I might be freezing, but this man is ice cold.
“I can tell,” he says.
I don’t want to say anything. I want to stay silent.
My words won’t change anything and he doesn’t deserve to hear them.
But almost by instinct, my voice quietly responds, “You can tell what, Kassian?”
“That you have forgotten everything.”
He’s trying to goad me, to get a reaction, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. I know where this is leading. No matter how I respond, he’s going to do what he wants.
“Beg me,” he says, grasping my chin as I continue to shake, completely drenched. He’s holding the towel hostage, refusing to wrap it around me. “Beg me to bring you that mattress and I will, pretty girl.”
I continue to stare at him, his grip tight as he holds my face, waiting for those magic words.
He’s not getting them.
I begged him that night. The night he broke into my house. The night he stole my life. I begged him not to do it, to leave us in peace, but none of it mattered, so it’ll take one hell of a miracle to get me to ever beg him again.
The smirk that touches the corners of Kassian’s mouth tells me that’s exactly what he was expecting... exactly what he wanted. He drags my face closer to his, fingers digging into my skin, squeezing my cheeks, his lips just a breath from my own as he says, “Concrete it is...”
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know that I’ve ever encountered a problem that a grenade couldn’t solve. Just pull the pin, toss, BOOM. Problem gone. I’ve gotten rid of a few issues that way, wiped right off the map, bye-bye. It’s easy to forget about something once it no longer exists, when you never have to see it again.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Maybe that makes me an even bigger asshole than you thought, the fact that I’d rather erase something from my life than actually deal with any sort of fallout. Because fallout? It’s messy... messier than the destruction a grenade can cause.
My brother says it’s because I’m allergic to feelings.
I just think most people aren’t worth the trouble.
A V40 minifrag, grenade the size of a golf ball. Weighs maybe five ounces or so. If you’re within sixteen feet of the thing when it goes off, you’re fucked. Up to a couple hundred feet, and it’s probably going to hurt. A lot. Dangerous little fuckers, which is why they’re out of service. Not hard to carry a few of them around in your pocket, if you’re willing to risk blowing your dick off by accident.
I’ve tossed a few in my life, most just for the fun of it. They send one hell of a message. They get people’s attention.
“You’re making me nervous, boss.”
Turning my head, looking away from the high-class whorehouse Aristov runs, I glance at the driver’s seat beside me, where Seven sits. Yeah, he looks nervous. He’s sweating fucking bullets.
“I’m not going to blow us up,” I say, glancing at the little grenade in the palm of my hand. I’ve been running my fingers along the cold steel the entire thirty minutes we’ve been sitting here.
Debating.
Contemplating.
I really want to pull the pin and toss this bitch right inside Limerence. Bye-bye, whorehouse. Bye-bye, Russian assholes. But every time I get the itching to do it, to watch it all go BOOM, something stops me.
That something being more of a someone.
Scarlet.
You see, she might be inside, and that’s a bit of a problem.
The kind of problem, I’m discovering, a grenade just isn’t solving.
“Five more minutes,” I say. “If something doesn’t happen within the next five minutes, I’m shoving this grenade down his fucking throat.”
Tick, tick, tick...
Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds.
I swear to fuck, that’s how much time passes until Three appears. He jogs right over to the car, dressed in all black, blending into the darkness since night long ago fell. An entire day wasted where not a goddamn thing got accomplished.
Aristov is still happily breathing.
Scarlet is still, unfortunately, missing.
Three slides into the backseat, right behind me, slamming the door a bit harder than necessary.
“Three,” I say, “you were three seconds away from getting your bowels blown out today.”
He starts to talk but immediately pauses, brow furrowing as he scoots to the middle of the backseat, looking up at me. “I think Lexie’s done that to me before.”
I look at him. “What?”
“Yeah, isn’t that where they stick their tongue—?”
Seven groans, covering his face as he leans forward against the steering wheel.
“Just tell me what you found out,” I say, cutting him off before he goes into detail about the kinky shit they’ve done. “And it better be something, because if I sat out here waiting while you got your dick sucked...”
“Of course not, boss,” he says. “Kept it in my pants the whole time. We were just talking.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense here. Tell me what your little Daisy Chain had to say.”
He starts spilling. I’ll spare you the word-for-word and summarize, since Three seems to like to hear himself talk and he just keeps going on and on and on.
Scarlet’s most definitely inside. Aristov has her locked in the basement, only one set of keys to get down there, which are usually in Aristov’s possession. Security is tightened at the moment, which is what took Three so long. Wasn’t easy navigating past all the armed guards.
“Thursday,” Three says after a moment. “I know it’s a few days away, but Lexie thinks that’s our best chance to get her out safely. Aristov has the party happening at his house, so we know he’ll be gone, and by then he’ll relax security again, figuring he’s in the clear, you know? Lexie can keep an eye out for the kid at the house while we go after Scarlet, maybe hit them back-to-back.”
“Maybe,” I agree, although it sounds a lot like bullshit. Who’s to say Aristov won’t kill them both before then? Hell, maybe they’re already dead because I took too long coming up with a plan.
Patience has never been my strong suit.
I’m not exactly keen on waiting for anything.
Nor am I good at planning, for that matter.
I’m the shoot first, ask questions never type... you know, the kind to toss a grenade in a packed room to solve a personal problem?
“Or,” I say, stressing the word, “I can just walk in right now and make it all go BOOM.”
Three laughs as he settles into the backseat, while Seven starts the car, like he thinks we’re about to leave. I don’t like it, though. I just can’t walk away. It feels wrong, her being right there and me not doing a goddamn thing about it.
That’s not me.
“Wait here,” I order, opening my door and climbing out of the car.
I carry the grenade with me.