Raze & Reap (13 page)

My hands were now shaking, gaze fixed on the tally marks. Raze obviously caught my stare. Moving to the bench, he picked up a steel knuckleduster, well used if its look was anything to go by, yet the spiked sharp blades glinted in the florescent light. A whimper escaped my mouth.

Raze stalked over my way, slipping the knuckleduster on his hand, and set me in his sights. Fear froze me to the spot. I tried to swallow back a cry. Raze didn't stop until he was almost on top of me, his hands fisted at his sides, the right clad in steel lifting to run over his abs, his abs covered in uneven, straggly inked tallies.

“My kills,” he announced coldly, his voice sounding like he'd swallowed broken glass. The fear I harbored deep inside intensified. I focused on his mouth, his face, and saw nothing but rage. It was as though any emotion but hatred had been cast out. No humanity was evident in his stare … but those eyes … those eyes!

“Over six hundred,” Raze suddenly added, dragging me back to the here-and-now. I followed the trail of his hand and realized what he'd just said.

“Six hundred?” I gasped.

Raze's lip hooked into a humorless smirk. His spiked hand fisted, and I heard his knuckles crack as he leaned in. “
Over
.”

Raze's feet edged forward again, and he held out the spike and brought it toward my cheek. I couldn't breathe as the metal drifted closer to my skin, only then to witness Raze drag it down his bare chest and abs to a tally comprising three marks.

Slamming the spike into his skin, blood instantly pooled, and he dragged it down to make a messy, uneven line. All the time, he didn't remove his brown eyes from mine. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stop him from harming himself. I wanted to gaze into those eyes and pretend I was here with Luka. My kind, beautiful Luka, brown eyes with a blue smudge that matched mine.

But this man, this
Raze
, was fucked up.
Too
fucked up.

He wasn't my Luka, no matter how hard I wished he was.

Releasing the spike from his torso, Raze directed his hand my way, and I flinched, bringing up my hand, which clutched my pad and pen, to defend my face. The pen was ripped from my grasp. Raze placed the plastic between his teeth and snapped it in half, spitting shattered pieces to the floor. Ink began to drip on his skin. Guiding the broken pen to the new gash, Raze stabbed it along the cut and rubbed the ink into the open wound.

“Raze!” I shrilled. I fought the urge to knock the pen from his hands. But Raze soon released it from his grip and, lowering his mouth to my ear, said, “Another kill …
your
kill, the one I killed for
you
.”

As I choked back my shock, Raze backed away. He threw his knuckleduster back to the bench, and resuming a vacant concentration, he lifted the dumbbells and continued his routine.

Slapping my chest, I worked on breathing. What the hell had just happened? Who
was
this man?

Gripping my notebook, just as I was about to leave, a burning question spilled from my lips. “Who exactly is it you want revenge on?”

Raze paused, only for moment, and without facing me, uttered, “Durov. Alik Durov from Brooklyn, New York. Revenge.
Kill
.”

Icicles ran down my spine as he hissed out that name like he was spitting out poison, and I ran out of the room, ignoring Viktor who was leaning against the wall just outside, and slammed the door of my office. Turning the key in the lock, I made sure no one could come in.

Reaching into my desk, I grabbed my cell and called Talia … which went straight to voicemail.

When the beep sounded, I hushed out, “Talia! Call me back. It's urgent. I need to talk.”

Slamming my cell closed, I sat behind my desk, mind starting to replay what had just happened. Raze was disturbed. Cold. Unfeeling … And I was insanely and irrevocably attracted to him. His fresh snow smell, his rugged and raw face, his ripped and cut body … the muscles, the tattoos … the way he growled when he talked, but …

It was the eyes. I was losing my mind over those eyes.

And he wanted revenge on my fiancé. Knowing Alik, it could be for any number of things. Alik had built up an army of enemies over the years.

What if he killed Alik? What if this year Alik lost?

I waited for the sorrow, the pain, but I only felt numb.

“For fuck's sake, Kisa!”
I reprimanded myself, feeling turned on from thinking about Raze, of impossibilities.

Yet still I found myself wrenching open my desk's top drawer. Digging under the files, my hand found a cold edge of metal. Making sure the blinds were closed, I pulled out the old tarnished frame and stared at the picture inside, running my hands over the glass.

The picture was perfect: two children, one girl, one boy, one summer beach. The boy's arm draped over the girl's shoulder as they smiled for a close-up. Her eyes were light blue, his eyes the richest of brown, but the left iris was smudged with the girl's light blue.

They matched.

God made them this way so they would recognize themselves as meant for one another when they were born, so they would always find each other no matter where they were on Earth.

I looked up and stared at the door, picturing those same eyes on a killer in another room in my gym … Raze? Luka? A warm feeling washed over me at the possibility. But no, surely it was …

Impossible?

It was
impossible
 … right?

My cell phone rang. Talia!

Flipping the cell open, I sighed and said, “Talia … I think I fucked up.”

 

10

RAZE

My muscles ached with the weight of the dumbbells, adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

One …

Those eyes.

Two …

That smile.

Three …

That face.

Four …

Those tits.

Five—

Throwing the heavy dumbbells to the floor, I stomped to the bench, slipped on my knuckledusters, and walked to the leather-bound post. I worked at my strikes, that fucking euphoric feeling of the spikes slicing into the post taking over.

I visualized a torso, a face, the fucking smug-ass face of Alik Durov, but that woman, the boss of
The Dungeon,
her scent wrapped around me, tugging at my attempt to concentrate. Finally, I stopped, and leaned on the post. I shook my head as flashes of images raced through my mind. Sand, hot weather, my lips touching someone else's. But I couldn't make out faces, couldn't remember … Fuck, I didn't want to remember!

I had one goal. One chance to kill Durov, on my terms, in my arena.

Stepping back, I raised my fists, but Volkova's face was there again, in my mind, not moving from my fucking mind. My cock hardened. I was being driven insane with the need to come.

That woman.

Since I'd seen her getting attacked, I'd had to act. I'd had to save her. An instinct, a gut feeling forced me to snap that cunt's neck.

And she ran this ring? She fucking
ran
this death ring!

I groaned. Those nipples, those firm tits pushing against her top. Throwing my head back, I squeezed my eyes shut. I'd never had a woman. Never sank into a woman's hole. Never kissed a woman's lips. But
her
lips, I wanted wrapped around my cock.

Fight. Focus on the fucking fight!
I kept telling myself, but my cock was throbbing, aching. The new tattoo, the sign of my recent kill, pulsed. I'd killed for her. Spilt blood for her … a stranger, an unknown.

A frustrated roar built up in my throat. Drawing back my fist, I plunged it into the post, which rocked at the force of my blow. Leather ripped and the wood beneath splintered.

Ripping off my knuckledusters, I stormed into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I leaned against the wall and ripped down my shorts. Grabbing my hard cock, I started pumping hard, gasping at the sensation.

I closed my eyes. Volkova's face was there, her pink lips parted, her blue eyes watching me, her nipples hardening, her thighs clenching and heat rising on her fucking beautiful face.

I growled as I worked myself harder, hips swaying back and forth as I pictured bending her over, ripping off her panties, and sinking my rock-hard dick into her ass. It was warm and wet and choked my dick like a vise.

I huffed out a breath at the building heat climbing up my dick. My balls tightened and, slamming a clenched hand against the wall of the stall, I came hard, chest sweating, breath panting fast.

I opened my eyes, steadied myself, and wiped my hot cum from my hand. I left the stall and noticed Viktor hovering near the punching bag, a curious look on his face.

Walking to the bench press, I straddled the bench and lay back, gripping the barbell. Viktor cleared his throat.

Ignoring the shitbag, I hefted the bar and heavy weights from the stand to begin my reps.

Someone, probably Yiv, knocked on the door and ordered, “Raze, out here now.”

Placing the weight back on to the stand, I rose to my feet and walked out into the wider gym, my gaze narrowed and to the ground. There I saw fighters all itching to draw blood, like feral animals being held back on a leash, coaches standing by, watching on.

Then my blood ran cold as Durov pushed through the crowd, his narrowed eyes trained on me.

I stood my ground, fighting an overwhelming urge to rush forward and break his neck. But I wanted his death to be drawn out, real slow, humiliating. Durov clicked his neck from side to side. I had no memory yet of how he'd lied, how he'd condemned me to the Gulag, but I didn't give a fuck. I would remember in time. Every fiber of my being told me this prick must die.

Alik's strut stopped just in front of me, his bare feet coming into view. I kept my chin down as I studied his every move from my peripheral vision. He was built for death match fighting. But so was fucking I.

“
Raze
is it?” he asked, and I could hear a smirk pull on his thin lips.

I kept staring at the ground, my silence causing him to step forward. “What's the matter, can't look at the champion? The man who can kill all the shits in this competition?” I didn't react, though my blood boiled inside. “Get in the fucking cage,” Alik then ordered. One of the trainers opened the steel door to the octagon and, without hesitation, I stepped inside.

I stood in the center and braced for an opponent. Alik flicked his chin in the direction of a dark fighter to his right, a fighter twice my size, but this didn't faze me.

“Get in with him.”

The fighter's coach pointed to the door, and I stayed still, my eyes remaining locked on the ground, even as I felt the fighter's presence fill the cage.

“The Turk, champion of the Chinese underground,” Alik said. “Let's see what you got. First man to knock out wins.”

I clenched my hands into fists just as the Turk charged, his large, heavy feet bouncing the floor of the cage. I tilted my head to face him, unmoving, watching his slow movements with tight eyes, my gaze zoning in on his weak and untrained attack.

The Turk charged me and lifted his fist to strike. Ducking, I jabbed his kidney, then struck his jaw before he'd even had a chance to react. Turning around, I slowly walked away, eyes again fixed on the ground, as I heard the Turk hit the floor—unconscious.

The other fighters grew restless, a mob of psychos shouting, eager to take me on. I looked up, sure Alik couldn't see my eyes under the black grease from here.

Alik's eyes flared with rage. He turned to a blond-haired fighter and screamed, “You're next.”

The blond entered the cage as the Turk's trainer dragged out his knocked-out ass. The blond gave me no time to prepare. He ran at me full force. As he was about to tackle me, I quickly spun away. Gripping his neck, I used his momentum to slam his thick skull into the rigid metal of the cage. Then I forced him back to ram his nose into my knee. The guy slumped to the floor, a pool of blood already forming.

Standing straight, I wiped the blood from my hands on my torso. I caught a glimpse of Durov seething on the spot. I saw his gaze shoot to the left. I followed his line of sight and my gaze fell on Volkova, who had stepped out of her office. Her face, betraying shock, took in the scene. Then her huge blue eyes met mine, once again locked into the pull that was pulsing between us.

Movement from the side brought my attention back to Durov, who was sprinting toward the cage. My muscles rippled as I braced for his attack. Suddenly, a loud clapping from the back of the room stopped Durov in his tracks.

A gray-haired man stepped forward. He wore a long black coat and a suit, his excited eyes not once straying from me. Durov paled when the man stepped forward. He stared at me, teeth gritted in frustration, chest veins dancing under his flesh.

He wanted me dead too.

Fucking perfect.

“Alik, don't you dare think of getting into that cage,” the man said, then looked at Volkova, and my blood began pumping. “Kisa, come,” he ordered.

Kisa …

Kisa bowed her flushed face and walked over and stood beside him.

“The buy-in?” he asked, his cold eyes drinking in my still form. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the number—818—tattooed across my chest. I dropped my chin, avoiding eye contact.

“Y-yes,” Kisa stuttered.

Durov roared and punched the nearest wall, evidently losing his shit. The man didn't even flinch, too busy forming a smile on his sharp face. This guy exuded power; he had to be the one in charge, the boss, the Pakhan Viktor had fucking talked about nonstop. The most powerful man in New York, ruthless, not to be fucked with.

“He goes on the headline roster,” he ordered Kisa. She nodded in agreement.

“Like fuck he does!” Alik boomed out as he faced up to the Pakhan, his torso tight with strain. A nervous hush settled on the gym as Alik fumed on the spot. As quick as a flash, the Pakhan gripped Alik's face in his hands and pushed him back against the mesh wall of the cage. Alik smashed into the metal, which clinked and groaned at the force of impact.