Page 163 of Fallen Rook

“Surprise.” I grinned. “I’m not the only pidoras you know.” I could only guess the meaning of the Russian word. “Agent Rothwell is one, too. And let me tell you a secret, Slava.” I leaned down, straddling him, my mouth a breath away from his, so close that I knew he was losing the last shred of his sanity. I put my mouth on the shell of his ear, whispering, “He fucks real good, real hard, and real nice. But when you fuck with his boyfriend? He tends to be a mean motherfucker, just like me.”

Panic swelled in his eyes, his chest moving like a hulking beast beneath my fingertips. “You’re both perverts and creeps, and belong with one another!” he choked out, hoping for a quick and angry kill to spare him my torturing techniques. “Vello must be rolling in his grave, to see his son sucking dick.”

“One could only hope,” I drawled with detachment, unsheathing my tactical knife and running the pad of my finger over the edge to ensure it was dull, to cause extra pain. “I pray his spirit is in the room every time Tom plows into me. He deserves the angst, after everything he put my family through.”

“Kill me,” he barked. “Get it over with, before my brothers find out.”

“Nice try. No one’s looking for you. Alex doesn’t know about the shipment—even if he did, he’d be glad I’m killing a traitor. Jeremie…” I trailed off, frowning. “I’m not sure if he’s even Bratva anymore. His loyalty is with Sofia, and by extension, with the Outfit. No. It seems like I have you all to myself for a while. And I know just what to do with you.”

I jammed the knife into his right shoulder, pinning him to the earth to keep him immobile. He threw his head back and roared in pain.

“Are you religious, Slava?” I asked laconically.

He was still screaming his lungs off. I didn’t think he heard me.

“I don’t think you are. Shame. You could use God right about now.” I stuffed my whole palm into his mouth, pressing downward, applying pressure, and dislocating his jaw. A fitting punishment for a snitch in our world.

He tried screaming, but my fist muffled the noise. I wasn’t worried about being heard, either way. He’d chosen the perfect spot for our little reunion. Not a soul in sight in the dark woods.

“My favorite verse is this—Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Psalm 23. Very poetic,” I murmured, hearing the pop of his lower jawbone disconnecting from the rest of his skull. His mouth hung loose. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I mainly love it because of ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ by Coolio. Alas, we all need a reminder that God is with us in hard times. I think this moment falls into that category for you, Rasputin.”

His senses were clouded at this point, the loss of blood and the pain too great for him not to slip in and out of consciousness. I retrieved the knife and carved out a little message to whoever was going to find him. The word traitor across his stomach. I dug deep, too, so that he’d have to be buried with that message etched into his skin.

Two hours or so after I’d started torturing him, his lungs gave out and he hissed one final exhale. A tiny ribbon of condensation, so thin it extinguished like a cigarette in a puddle. He was so bloodied and beaten by this point, it’d take days to recognize him. If whatever wildlife lurked here didn’t devour him before he was found.

“I wish I could flay you.” I stood from his body, unzipping my slacks and whipping out my dick, guiding it toward his face’s general direction. “You’d have made a wonderful coat, you cunt.”

I pissed on the raw, exposed flesh, spat in his face, turned around, and walked away.

It was six in the morning by the time I returned to my apartment. I smelled like blood, sweat, and the great outdoors, and believe it or not, I didn’t look my best. I still looked a trillion times better than most people—obviously—just not Enzo Ferrante god-tier glorious.

I couldn’t wait to drag my ass into the shower, wash off all of Slava’s grime, and sleep until the late afternoon. Everything else could wait; the Bratva could be dealt with tomorrow.

In the elevator on my way up to my place, I checked my Instagram. My last post had gotten a record of 62k likes. Most of them weren’t even from my followers. I guess people were excited about my embracing my true self. I was excited, too, even if my psoriasis was worse than ever and I still suffered through frequent bouts of anxiety and self-doubt.

The elevator dinged open, and I stepped out of it.

I froze.

Sitting against my door, on the floor, was Tom Rothwell, dressed in a sharp suit, his hair in delicious disarray.

Was I…dead? Because Tom looked like an angel in that moment.

Fuck, if I was dead, and ended up in heaven, someone was going to lose their job. Several someones, most likely. God was gonna be way pissed. Unless, of course, this was a reward for killing that cunt, Slava, and sparing the world of his wrath.

Tom’s gaze darted up from his phone, and he scrambled to his feet, not unlike a schoolboy caught doing something naughty. I forced myself to stand still, from fear I’d hurt him if I threw myself at him. My bodily reaction to him frightened me. It was visceral and potent, like an electric shock.

And there was something else. Suddenly, I felt almost…shy.

Yeah. I know. Me. Shy. Unheard of. But he’d given up so much for me, I didn’t think they’d yet invented the appropriate words for me to thank him.

Neither of us spoke, but something needed to be said, and besides, I’d do anything to hear his beautiful voice. So I snorted. “Agent Asshole? Really?”

He tried to smile, but couldn’t quite get there. The corners of his lips never lifted fully into a grin. “You followed me back.”

“Duh. I’d follow you anywhere.” I glanced at my boots, caked with mud, feeling my cheeks warming up. “You know that. I’m a pest. You said so yourself.”

He shook his head. “You were never a pest.”