Slowly, I pressed a kiss to it.
He stank.
Piss and a weird dirt-smell.
I tried not to gag, not just at the stench of him but at the prospect of putting him inside me. My mouth was dry, so dry, but I forced myself to swallow, to try to bring up some saliva, and though there wasn’t much, it was better than before.
And then, I slipped my lips around him.
He was small, the only saving grace.
A shocked groan escaped him as I accepted every inch of him into my mouth. His hands went to my hair and he snagged his fingers in it, holding me so tightly that it was painful, but I ignored it, let him relax, let him soften his guard, let him near climax...
And that was when I bit him.
Like a starving dog tearing into a sirloin steak, I bit down hard. My teeth were my weapon, my means of saving Victoria from being raped by this man. I couldn’t save her from fingers or dildos, but I could save her from this cock.
If he killed me next, he’d be dickless, and that was all I needed.
A high-pitched shriek escaped him, a wail so loud that it made an air-raid siren look quiet. I could hear the guards at the door scrambling but even as his hands tightened around my hair, pulling at it so hard that I knew he was tearing it out from the roots, I didn’t stop.
And I chewed.
They could sew it back on otherwise.
Blood gushed into my mouth, finally making it moist, as I pulled on his cock like it was taffy.
He finally dragged me off, but it was too late.
For both of us.
Forty-Five
Brennan
By the time we were storming the Bratva compound, my shitty day had turned full circle as the bad news just kept on coming.
Six guards had been mowed down by the Bratva.
And while they were family, and I’d mourn them, the devastation that wrought was nothing to the news that my wife had been abducted.
I’d broken promises today.
Camille wasn’t safe.
Camille, as far as I fucking knew, might even be dead.
I didn’t like to think that I was an emotional man. I’d learned a long time ago that emotions made you weak. Sure, I had them every now and then. It was impossible to cut off feelings, impossible to freeze them. The only ones I let through on a regular basis were the love and loyalty I felt for my family, for my Ma, my crew. But emotions were a hindrance. They made you act out. Made you do stupid shit.
Case in point, O’Reilly.
I shouldn’t have killed him.
Should have turned him over to Da. Let him deal with that mess.
Instead, the ice man had melted, and he kept on fucking doing it. Had done ever since this Sparrow shit had come out.
And the worst thing of all?
I had feelings for Camille.
My nice, bloodless, loveless marriage of convenience, where I fucked her to get kids—something I’d blown out of the water that first day of being married—and we raised nice, future mobsters together was no more.
She wasn’t nice.
She wasn’t bloodless.
And she deserved all the love in the fucking world.
Those were the thoughts that rammed through me as I raised a gun and point blank shot one of the boyeviks surging toward me in the forehead. Blood spurted, coating me in it, but I ignored it, instead running through the gates that Maxim had blasted with a bomb whose provenance I didn’t want to know, and trying to kill as many of the Russian cunts as I could.
She and Victoria had been gone ninety minutes.
One and a half hours.
Who knew that was all it took to make a man realize the impossible?
Who knew that was all it took to know that my wife of a week was the only woman I ever wanted in my bed again?
Who knew that that wife had somehow burrowed her way into my frozen heart?
A week.
Seven fucking days.
Impossible.
But true, especially in the face of losing her.
I’d been quite happy to let the Bratva destroy themselves as they fought over their next leader, been quite content to stay out of it. Now my promise to Mariska was being fulfilled, the Bratva meant fuck all to me, and knowing that two sides would be trying to snatch the Pakhan’s throne, I’d thought in a month or so, there’d be a territory grab. The Irish could swoop in, adjust their territories, and everyone would be happy.
Only, that wasn’t what was happening.
Fuck territory.
Fuck a land grab.
A lot could change in ninety minutes. A lot could happen, too. Most of it shit. Especially as Camille was married now, which meant she had no use to Abramovicz. It was Victoria he was after, just like Maxim.
As furious as I was that he had eyes on her, it was only through those eyes that we knew where Camille and Victoria had been taken at all. She was why he was here, and that was why we’d end this. Today. Together.
Declan was at my back, and Eoghan was somewhere in the wings, Forrest, Bagpipes, Tink were all here, Duncan, Franklin too. We’d brought over sixty men with us today, and Maxim had hauled in fifty. By his calculations, the cunts in this compound would be outmanned nearly two to one.
Those were my kinds of odds.
All around me, chaos ensued. We weren’t soldiers, we were fucking made men, but for our women, for family, for brothers that had been killed by these Russian bastards, sacrifices would be made.
I let the madness unfold as I took a glance around the compound.
It was an open drive that led to a warehouse, around it, there were about two dozen smaller outposts. Some looked like they were garages, others looked like storage places.
It was a front, a steel yard, but we were at the back, which was where Vasov’s Two Spies, according to the quick sum-up Maxim had given us on the ride over here, had decided to set up their base.
When a Bratva boyevik rounded a corner, guns blazing, I shot him in the shoulder. My aim true, I watched as the gun buckled in his hand as he dropped it and I ran over to him, grabbing him by his bad arm and dragging him upright.
“Where the fuck are Camille and Victoria Vasov?”
He spat something at me in Russian, so I raised my gun and shoved the muzzle into the bullet wound.
“You want to keep your arm, you tell me where the fuckers are.”
His eyes rounded, which let me know he spoke English, before he rumbled, “One of the buildings in the East quadrant.”
“Which way’s that?” I snapped, digging the gun deeper into his wound. As he screamed out his agony, he pointed to a building nearby with his good arm. I could see two guards, their guns drawn as they got ready to defend themselves, all while standing close to their post.
I retracted my gun, my attention already on the guards as I blew that fucker’s brains out.
With a stealth I wasn’t really known for anymore, I moved toward the small building that was being guarded. The men were focused on the bulk of the fray which was taking place in the middle of the compound, but as I moved toward them, their attention shifted.
The second they raised their guns, I raised mine, but I didn’t have a chance to get a bullet out. Two pops and they were gone. I twisted around on my heel, knowing Eoghan was watching from his nest, and raised a hand to him in thanks.
We didn’t have long—the cops would be on their way shortly, especially as the steel factory was an active place of work—so I hurried over to the building, and yanked at the door. I was stunned to find that it opened.
My jaw clenched down so hard that I wouldn’t have been surprised if I fractured my teeth as I took in the scene.
Da had told me once how he’d found Ma. When he was drunk and should have kept his mouth shut, he’d shared things I should never have known, and that was all I’d been able to see in my nightmares for a long while.
Her bleeding and covered in Aryan cum.
But this was different.
I had to remember that.
Neither was Camille Mariska—bleeding and covered in Famiglia cum.
Instead, Abramovicz was the one who was bleeding everywhere, his hands on his junk, an endless scream coming from his lips. Victoria was huddled in the corner, her hands and arms over her head as she tried to hide from what was happening, and Camille, my wife, the—no, no time for emotions.
No fucking time.
She was on the floor in a sprawl. Unconscious. Her arms and legs were akimbo, but she was fully clothed. Her mouth was covered in blood, and I read the scene real fast as a small, puckered bloody thing lay between her and Abramovicz on the floor.
I refused to think she was dead.
I FUCKING REFUSED.
My gun was already high, and I tilted it Abramovicz’s way. My bullets missed though because he plunked to his knees before they could find their home, blood loss evidently weakening him to the point of collapse.
I could have just shot him, but I didn’t. I picked up that pink thing on the ground, well aware of what it was, and strode over to the fucker who’d made my wife’s life a misery for too long.
Pinching his nose, which had Abramovicz’s dazed eyes darting open and staring up at me, I waited for him to retaliate but he didn’t fight me, his mouth just popped open as he curled in on himself, trying to stop the pain and the blood loss—he didn’t need to worry about either. He wouldn’t be feeling anything soon.
I shoved his dick back into his mouth, punched his chin so his jaw slammed closed around his cock, then pressed the muzzle of my gun to his forehead.
“For Camille,” I rasped as the cunt let out a moan, and I squeezed the trigger.
When his brains scattered everywhere, his skull caving in, I took a second to calm myself before I faced the fucking truth.
My heart was in my throat, my lungs were straining like I was underwater, but I made myself twist around, made myself step forward.
She was so still. Her face pasty except for the blood that was already starting to cake on her skin. Clumps of hair were on the floor, where he’d ripped it free from her head, and I begrudged every lost golden lock. Amid that treasure, there was an abandoned gun that Abramovicz must have dropped after—
No.
Mouth trembling, I sank to my knees and pressed a hand to her head. There were bruises there already, blossoming around her temple like obscene flowers, but I whispered her name, needing her to wake up. Needing those beautiful green eyes to stare back at me.
She’d been in my life too short a time to be able to say I loved her, hadn’t she?
Men didn’t fall in love in a week.
Christ, we didn’t fall in love in a month or six months.
But as I looked down at her, as I stared at her still form, as I studied her beautiful red-stained face, as I recognized that she was a fighter, just like me, those feelings were impossible to deny.
What else was impossible to deny?
The rage inside me, the fury that she could be taken from me when I’d only just found her.
We should have a lifetime to get sick of each other. Instead, I’d broken my promises to her.
In my head, for the first time since Ma had been abducted, and I’d learned what it was to be a man, I prayed and meant it, “Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—”
As the Lord’s Prayer whirred in my mind like a song, her eyelashes fluttered, and my shaking hand moved to stroke through her hair. “Camille?”
My voice was hoarse, her name was husky on my lips, but it was a benediction nonetheless.
Her brow puckered as her eyes opened a slither, then she groaned and turned her face into my thigh, moaning, “Brennan?”
“You’re safe now, Mo Anam Cara,” I rasped.
“I knew you’d come for us,” she whispered.
Her hand moved slowly, in increments like that was painful, and she covered her eyes a second.
I wanted to ask what had happened, but I didn’t want to rush her—
“The bastard pistol-whipped me.” Then she stunned me further. Her bright red lips curved. Fucking curved. Into a blood-stained smile. “I deserved it.”
“What?” I muttered, confused. Deserved it? The hell was she talking about?
“Help me up?” I obeyed, propping her up as she asked: “Is Victoria okay?”
“C-Cammie?” Victoria almost skidded as she crawled toward us, throwing herself at Camille who opened her arms with a grimace, which had me wondering if she’d broken a rib or something, before she held her tight, clinging to her as hard as Victoria clung back.
“It’s okay, malyshka, he can’t hurt you now.”
Victoria started sobbing, and all I could do was watch as Camille comforted her. Dazed, I stayed in place, propping Camille up, holding her as close as our position would allow, and wondering if God was going to hold me to the promise I’d made him at the end of the Lord’s Prayer.
You may not think you’re beautiful. But your soul is. Have faith that someone will recognize that beauty and want it for their own.
Forty-Six
Camille
I was aching, I was sore, but I was alive.
Alive and kicking.
My body was weak from being manhandled, but inside, I felt energized.
I felt like a warrior.
I’d attacked Abramovicz the only way I could, and he’d paid for it.
Dearly.
For what felt like the first time in my life, I hadn’t sat around, waiting for someone else to save me.
I’d saved myself.
And Victoria too.
If that meant I had an adrenaline high the likes of which I’d never experienced before, then so be it. I’d deal with it.
Later.
After ducking and diving, Brennan managed to free us from the compound without any more of our blood being shed.
Knowing Eoghan was The Whistler, I assumed he was the one who kept blowing off people’s heads if they approached us.
I spotted Maxim on the way out, and knew the way he’d looked, drenched in blood, riding an adrenaline high of his own, would stay with me for a long time. Even worse than any of that was how he’d stared at Victoria, his gaze glued to her as he watched us leave, covering our exit with his weapon, waiting for anyone to attack us. Well, her.
When we made it to an SUV with no plates, its doors wide open, we leaped in and he got us out of the neighborhood before Brennan pulled into a back alley after a short ride. There, he gave me a bottle of water which I used to rinse out my mouth, while he pulled out a change of shirt for himself and for me from the back seat.
Relieved he’d come prepared, I shrugged the tee over my sweater to cover the stains, watching as he bared his chest by dragging his overhead. Blood covered his skin, but it was drying in patches, so when he replaced it, it didn’t seep through.
Aware and thankful for his lack of injuries, I grabbed his shirt, doused water onto the back which was clean, and scrubbed my face, aware I must look like the bride of Dracula, and he did the same once I was done, before asking, “Do I look respectable?”
Brennan was born to be the exact opposite of that, but I hid my smile, and told him, “You’ll do.” He wouldn’t raise eyebrows as he drove through the city, at any rate. “What about me?”
He reached over, and I noticed his fingers were shaking as he cupped my chin, tilting my head this way and that as he looked at me as if he hadn’t expected to ever be able to do so again.
After what we’d just gone through, it might very well have ended up that way.
That didn’t stop my heart from leaping into my throat from the unexpectedly tender caress, but he didn’t say anything other than, “You’ll do too.”
Now our appearances had reverted to some semblance of normalcy, he set off again. The ride took thirty minutes, and as we drove, bubbles of emotion escaped me. Each time, it made them jump, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Cammie? What did he mean? How did Papa d
eal with Mama?”
Those damn emotions bubbled up in my throat again, but this time, it was a mixture of laughter and rage. “He was just spewing vitriol, malyshka. Take no notice.”
“But—”
Before she could pepper me with more questions, Brennan cleared his throat and said, “We’re nearly there.”
Grateful that he’d spared me that conversation, I turned my head to the road to watch the traffic pass.
The car didn’t stop until we were at, I assumed, Eoghan and Inessa’s building.
The three of us, me and Victoria looking a little more battered than when we’d left for church this afternoon, huddled into the elevator and soared upward to his penthouse where Inessa was waiting by the entranceway.
She hurled herself into the small space between Victoria and I, evidently refusing to choose—which, crazy though it seemed, and as much as Vicky needed the love, I appreciated more than she could know.
She huddled into us, cuddling us both, sobbing and crying and shrieking in French and Russian, a mixture of words that were both terrified and furious and relieved.
By the end, I was giggling, unable to stop myself or this giddy high I was currently riding. She pulled back to stare at me, but Vicky merely said, “She keeps doing that.”
And I did.
I wasn’t sure why, but I’d giggled a few times.
Brennan cleared his throat. “It’s just reaction. Shock setting in.” He and I shared a glance, his brow puckering as he looked me over.
I could tell I was surprising him, could tell, also, that there was something going on in his head. Something shadowy, something that had nothing to do with today. Or, that’s to say, it was burrowed away in his past but the events at the compound had triggered the memories.
When Inessa said, “You always were a weirdo, Cammie,” I just grinned at her, finding amusement in her words because they were said with love, not revulsion, which made all the damn difference.
She hooked her arm around Vicky’s shoulders and tugged her into her side. “How you doing, short stuff?”
Filthy Sex: The Five Points’ Mob Collection: Four Page 44