Series: Series by Ker Dukey
Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 107407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Tears burn my eyes when the realization sinks into me.
“He will never give up. He’ll just send more of us.”
No.
No, no, no, no.
They love me. I just realized this. And I love them too. But…
I have to leave them. It’s awful and gutting but absolutely necessary. They will never be safe as long as I’m in their life.
Love was just a tease. Pain is the only constant I know.
Swiping my eyes, I shake my head, hoping to rid myself of the overwhelming despair washing over me. I need to focus and clean up. The tears can come later when I’m all alone, resting easy knowing they’re safe.
I’m so sorry, guys.
The plastic sheeting in the truck bed has done most of the job for me, but I get to scrubbing any signs of blood from the garage. The twins will never let me go if they see there was a struggle. It has to look like I chose to leave because I wanted to.
They’ll hate me.
Another punch to the gut. Bile creeps up my throat and the room spins. I force the acid down with a hard swallow.
Hate is necessary. It’s my only card to play right now in this awful hand I’ve been dealt—the only way for them to move on without me.
Dropping the knife onto the tarp, I pull Rodion’s shirt over my head, dump that on there, too, and roll the tarp up, shoving it into the back seat of the truck.
While trembling violently, I creep through the apartment in desperate need for a shower. Once clean, and no longer shaking after soaking in the heat, I find my clothes and pull on my white boots, which are still stained with blood from The Games.
Now fully clothed and resigned to my decision, I pause to stare at them, getting one last look at the beautiful men. Their chests rise and fall in their drug-induced sleep, and it settles my reckless, rampant heart.
I’m so, so sorry.
With bitterness on my tongue, I write them a note, and then dial the number of the one person I know who will help me get away.
My ass hits the driver's seat of the truck, and I bring it to life, leaving the garage and disappearing into the night. When the line picks up, I whisper, “Diana, I need your help.”
Chapter Four
TWO YEARS LATER
Rodion
Anew cocktail. Nikita, our bar manager, insists it’s huge in the US, and we must have it here. The US is known for having shit taste in alcohol, but here I am, eyeing the drink.
The things I do for business.
I bring my lips to the glass and sniff. My lip curls up in disgust. Smells like it’s loaded with sugar and cheap. With a groan, I suck down the mystery cocktail.
Instant regret.
It’s sour and unoriginal. A bit like Nikita.
I choke the mouthful down and then glower at the colorful display in the glass. Looks pretty but tastes like shit. “You must be making it wrong,” I bite out, watching her mouth form a perfect O shaped hole for me to fill later. She may suck at coming up with new drink menu items, but then again, sucking is what she’s truly good at. “Try again, Nik.”
In the meantime, I have some business to deal with.
Mika, our head of security, makes his appearance right on time, dragging with him a blonde woman and her ingrate lover, who thought our establishment is run by fools.
People always underestimate us.
My eyes cut to my brother creeping from the shadows like a force of nature summoned by the newcomers.
He has rules that were broken and need to be put right.
Anyone who doesn’t know him might think he just came from the runway. His black button-down shirt is tailored to fit his striking form like a second skin, showing off his well-defined body beneath, with his sleeves rolled up just below the elbows which inadvertently shows off his veiny forearms. Tight white jeans, ripped in all the right places, paired with black lace up leather boots complete his attire. Standing well over six feet, he’s formidable and fucking beautiful.
His eyes flare like blue fire with anticipation. There was a time he would always wear black contact lenses, making him look more demon than man, but I fucking love those natural, electric blue eyes of his. It’s not often we have to dirty our hands in our own clubs, but every now and then, it’s good for the soul to let off some steam. It also doesn’t hurt to leave a recent memory in the minds of anyone who doubts who we are, especially since we’re planning a trip away and all.
People mistake beautiful people for kind, forgiving members of our society. They assume they won’t be ruthless, death handlers. Why would they be when they can have anything and anyone deal with that shit for them?