse you from doing your penitence, Rue.”

  “Yes, Sister Agathe,” Ama says, dropping her a curtsy. Ama nudges me with an elbow, and I curtsy too. “We’ll be there.”

  Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “May he show us the way.”

  I bow my head. Ama and I respond as one. “May we walk in the light.”

  She looks unsatisfied with my answer, though I don’t know what she expected. That’s been the call and response for the Church of The Way and the Light ever since I arrived here almost seven years ago. Reciting those lines is completely rote to me by now.

  As Sister Agathe closes the door again, I take a deep breath.

  “You should be more respectful,” Ama says, clicking her tongue. “Sister Agathe is very esteemed by the Church. She’s been here for over twenty years and never been outside the walls of the cloister.”

  I repress a sigh. Trying to keep my mind humble, I lower my head. “I know that.”

  Amabel frowns. “I wish you would tell me what you did to make her dislike you so.”

  Blushing, I drop my gaze. “For the thousandth time, I don’t know. Now, are you going to let me get dressed?”

  “Yes,” she says, crossing to the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to walk you to the chapel.”