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I hate you.
The words echoed through the vast emptiness inside of me, only this time they were spoken in my own voice.
First a whisper, then a scream as Clover’s body went limp. It was as if she’d passed out, her head dangling over the counter again. My pulse skyrocketed with concern, but while I debated what to do, what I could do with all these people watching, the gradual arch of her back let me know that she was still lucid. Then the tilt of her hips. Then the lift of her feet up onto her toes.
Once again, our bodies vibrated on the same frequency, this time humming in unison as something shifted between us. With a few subtle movements, Clover had positioned herself so that the head of my cock was now sliding along the seam of her, stroking her clit with every thrust. Silky and wet, she began to rock against me when I grazed her entrance, and like her fury, I understood this repressed need as well. She was seeking something to fill the chasm of emptiness inside of her.
A chasm that I’d helped create.
I wanted nothing more than to give her what she craved. After five years of only being touched in violence, of refusing the advances of desperate, hollow-eyed women, I couldn’t deny that the thought of losing myself inside Clover’s perfect body had become an obsession. That need whispered to me. It undermined my wrath. It told me to close my eyes. To focus on the slick, warm oblivion she was offering. A bead of cum seeped from my cock in anticipation as I kneaded her arse and drove myself along her slit faster and faster.
Do it, the need whispered. She’s beggin’ for it. Feel how wet she is? She wants you to fuck her. Make her feel good. Make her come until she cries.
Clover’s hips met mine, thrust for thrust, and the sound of our bodies colliding—desperately asking for something the other wasn’t willing to give—echoed off the rafters until more sounds joined them. The sounds of pushing. And shoving. And shouting. And stroking.
I’d let it go too far. The men had gone from being passively distracted to aggressively impatient, and their eagerness to hurt my girl reignited my wrath like a match to a fuse. I’d had a plan when I crossed that room, but now that I knew what it felt like to hold Clover down while she thrashed and screamed and begged me to stop—now that I’d felt her tremors of terror with my own hands, heard her cries of desperation with my own ears—there was no going back.
I was going to kill every motherfucker in that room or die trying.
And I was going to start with him.
Lifting my head, I took in his salivating, glassy-eyed gaze, his quickly jerking fist tugging on a cock he deserved to be choking on, and tried to keep my facial expression neutral. But inside, I couldn’t even feel my face anymore. The wrath was taking over. It seeped from my pores like a poisonous gas. I could see it in the air, darkening the edges of my vision, blanketing Clover’s naked body like a shield. It slithered out of me in smoky tentacles, wrapping itself around the necks of every man in that room. Marking them. Tethering them to me so that they couldn’t get away.
“Join us,” I commanded in Russian, gesturing for that limp-dick piece of shit to come closer with a flick of my chin. “Got her purring like a kitten for ya.”
By the time he stepped forward and pressed the barrel of his gun to Clover’s head again, I had become a spectator in my own body. Time shifted into slow motion as I watched myself reach out and snatch the pistol from his hand. His eyes went so wide they looked like blue targets with black bull’s-eyes. I aimed at the one on the left and pulled the trigger. I didn’t hear the blast or feel the spray of blood misting my face; I was already sliding across the counter with my arm around Clover’s waist.
I dropped into a crouch behind the counter and set her down on her knees beside me. Her wrists were twisted in front of her, bound to the metal shelf post below the counter with a cable tie, but I would deal with that later. I had about ten seconds to kill eleven more sailors before the lads outside heard the gunfire and burst through that door.
Make that nine.
Clearing the shelf, I ducked under the counter and blew a hole through the stainless steel back, opening fire on a room full of men who were still trying to zip their trousers. I couldn’t see my targets, but I didn’t need to. It was as if my awareness had extended beyond my physical body. I knew where every man in the room was, living and dead.
Which was how I knew that one of them was coming over the counter, even before I heard Clover’s scream.
Jerking back, I turned and fired at the space over her head as a sneering man with a bushy black beard launched himself at me from above. The bullet tore through his throat, causing his charging body to go limp and plummet toward mine. Covering my head, I caught the brunt of his dead weight on my forearms and tossed it aside. He landed next to the first cunt I’d killed, and their bodies immediately began to jump and twitch as a hail of bullets rained down from above, tearing through the plaster wall behind me and the men slumped against it.
Evidently, the remaining men had finally put their cocks away and found their guns.
Three of the original twelve were still out there, firing at us. I could sense their locations, just like I could sense that my gun was out of ammo without needing to check.
There was no time to unholster the bearded sailor’s gun, so I grabbed the knife out of his boot—same as the one I’d had before I lost it in the sea—and turned to face all three men as they rushed the counter at the same time.
And the wrath smiled.
I’d never killed anyone before that day, but every slash, every duck, every punch and stab felt rehearsed, like a dance I could have done in my sleep. It wasn’t just my training kicking in or the adrenaline sharpening my skills; it was as if I had developed muscle memory for something I’d never done. It wasn’t a possession exactly. More like … an awakening.
My hands instinctively knew that a quick stab to the jugular was quicker than slitting a throat. They knew to aim for the kidney beneath the rib cage rather than go through the rib cage, looking for the heart. And when my knife was kicked out of my hand by the last man standing—that scrawny fucker with the blond buzz cut and the cattle prod—a distantly familiar surge of bloodlust shot through my veins as my hands snatched the weapon out of his grasp and jammed it deep into his belly.
He convulsed and jerked as the current tore through him, foaming at the mouth, but my wrath only grew. It wouldn’t be satisfied with the simple pull of a trigger or the slash of a blade. My muscles screamed for a release that only my bare hands could deliver.
Throwing the cattle prod to the ground, I caught his falling body by the neck and felt that muscle memory take over again. I squeezed until his windpipe collapsed, knowing exactly what that crush would feel like before it happened. Just like I knew that my arms would shake from exertion and I’d need to widen my stance to support the weight of a thrashing man. I also knew what I would find shining out of Clover’s glistening green eyes before I looked over at her. I’d seen it in my dream in the cave. Acceptance. Gratitude. Overwhelming relief.
But that was where my knowing ended. Once again, I was reminded that Clover was not the girl from my dreams, She wasn’t staring at me like I was her hero. In fact, she wasn’t looking at me at all. She was too busy using the knife I’d dropped to saw through her restraints.
If time had been moving in slow motion before, the sight of her kneeling and naked, hands bound as if in prayer, made it stop altogether. I felt as though I were gazing upon a religious painting, a masterpiece in a museum somewhere that commanded my full attention. Dark auburn hair cascaded over the curves of her body as bright red streams flowed from her pale wrists. She didn’t look human. She looked … heavenly. A crimson angel of pain.
But when her eyes finally lifted to mine, the only thing I saw shining out of them was terror.
