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Of being on my knees submissively for him.
I might hate Mal. He might be a monster holding the life I’ve built over my head to satisfy his sick desires.
But the thing is, it seems to be satisfyingmysick desires just as much.
My finger is a blur over my throbbing clit. My other hand clutches at my breasts, pinching and teasing my nipples through the lace before sliding it up to my throat. I squeeze, desperate for that same rush that he brought me, choking myself before my fingers creep up to my mouth. I run them over my lips, capturing the last sticky drips of his cum there and sucking them off eagerly as my core seizes up and my thighs quiver.
With a muffled moaning cry, I’m coming, sucking his cum from my fingers as I explode against my fingers.
When I open my eyes, he’s gone.
I’m alone.
14
MAL
I crouchin the darkness outside Kir’s mansion, the scope of my rifle trained on the lit office windows. My finger hovers over the trigger, more for comfort than anything else. I’m not here to take a shot tonight, even if the windowsweren’tbulletproof.
Which they definitely are.
In the crosshairs, I see Kir lean back in his chair, sipping whiskey, the light catching the sharp angles of his face. He looks calm, collected—every bit the powerful Bratva leader.
But I know better. I’ve seen cracks in that façade at time. I’ve seen him rattled, if only momentarily.
I watched him that night the sky was filled with fire and the stench of death.
I saw him standing in the wreckage of my family home after the massacre that ripped my life apart. The blood was still fresh on the ground. The house was still ablaze.
And Kir Nikolayev was walking through the ruins like a ghost.
He had no business with my family. He had no reason to be there.
Except maybe to gloat?
To smile at the destruction?
Who knows.
The image of him standing there, surrounded by the corpses of my family, is burned into my mind. It's a memory that refuses to die, no matter how many years have passed. It’s why I’m here now, watching him.
Kir takes another sip of his drink, blissfully unaware of my presence, completely relaxed. I let my finger drift off the trigger and settle lower, my eyes focusing on the room behind him. My attention shifts to the mantelpiece, where a row of photographs sits in neat, polished frames.
I adjust the scope, zooming in. The first photo is of Annika and Kir, sitting at a fancy restaurant together. Another, much older, is of a teenaged Kir with his arm around a young girl who looks very much like him.
Polina, his late sister; mother of Damian, still in the hospital.
My scope drifts to the left, and I frown when it lands on more framed pictures.
Of Freya.
There’s one of her with Kir—some Nikolayev family event, perhaps. She’s smiling, laughing, carefree.
Carefree.
It’s almost laughable. If only Kir knew the truth about the girl he’s been treating like a daughter all these years. If only he knew who she really was, what blood runs in her veins.Lindqvistblood—killers and betrayers, all of them.
Her father orchestrated the betrayal that shattered my world, and took Polina Nikolayev’s and her husband’s lives. Freya’s part of that legacy, whether she admits it or not.
