5
Rai
My heartbeat is about to explode into hot lava as I march down the hall.
Ruslan tells me he’ll get the car ready and I give a nod as he leaves before me. I remind myself to greet the staff back when I pass them by so I don’t seem like an arrogant bitch. I don’t mind being that way with the members of the brotherhood, but the staff is another story.
Both Dad and Dedushka taught me to respect those beneath me and to burn those against me.
I stop at the corner to catch my ragged breaths. My chest rises and falls so hard, almost like I’m coming out from a run.
Only, the scene I witnessed inside was worse than a run. It was a whole nightmarish marathon.
My legs shake no matter how much I try to force them to remain steady. It’s like they’re done holding me up for the day. The gold-rimmed pillar turns blurry, and I quickly wipe the evidence of frustration from my eyes.
It’s done. It’s over.
To be part of the brotherhood means to always keep your word. I can’t get out of this marriage, even if I want to.
It’s already cemented and ready to be sealed.
Why does it feel like there’s something breaking and resurrecting in my heart at the same time? It shouldn’t be this way. I should be plotting a heinous murder scene where Kyle will be the victim. Maybe then, this raging fire inside me would finally ebb. Not only that, but I would also manage to save myself from this marriage.
A presence appears at my back, his warmth and faint clean scent mixed with mint enveloping me from the tip of my head to my toes. Before I can turn around, his hot breaths tease the lobe of my ear as he whispers in a low seductive British accent, “You voted for punishment. Is that your kink, Princess?”
I swing around and raise my hand at the same time, ready to smack him. But he holds my wrist prisoner before I can touch him.
It might have been seven years since he left, but there’s nothing in this world that can make me forget what it feels like to be this close to Kyle.
He should be around thirty-five now, but he’s no different than the twenty-eight-year-old man I used to know once upon a time. The hitman who joked around with everyone but still retreated to the shadows when necessary. The assassin who killed with no remorse and taught me to never hesitate.
He’s taller than me, but he’s not too broad like Vlad or Kirill. His body, while muscular, is lean, fit, and agile, allowing him to move silently like a panther. It’s impossible to hear his movements unless he makes himself noticeable.
His black suit pants are tight against his strong thighs and complement his long legs. He’s wearing a white shirt but no tie. He never wore those, not even at official occasions or banquets organized by the brotherhood. It’s like he was born to be a rebel and takes great pride in it.
Kyle’s face is all sharp edges and straight lines like he’s a model in some magazine. His eyes, though? They might appear cobalt blue, but they’re muted, unfeeling, almost like they’re colorless. They’re one of the reasons why it took me so long to trust him before. It always felt like a fortress was hidden behind the façade and he never let his true self out—or maybe his true self is the person who kills people without blinking.
He holds my wrist in his hand, stroking the pulse point ever so softly. “Violent as usual, I see.”
I yank my wrist away. “Murderous, too, in case you want to try.”
“You’re so cruel, Princess.” He drawls in that accent that makes everything sound seductive. This asshole shouldn’t be allowed such a beautiful accent.
“Stop calling me that. I’m not a spoiled little princess anymore.”
“Mmm. I see you snatched your place within the elite group—I’m proud of you.”
My breath catches in my throat like a rusty knife ready to cut. Undecipherable emotions attempt to flood me all at once, but I block them out. “I don’t need you to be proud of me.”
“Doesn’t make me any less proud.”
He needs to stop saying the words I foolishly waited a long time to hear after Dedushka’s death. Why is he, of all people, is speaking them?
He’s a traitor. He’s nothing.
“So, marriage, huh?” He grins. “Is this going to be fun, or what?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You didn’t agree to this in front of Sergei yet. You can go back in there and tell them you don’t want to marry me.”
He leans close so his presence towers over me, confiscating any type of personal space I could have. “But I do want to marry you.”
“Why the hell would you?”
“Hmm.” He grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger and slightly tilts my head back. The touch is barely-there, but it feels so intimate, as if he’s forging a path into my deepest, darkest parts. “For your beautiful eyes.”
He takes another step forward so his front nearly grazes mine. The feeling of being completely taken by something overwhelms me. It’s like losing control of my actions, emotions, and everything in between.
I can’t lose control. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me high enough so no one can reach inside me, let alone touch me.
Kyle can’t come back after seven years and shake my control just like that. So I push him away, panting.
“I hate you.” I tell him the words I’ve kept quenching for freaking years. “I would never marry you if it were up to me.”
Kyle lets his hands fall to his sides. “Would you have married Damien? Or how about Vlad?”
“Gladly. Anyone but you.”
He smirks, but instead of taunting, it appears downright sinister, almost as if he’s bottling something else behind the gesture. “Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me.”
“Not if you tell Sergei no.”
“Why would I?”
“Are you fucking serious?” I yell.
“Keep your voice down.” He advances toward me again, this time flattening his hands on either side of my face, caging me against the wall. “And yes, I’m dead serious. I will make you my wife.”
“In your dreams.”
“Fine with me. But will it be fine with you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If it’s not you, Anastasia will do. I heard she grew up into a fine young lady.”
“Don’t you dare, Kyle.”
“It’s easy. You already took her place in front of the others, so you might as well continue.”
“You will keep your filthy hands far away from Ana.”
“Filthy hands, huh?” He wraps a hand around my throat, his long fingers closing firmly, but not tightly, around my neck. I can still breathe, but each intake is torturous, as if I’m borrowing air from my life essence.
The familiarity of the gesture keeps me pinned in place, almost like he hit a button of sorts and I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. There has always been something special about his hands. His fingers appear long and masculine, like a gentleman’s, but in reality, they’re the same fingers that’ve pulled countless triggers without hesitation.
A killer’s hands, and a very heartless one at that.