Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(61)

Anything to see her smile.

Anything to hear her sweet laughter.

Kassian’s hands are as brutal as the frigid water, scrubbing me raw from head-to-toe, using the entire bar of soap.

“Did you let him come in you, suka?” he asks, his voice low, hands places his hands don’t deserve to go. “Did you let him fuck you like only I am allowed? Do I need to rip out more of your insides to get rid of every trace of him?”

I don’t answer.

Whatever I say won’t make a difference.

My teeth viciously chatter to the point that my jaw hurts, my body shaking, shivering, parts of me going numb. I know I’m crying, but he can’t see my tears, the water running down my face wiping away any evidence that he’s getting through my defenses.

He drops the hose once he’s satisfied and turns the water off. The floor beneath my feet is completely soaked, slow to drain. I lower my head, my eyes meeting Kassian’s as he picks up the towel. He steps right up to me, so close we touch, not seeming to care that his suit gets wet.

In fact, looking at him, I can tell every ounce of care he might’ve had about anything is no longer there.

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.