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Good. I’m on comfortable ground, being the villain.
Staring down the corridor into the black abyss, I clench my fists and steady my breathing.Let her go.
A low whistle from behind me. My hand twitches towards the AK then I realize I’d know that noise anywhere. It’s a signature of Donnacha’s. When I turn, he’s leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his combat pants. “Her prince tried to rescue her from your ivory tower, Lorc. And you ain’t gonna pop a bullet in his ass? You must be whipped.”
I grunt in response, stalking away from him. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Sweet dreams, Mother Gothel.”
“Fuck off.”
I get halfway to the lobby when I stop. The rage is flowing through me thick and fast. I know I’m not sleeping this side of sunrise. I’m not angry at her. I’m pissed at the bastard who thought he could turn up atmyestate and scream blue-fucking-murder in the hope I’ll hand over Poppy. I’m angry at the fact he called her baby. Had the nerve to stand on my turf and tell her he thought they were going to get married and have children.
And I’m fuckingfuriousthat he told her he fucked someone else.
The irony that she’s been fucking me this whole time isn’t lost on me, it’s just irrelevant.
Poppy thinks I don’t care. I wish. The problem is that I care too fucking much.
A gruff laugh echoes down the hallway. Donnacha hasn’t moved a muscle, studying me with a glint in his eyes. You’d never know we were in the middle of a fucking war with how laid-back that bastard is.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He takes his time pushing himself off the wall and reaching for his burner phone. “My men are already tracking him. You’ll catch up with them if you hurry.”
After a beat, I give him a curt nod. Then, I pop the bullets out of my rifle chamber and let them bounce off the floor. “Just in case I’m tempted to use them,” I snarl.
Donnacha shakes his head, still chuckling to himself.
“You’re going soft, Lorc.”
Lorcan
We call it the Observatory. A grand name for nothing but a small room separated from one of our largest torture chambers by a plywood wall. Running through the middle of it is one-way glass. From the Observatory, I have a front-row seat to whoever we’re interrogating. I can look at them, but when they look at me, all they see is their own defeat in their bloodied faces.
I’m on edge, pacing the length of the one-way mirror, like I’ve seen Antoin do a million times. To pass the time, I massage my swollen knuckles. Today, the swelling isn’t from any one-on-one interrogation with a Bratnov ally. But rather a visit to the BostonFour Seasonshotel in the early hours, where I landed my fist on Poppy’s ex-boyfriend’s face, one hit for every time he called her a slut, bitch, or whore. Then another round for good measure.
Getting your hands on any hotel key card in the city is pretty easy when they all pay you for protection.
God, fucking Poppy. Every time I blink I see her crying face behind my eyelids. I hate that she hates me. It’s seeping into my consciousness and makes me feel sick in a way I can’t articulate. Even if Iwasone of those pussies that spoke about his feelings. I’m hoping the feeling will go away if I knock Maxim around enough.
Yes, I finally have my hands on Igor’s eldest son. His second-in-command, the closest person to Igor himself.
I can hear a noise. Boots. Heavy ones, scraping against the concrete floor. It sends a ripple of excitement down my spine because it’s a noise that I know all too well. When the door to the main chamber flies open, I’m instantly satisfied.
Maxim Bratnov’s body is limp, which is why his heels are dragging along the floor. He’s held up by Donnacha and Pat. When they throw him into the chair in the middle of the room, Donnacha looks towards the window and throws me a wink.
I press the intercom. “How long?”
Pat leans over and presses two fingers against Bratnov’s neck. After a few beats, he says, “Two minutes.”
Donnacha rolls up his sleeves and growls, “Need more time? ‘Cause I can make that happen?”
“Nah. Cool it.”
I rub my hands together like a greedy king waiting on the jewels. I’ve been waiting a long fucking time to put a fist through Maxim’s face. I can do twenty more minutes, I’m sure. Leaning my palms against the glass, I study him.What an ugly fucker.
His face is scarred from a lifetime of conflict, and his long, greasy ponytail hangs low at the base of his neck. All the Bratnov’s I’ve ever met have this hairstyle. And one of the first things I’m going to do when he wakes up is chop it off and make him eat it.
“What are you grinning at?”
