War (Romanian Mob Chronicles Book 5) (11 page)

“Like I said, I’m just waiting,” I replied, taking a step to the right, wanting to put at least a little more space between us.

The other reached up and grabbed my arm. “My friend asked you a question,” he said.

I attempted to snatch my arm away, something that was not possible with his tight grip.

“Yeah. I asked you a question. How much for the both of us?”

I was on the verge of full-blown panic. This would not go well. Not at all.

I needed to get out of here, so I tried to pull my arm away again, but to no avail. The second man tightened his grip into a crushing hold that I knew would leave a bruise.

“Look,” I said, making my voice as stern as I possibly could, “I’m waiting for someone. He’s not going to appreciate what you’re doing. You should let me go and move along.”

“You talk a lot, but I have something that will keep you quiet,” the first man said.

I cried out when the man who held me twisted my arm and pulled me down, forcing me to bend at the knee. I struggled against him, leaning back against the wall and trying to resist sliding down. He twisted tighter, and I cried out, the pain in my arm making silence impossible.

“Maybe you’ll treat your next customers more nicely,” he said.

Then he twisted even harder, so hard I thought my shoulder might come flying out of the socket.

I cried out again, braced myself to hit the floor, and frantically tried to think of what I would do after that happened.

Then I flew back, my arm free from his grip, back hard into the wall.

I took a moment to regain my balance, and when I heard the cry and then sharp crack of bone, I looked wildly toward the sound.

Priest had twisted the arm of one who had held my arm behind his back, much as the man had done me. With his other, he held the back of the man’s head and then began banging his face against the wall. There was another crack and then a bright splatter of blood that soon turned brown. The man went limp, and would have slid down the wall, but Priest held him tight and continued to pound his face against the surface, the sickening crack of bones now muted, probably because there were none left to break.

I’d never seen anything so brutal, so violent in person. I grew queasy as I watched, but whether that was because of the adrenaline crash that was leaving me shaky or my relief that Priest was there, I couldn’t say.

A second later, Priest let him go, and he flopped against the wall. Dead or unconscious, I couldn’t tell which.

I ignored him, though, and instead I watched Priest, his expression tight, angry, but still controlled as he turned to the man who stood.

“Priest, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was with you.”

Priest said nothing, but the silence was soon filled by the thud of Priest’s fist against his throat and then a low, wet-sounding gurgle as he fought to catch his breath.

He watched as the man dropped to his knees and then flopped against the wall. Then, he turned to look at me, pausing to adjust his jacket.

“I’m finished. We can go,” he said.

P
riest

F
ifteen minutes later
, Markov’s was far behind us, but I hadn’t said anything and neither had Milan.

My silence was solely because my heart was still rattling around my chest, that mix of anger and something far too like fear making it difficult for me to speak.

I didn’t know why she was silent, though.

Her expression was still neutral, but I remember how she looked at me, her eyes wide as her gaze had strayed from me back to the mangled face of the one who’d touched her and then back to me again.

Was she afraid? Probably. That had to have been terrifying for her.

She could also be disgusted, not used to seeing that level of violence up close, disgusted she had been a part of it.

“Did you find what you needed?” she finally asked.

I searched her voice for a hint of what she might be feeling, but there was nothing.

“No,” I responded a moment later.

And silence again filled the car, leaving me to my thoughts of both Milan and this fiasco.

The entire trip had been a waste of time and effort, not that anything would have been worth putting Milan in that situation.

I laughed bitterly but didn’t say anything when Milan looked at me.

At least Markov had gotten something out of it. The fucker had relished having me come to him, probably even more because he’d known nothing, or at least nothing certain.

I had come to him because I knew others did, and that in their condition, high on drugs and stupidity, tongues were more likely to slip, and maybe say something I needed to know.

That hadn’t happened, though.

Markov had tried to bluff, string me along, but in the end, he’d been forced to confess he knew nothing of what was happened.

I had taken Milan into that viper’s den for no reason. I had exposed her to who and what I was for no reason.

She’d known before. The circumstances of our meeting were definitive proof, and I’d made no attempts to hide anything from her.

But knowing abstractly and seeing were different things, ones that couldn’t help but taint how she saw me.

I’d not been stupid enough to think she saw me favorably. Our physical connection brought her comfort, my protection gave her safety, but she didn’t think highly of me, didn’t do something insane like think I was a good person.

So it shouldn’t matter what she’d seen. She’d be gone in a matter of days. I’d see her reestablished somewhere safe and comfortable and get back to my world. Her opinion didn’t matter in the least.

Why, then, couldn’t I squash the regret that nagged at my heart? And why the fuck did I care?

“We’re back,” I said after I pulled into the garage.

It was a stupid, needless statement, but I’d felt compelled to speak, and while the important words, questions, were unwilling to be voiced, I settled for those I could speak, stupid as they were.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a strained, tight sound that I hated.

Once I’d checked the house, I stayed in the living area and listened as she went to our room.

Our room.

I tried to correct that thought, but there was no pretending that wasn’t how I thought of it, even after this short time.

Which was beyond stupid.

There was no “us,” no “our,” but the fact that she had gone there, where we had been together, instead of one of the other rooms gave me relief unlike any I’d had before.

I stood in the living room at a loss for what else to do. I wanted to go to her, desperately, but I waited. Uncertainty was a trait I despised, one that I had seen get others killed, but in this moment, I was filled with it.

Go to her and risk having what I feared confirmed?

Stay and risk missing the opportunity to be close to her?

I couldn’t decide, and the answer came no closer the longer I stood.

“Priest.”

Milan’s voice was quiet, the distance making it almost tinny, but I heard it and I followed it, realizing as I went, she had taken the choice from me, something for which I decided I was grateful.

When I pushed the door open, I stopped and then looked to the bed where she sat.

I paused and then saw her, lying there. She had taken off everything but her underwear, and as beautiful as the sight of her body was, as much as I craved her, it wasn’t her nakedness that got me.

No, it was when she lifted her hand toward me, reached for me, that something broke loose in my chest.

I rushed toward her and stripped out of my clothes, uncaring where they landed for once, the need to touch her driving me. The source of this woman’s power over me, the connection to her, the need I felt for her was still unexplained, but an explanation didn’t matter, couldn’t in the face of the overwhelming desire that drove me.

When I reached her, she grabbed at me, pressed her body against mine, her tight nipples diamond points against my chest, her body soft and warm in my arms.

I pressed her back against the bed and laid my weight atop her, my raging-hard cock nestled between her thighs, the soft, wet flesh of her pussy searing me.

She clenched at my shoulders, then trailed her hands down my back and over my chest, the little points of her nails breaking up the softness of her palms against my skin.

She lifted her hips and hooked her thighs around my waist, her heat against my shaft.

I wanted to bury myself inside her, fuck her until neither of us could breathe. When she moved under me, pulled her closer, I almost did.

It was only the last pebble of common sense that kept me from losing myself in her wet heat, but it stopped me.

I couldn’t leave her, though, so I caught her lips with mine, kissed her deep, hard, and at the same time rocked my hips.

My cock was nestled between her folds, and though I wasn’t inside her, this touch was better than anything I had ever felt.

She rocked below me until we were both wet with her juices and my precum. And then she reached between our bodies and laid her hand against me, trapping me between her pussy and her hand as I thrust.

Her hand against me as I thrust created a friction that scored the skin of my shaft, but that left me desperate, wanting. And when Milan slicked her thumb across the crown of my cock, my control snapped.

I locked eyes with her as I pushed her hand away, and she turned her lips up in a gentle, teasing smile, one that silently asked if I could really pass up what she was offering.

I prided myself on my rationality, my self-control, but neither was even the faintest of thoughts as I gripped Milan’s thighs and pulled them apart. My gaze dropped to her sex, and in the dimness, I could still see her slick lips, the dampness that made her skin gleam.

My cock thickened, and in a near frenzy, I gripped the base and pushed myself in line with her opening, the tight hole opening to take me as I thrust inside her.

I was too far gone for finesse, and she exhaled hard as I filled her completely, her tight walls squeezing my cock so tight, I was on the verge of losing control. But though I lacked the capacity for finesse, I wouldn’t embarrass myself, so with each hard thrust inside her, I stroked her hard clit with my thumb, desperate to give her some fraction of the searing pleasure that rushed through me.

That pleasure only intensified with each of Milan’s touches, her fingers against my chest, my back, her soft breaths and warm lips against my neck. I held on far longer than I’d thought, but when she squeezed her pussy tight around me, I lost it.

Cum surged to the tip of my cock, and though I wanted to empty myself inside her, the last remains of my reason made me pull out.

The instant I was no longer inside her, I came, spurting my seed onto her pussy and stomach.

I wrapped an arm around her waist and laid my head between her breasts, pressing my body against hers, uncaring of the mess. And in the darkness, I lay, listening to her breath and heartbeat, feeling more alive than I ever had in my life.

P
riest

“
I
was worried
,” she said a long time later.

I squeezed her tight. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Milan. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you,” I said.

I meant what I said, but that didn’t change the fact she’d been far too close to danger, and it didn’t change the fact that if I had been even seconds later, Milan would have suffered for my failure. Gratitude, an uncommon emotion for me, spread over me.

She turned and looked up. “I know,” she replied.

I frowned. “Then why were you worried?” I asked.

“After, when we were coming back, you were quiet,” she said.

“What of it? I’m not much for idle chatter,” I said.

The explanation was true on its surface, but I knew that wasn’t the entire truth. That Milan did too showed she had more insight into me, my moods, my intentionally indecipherable demeanor than anyone else did. Before, that would have displeased me, but the idea of Milan knowing me, understanding me at least that much, did not displease me. Not at all.

In fact, that thing, the connection with her, was stronger than any I’d ever had. That didn’t displease me either.

“I noticed,” she said. “But that car ride, it was different. You seemed different,” she said.

“I was…” I trailed off, wondering what to say.

There was the uncertainty of what to say, how to phrase it. Then there was the fact that this was all new to me. I had never been in this situation before, whispering quietly in the dark as I held someone close, someone that I cared about.

“I didn’t know how you felt,” I said. “I wasn’t sure what you thought about what you’d seen.”

We were quiet again, our breaths the only sound in the room. I waited, wondering what she might say.

“That’s fair,” she said. “To be honest, I wasn’t either.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She paused a moment and then continued. “Those guys,” she said, and then she shivered. I squeezed her a little bit tighter and stroked my hand down her arm, silently encouraging her to go on.

“Those guys. They weren’t nice. But…”

“But what?” I asked flatly.

“You hurt them. Badly,” she said.

“Yes,” I responded. I’d taken pleasure in doing so. I’d told Milan that violence was a necessity, but I rarely enjoyed it, viewed it more as a tool of my profession. They had been an exception.

“Why? They had gotten the message. They wouldn’t have done anything else,” she said.

“You know what they would have done to you if I hadn’t intervened?” I said.

She nodded.

“Isn’t that reason enough?” I asked.

“I guess. But…” She trailed off.

“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for them, Milan,” I said, meeting her eyes.

She returned my stare, her expression earnest. “I don’t feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for you,” she said.

I was stunned by what she said, and I searched her expression for an explanation, some hint that what she said was not true.

But all I found in it was honesty, truth. She felt sorry for me, thought I was worth her pity, thought I might accept it.

“Why? I might enjoy hurting people,” I finally said.

“You don’t.”

Her words, her certainty made me angry, unspeakably so. I disentangled from her, ignoring the emptiness I felt when we no longer touched, and then stood. Milan didn’t even flinch, just continued to watch me.

“Milan, there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said.

“Explain this misunderstanding,” she replied.

“It’s my fault,” I continued, “I allowed my regret about the circumstances to cloud my judgment, and I’ve been too soft with you. That softness has allowed you to think you know me. That you understand me. You don’t.”

“Don’t I?” she said.

I scowled, could feel the muscles in my face twisting with the displeasure I felt. I paused, breathed deep, and then continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Do you want to know why I did that, hurt those men so badly?”

I paused, regarding her as she considered her answer.

“I do. Or rather, I want to know why you think you did,” she said.

“There’s no ‘think,’ Milan. Only calculation. I have a reputation, one I have to live up to, so I couldn’t have let the insult stand. You didn’t factor it into the equation,” I said.

I waited, but Milan said nothing, so I continued again. “It wouldn’t have mattered who it was. You were there with me, so the insult was to me. Don’t read into it, make conclusions based on a world you couldn’t even begin to understand. Don’t think you know me. You don’t.”

“Perhaps,” she said, shrugging nonchalantly, her expression serene.

“‘Perhaps,’” I said, spitting the word scornfully. “That’s all you have to say?” I couldn’t believe she was so calm, treating this as if it was nothing, as if she knew me and understood me when she had no capacity to do so.

“Yeah. Seems like you have it all figured out,” she said.

“You disagree?” I asked incredulously.

I should have kept my mouth closed and left the conversation where it was. But the list of things I shouldn’t have done since I had first seen Milan, things I should have, was one far too long to articulate. So instead of focusing on that, I continued, though I knew that I was treading on dangerous ground, getting close to something I didn’t want to think about and certainly didn’t want to talk about with her.

“You’re being foolish, Milan. Haven’t you learned anything at all?”

She shrugged off the insult. “I know you have your reputation, that you had your reasons,” she said, waving dismissively. “You have everyone convinced you’re a monster. You want me to think that too. It’s not working.”

I began to pace, the frustration of this conversation rising with each passing moment. Again I should have left it, moved on from this conversation, but as frustrated as I was, as annoyed at her, I couldn’t. “What are you talking about?”

“You say you’re Priest. But I think you’re Nikolai,” she said.

I shook my head and then stopped, piercing her with my gaze. “You’re in shock. Or insane. Or stupid. There’s no other explanation. Because you don’t know me, Milan,” I said. My voice was a near growl now, low, rough with the vehemence I needed to make her understand how wrong she was. Because whatever she thought she knew, whatever I couldn’t stop myself from feeling for her, I would not allow this insanity to continue, wouldn’t let her think she understood things she knew nothing about, things she could never know anything about.

“No,” she said, again ignoring my insult, and instead throwing her legs on the side of the bed and sitting up, uncaring of her nakedness. “I don’t know you, not really. But I know myself, trust my gut. And my gut trusts you.”

Her voice, the surety in it, only sent my rage higher. I stepped close to her, grabbed her arms, and pulled her until we were eye to eye, nose to nose.

“Do you know how many people I’ve killed? People probably just like you?”

She shook her head, but her eyes remained impassive, certain.

“A lot,” I said. “And there will be more.”

I kept my eyes locked on hers, trying to compel her to do something, say something, react.

She did nothing, just stared at me.

“Say something!” I said, almost yelling, desperate for her to do anything but look at me like she believed in me, like she thought I was good person, a nice guy. Desperate for her to do something, anything to make me stop wanting to be whatever she wanted me to be, make me stop wanting to give her what she wanted, even though it was impossible for me. That tension, the desire to make her happy, chased by the awareness I could not, had me angry, on edge, filled with emotion I had little experience with and no ability to stop.

I dropped her hands and stepped away from her, needing the space. Still, Milan scarcely reacted.

“You want me to do something?” she said.

I didn’t speak but nodded. She stood and walked toward me, and though my emotions were thunderous, I didn’t move, not even when she came so close her body touched mine, her taut nipples brushing my skin.

She rose up on tiptoe and put one hand at the base of my neck, brushed her lips against mine softly.

“What are you doing, Milan?” I finally said once I’d regained my voice.

By that time, she’d lain down in bed and pulled the sheet up to her shoulder.

“I’m going to go to sleep, Nikolai,” she said.