by Brynn Ford
“Mine?” I ask.
He nips at my skin with his teeth and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Yours,” he promises. “Yours, yours, yours.”
I rock back and forth with him all the way inside me and he lifts his head to look at me again. I look past the green of his eyes and see his heart, his soul. Everything that he is and everything that I want is right there beneath the emerald surface.
I let my forehead rest against his as pleasure builds quickly with the slow swaying motion. I can feel tears crowding behind my eyelids when I blink.
As Ezra slips an arm around my waist to hold me close, I feel entirely overcome with emotion.
All at once, it’s desire, need, longing, hoping, hating, grieving pain. The pain slices across my chest and pushes out a single gasping sob that I didn’t expect. But the pain only fans the flame of the heat grinding between my legs.
I’m afraid Ezra will see my pain and try to stop this, but he surprises me. He sees my pain and feels it with me and loves me through it.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and brushes a tear from my cheek. He looks as sorrowful as I feel, knowing that tomorrow we will go back to being slaves. It won’t be possible to do this again because privacy will be gone. Kostya will go back to following our every move. Nikolai will go back to tormenting us with his violence.
It makes me angry.
Rage-filled lust rushes and my pussy pulses with the building need. I grind my hips harder, feeling Ezra’s thick cock swelling with his quickly oncoming relief. The pulse of him against my G-spot and the stimulation of my clit as I push down hard, rubbing it frantically on the skin of his lower stomach, pushes me closer to the edge.
Where the pain fans the flame, the anger I feel pours fuel all around us. It ignites without warning, exploding into the most all-consuming orgasm I’ve ever felt. Just as I start to come down from the most perfect wave, Ezra thrusts up, pumping into me hard and fast, and comes with a groan, my name slipping out from between his lips in the sweetest sound.
I hate myself for doing it, but I start to cry.
I cry from relief, from anger, from overwhelming pleasure. I cry for the knowledge of what we are, what I want us to be, for where we are trapped and for the tragic hopelessness of the unknowns yet to come.
Ezra wraps both arms around me and lays back on the bed, holding me, stroking my hair, petting me, as I cry into his chest.
“I won’t ever forget this,” I tell him when the worst of it has passed.
“It won’t be the last time,” he replies with a quiet, desperate determination in his voice.
He is the strength I never knew I needed.
I know how dangerous it is to have hope.
But knowing the danger doesn’t keep me from hoping when it comes to Ezra.
Chapter 25
Nikolai
“The evidence against the Campbells is overwhelming and I demand reparations. They plotted to kill off my entire bloodline. It’s only by luck I’m still standing here in front of you today. You all would have seen significant losses the last three quarters had they been successful in their plot,” I speak candidly to the four families in the boardroom.
“I agree,” Vigo Vittori chimes in.
He’s twirling a pen in his hand as he leans back in his black leather executive chair at the boardroom table.
“Blood taken requires blood given,” he says.
“I understand recourse has already been settled upon, is that correct, Nikolai?” Cordelia O’Shea, the oldest of our generation in the O’Shea family line, asks.
She isn’t the Head of House because she’s female, her cousin Murphy has that power. But she’s allowed a seat on the board for her position as the eldest. The same is true of Vigo’s older sister, Renata.
“Let us hear this settlement for a vote,” Renata says.
She sits regally in her chair, pushed back from the table as if she’s too good for it. Her legs are crossed, her arms intentionally placed on the arm rests, and her spine is arrow straight.
She’s always had the appearance of a queen with her skin that’s nearly too fair-colored to belong to a Vittori and her jet-black hair that’s always perfectly styled in long waves over her shoulders. Her high heels are far too tall for practicality and she wears a perfectly tailored romper rather than an evening gown like the rest of the women.
She thinks she’s above them.
It’s true, she is.
“I’m curious to know what you’ve deemed to be a fair settlement for such a heinous act,” she says with a tilt of her head.
I grin. “As your brother so shrewdly stated, blood taken requires blood given.”
I’ve been waiting for this delicious moment for over a year, since the day my parents and my younger brother died on one of our planes that went down on its way out of Italy.
Everyone thought the Vittoris had done it.
It was their homeland.
But I knew better.
The Vittoris and the Mikhailovs haven’t traditionally had the best of relationships, but that was only because both of our families fought so hard to be the best of the four. It had always been neck and neck between our two families.
But as the Campbells in the States started to increase their sales figures, they became tiresomely cutthroat. Instead of behaving like businessmen and improving their practices, they came after my family, hoping their exclusive trade line that ran through Pakistan would give them the edge on arguing for a takeover when no one was left in my family.
But I hadn’t gotten on the plane that day.
I smile to myself, knowing how differently things might have gone for them had I gone down the way they wanted me to. They hadn’t accounted for my obsessive and meticulous nature when it came to completing my work on travel. I needed two more days to wrap up loose ends, and I finished my work as expected before flying home to arrange the funeral for my family.
It’s what my parents would have expected.
I launched my own investigation, paying vast sums to get the information I needed. The largest sum was paid to Vigo for the recorded phone conversations he’d come into possession of. I paid him by sharing Anya, something I had sworn I would never do.
But when it came down to finding out what really happened to my family and seeking vengeance on the transgressors, even she was a price I was willing to pay. She’d proven by then that she would never love me anyway, and I was drowning in my grief. The combination had been enough for me to justify handing her over to Vigo for an hour.
He’d been fucking brutal with her.
More than I’d ever been.
I’d hoped it would make her grateful for what she had with me, but instead, it made her indignant. My resentment grew daily, exponentially since that day. It compounded each time I saw her dance with Ezra.
That fucking beautiful American boy who thought he could make her love him.
None of it matters now. This is the time I’ve been waiting for. I’d gotten my proof that the Americans tampered with the mechanical integrity of our aircraft with the intention of bringing it down.
I’ve presented my evidence to the board.
I’ve struck a deal with the Campbells for retribution.
Now it’s time for the fucking Campbells to pay.
Charles Campbell stands slowly, straightening his lapels and smoothing his jacket. His graying hair and slow movements show his age. His ever-growing gut shows his lack of care for his rapidly declining life expectancy.
He takes in a deep breath and speaks humbly to the room, “When Nikolai came to me with this news of what my son had done, I was devastated.” He sniffs, his eyes glassy, but it doesn’t bother me. “Blood taken requires blood given. I’m making a…a fair trade in reparations—” His voice cracks as he begins to cry like a fool and
lowers back to his seat.
I take over for him. “Three of my family died. My father, my mother, and my brother. I’m taking the same from the Campbell family. He’s agreed to hand over the Leblancs—his sister Fleur, her husband Gerard, and their son Leo.”
Vigo slams his hand down on the table. “I object to this. What you’ve presented makes it clear that Chandler Campbell,” Charles’ son, “is directly responsible for the orchestration of your family’s death. Why is he getting away without paying his debt?”
“I assure you,” Charles says, “Chandler is repaying this debt to our family. He’s been stripped of his place as Head of House.”
“And who is taking his place, old man?” Vigo asks.
Clearing his throat, Charles replies, “I am.”
Renata floats her hand up from the arm rest as if to silence them. “And who will become the Head of House when you die, Charles, hmm? I understand that Chandler is the only direct Campbell descendant remaining who carries the family name.”
“My granddaughter Callista still carries the name,” Charles says.
“A woman cannot be the Head of House. Do you plan to produce another heir?” Renata continues.
“Well, no…”
“Well,” Renata tilts her head and speaks as calmly as a river flows, smoothly but with the power to chisel mountainsides, “I would suggest Leo Leblanc be given the title of Head of House and Chandler be handed over for execution. It seems only fair given that Chandler has masterminded the slaying of the Mikhailov family.”
“Let’s put it to a vote,” Vigo agrees.
“But, no…you can’t—” Charles attempts to interrupt and I cut him off, leaning forward and slamming my hands down on the boardroom table.
“Enough from you! You and I have come to our agreement, Charles. Three from your house for the three taken from mine. I gave you the option of selecting the three and we both knew full well the final decision would rest with the board. Now, shut your mouth and let the board vote.”
Charles breaks into pathetic, sniveling sobs that I roll my eyes against.
Vigo rises from his seat, coming to stand beside me at the head of the table. “Official vote. All in favor of reparations to the Mikhailov family by the blood of Fleur and Gerard Leblanc and Charles Campbell, say aye.”
A resounding agreement.
A beautifully vengeful, resounding agreement.
I straighten and smile, crossing my arms over my chest.
“All opposed,” Vigo says, “say nay.”
Charles shoots to his feet, his oversized gut nearly lifting the table on his way up. “Nay! We had an agreement, Nikolai.”
“And the agreement is being honored by the wishes of the board,” I sneer at him with a tilted head.
“It’s done,” Murphy O’Shea adds, “Leo Leblanc will become the Head of House for the now former Campbells. The family bloodline will continue with the Leblancs for future generations and we will no longer recognize the power of the Campbells. Reparations should be paid immediately.”
“Egan is watching over the Leblancs now. I’ll go and ask him to bring them here.” Cordelia stands and leaves the room.
I nod at Kostya. “Lay down the tarps.”
When I say this, it sends Charles into another tailspin of useless sobbing. If I still had a heart, I might give a shit that he’s about to lose his son.
But I lost my humanity two decades ago, the first time I acquired a human asset and sold her to the highest bidder when I was just nineteen years old. I signed a contract with the Devil seven years after that when I chose Anya to become my talent slave. I was twenty-six and she was just a child. The Devil came to collect on my soul the very day I collected Anya three years ago.
The empty space where my soul used to reside is now filled only with anger, mistrust, resentment, and vengeance.
There’s no room for anything else.
Cordelia O’Shea returns with the Leblancs, black hoods over their heads, their arms secured behind their backs with cable ties. Their grunts and wails beneath the black hoods bring a smile to my face.
Finally.
Finally, I will get to avenge my family.
Egan O’Shea and Kostya force them down to their knees on the blue tarp that’s been laid out at the front of the boardroom. I expect the blood to splatter everywhere, but at least the tarps will mostly protect my carpets from the stains. There’s a reason my family chose to install red carpet here, after all.
The hoods are lifted from their faces to reveal them each gagged with black fabric they bite between their teeth. Their eyes are wide and curious as they look around the room to see that they are here with the four families. I can see the flicker of thought run across their eyes that perhaps they are safe here, they see their family member Charles, after all.
Then Cordelia ushers Chandler Campbell into the room and my face alights with sinister glee. He walks in behind her, adjusting his navy-blue suit jacket, thinking he’s being called in for business.
I can’t wait to blow the cocky smirk right off this bastard’s face.
“I suppose you’ve decided to reinstate me as Head of House, then,” Chandler says with an arrogant grin and a tilt of his head.
“No, dear.” Cordelia taps his shoulder and gives him a crooked smile before she returns to her seat.
I pull my switchblade from my pocket and circle around to Leo Leblanc. His parents groan and attempt to shout through their gags as I approach him from behind. I bend and slice the zip ties that bind him and step back.
Leo leaps to his feet, a frightened baby bird in the eagle’s nest. He pulls his fabric gag from his mouth and presses his back to the far wall, his parents crying on their knees.
I look to Chandler, who stands stoically like the callous bastard he is. I point to the spot on the tarp next to Leo’s parents with the tip of my knife. It crinkles beneath my shoes as I shift my weight.
“Come. Kneel,” I command.
Chandler looks dumbstruck. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, son,” Charles sobs like a fool, pushing his fingers beneath his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t understand…”
“You laid the plans that killed my family, yes?” I say. “Blood taken requires blood given. The board has ruled. Yours is to be given as reparations along with Mr. and Mrs. Leblanc. Leo,” I turn to the young man trembling against the wall, “take a breath. You’ve been spared. In fact, welcome. You’ve been voted as the new Head of House for the Campbell family. Excuse me, now the Leblanc family.”
The four families applaud in chorus.
“You may have Charles’ seat. Move, Charles.”
Charles rises slowly and turns away from the scene at the front of the room. Like a coward, he abandons his son in favor of cowering in the far corner. He’s too weak to face his child, to tell him goodbye, to watch him die.
Leo looks to his mother and father on their knees and only begins to move as his mother nods at him eagerly, tilting her head toward the seat. At least she has the presence of mind to understand how lucky her son is to be spared, let alone to be given such a prestigious role within the four families.
Chandler still hasn’t moved.
“Accept your fate, Chandler,” I growl at him.
He shakes his head, backing away toward the door. “No, no, you can’t do this.”
Renata snaps to her feet. “Enough with the theatrics. So dramatic. Kostya, grab him and make him kneel. Let’s get on with this. We have other business matters to attend to.”
Kostya wrestles Chandler to the ground in front of me on the tarp. I haven’t seen a sight so beautiful as the back of his head as he fights and screams for his life. Vigo hands me his gun—the same one he always carries in his chest holster beneath his jacket.
“Full magazin
e,” he tells me. “One round for each of them and plenty to spare.”
I cock the gun and press it to Chandler’s dirty blond hair. His American arrogance and sand-colored locks flash across my vision as familiar.
Ezra Bell.
Ezra fucking Bell.
Ezra and that perfect golden hair and those goddamn green eyes that only look at her.
At Anya.
My Anya.
I exhale and squeeze the trigger, unloading three rounds into the back of Chandler Campbell’s head. Blood sprays across my carefully tailored suit and feels warm against my cheek. I feel the liquid where it splashed onto my bottom lip and I swipe my tongue across to taste it. It’s metallic, the taste of pure fucking justice.
The room is silent in waiting, only broken by the pathetic sob from Charles in the far corner of the room and a sharp cry from Mrs. Leblanc through her gag. Her sound interrupts the reverie of this satisfying moment, so I swing my arm and take her out next. Her body topples sideways onto her husband and he groans loudly as he falls to the floor. I take a step to make sure my aim is true and unload one last round into the side of his head.
Three crimson pools spill slowly out onto the tarp, puddling from beneath the three heads.
Blood taken requires blood given.
Vengeance served so sweetly.
My chest heaves with the immediate relief I feel from finally avenging my family. I reach up to swipe the blood from my cheek and swirl it between my fingers, watching the way it coats my skin in the most brilliant shade of crimson imaginable. I let out a heavy breath, letting my arms fall to my sides and tilt my head toward the ceiling. I take in a deep cleansing breath, trying to savor the moment.
But the relief is fleeting.
Now I have blood, but I still don’t have my family.
I still don’t have Anya’s love.
I still don’t have Ezra’s desire.
I am still without.
And I am angrier than ever.
I hold the gun out toward Vigo, but he waves it away.
“There are plenty of rounds left for you to injure a certain dancer if you don’t want a reason to torture yourself with her presence any longer.”