Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(103)

I’m not giving him shit.

My gaze scans the room as I drink. Aristov is talking, just rambling away about more ways women are like vodka—like how the emptier the bottle gets, the better he feels. I pretend to listen until, well, I don’t give a shit to pretend anymore. Sooner or later he’ll get the message, and I’d prefer it to be sooner rather than later. The only reason I bothered coming is to solve Scarlet’s problem.

My gaze drifts toward a fireplace along the wall, feeling the warmth radiating from the flames, smelling a hint of the woodsy smoke. I admire the fire for as he yammers away before my attention again shifts, this time to the mantle above it.

A teddy bear sits there.

I’m not even kidding.

It’s obviously old, stuffing springing out of holes, missing a goddamn eye, and filthy from scruffy head to charred foot. It’s out of place, surrounded by all of this forced elegance.

Serial killers, you know, they sometimes keep souvenirs. Trophies, they call them, reminders of the shit they’ve done so they can relive the moments again and again. Jewelry. Panties. Photographs. Body parts. Whatever got them off, whatever got the blood pumping down below.

And this bear, glowing like a beacon on the mantle, is screaming trophy at me. My insides coil, my stomach churning more and more the more I look at it. We’re talking about a man with a reputation for trafficking women. He’s in the business of selling bodies. I’m putting nothing past him.

If that bear indicates what my mind is conjuring, I’ll burn this house to the ground with all of us inside of it, just so I die with the pleasure of being able to usher that * personally straight to hell in the fire.

“Buster.”

The sound of his voice, louder now, draws my attention. I glance back at Aristov, raising an eyebrow in question. Buster?

“The bear,” he says casually, helping himself to the bottle clutched in my hand, pulling it from my grasp. “It is named Buster.”

“You named the f*cking thing?”

He laughs. “I did not name it. It came with the name. A stupid one, I say, but what do you expect from a little girl with so much stupid in her blood?”

He laughs, yet again, the sound running through me, striking something raw and setting me off. I don’t think, just react, pulling my gun out and cocking the son of a bitch, aiming it at his forehead.

Seconds. Mere seconds. That was all it took. My finger hovers on the trigger, lightly pressing it. I’ll blow his f*cking brains out.

What kind of sick f*ck messes with a little girl?

He stares at me.

He doesn’t cower.

Doesn’t beg.

Doesn’t ask those stupid questions I always get.

No, he takes a swig of vodka, a slight smile on his lips, and just waits, like he doesn’t think I’ll do it. I’m not a man who hesitates, but I’m also not a man used to dealing with such fearlessness.

After a few seconds, while he’s still breathing, he pulls the bottle from his lips, pointing it at me as he asks, “Did she tell you about her?”

“Who?”

“My Morgan,” he says. “Your Scarlet. That is what you call her, no?”

“What about her?”

“Did she tell you about Sasha?”

Sasha.

I don’t answer that, having no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s all the answer he needs.

He laughs yet again.

“Oh, no, of course she has not told you,” he says. “Why would she? Silly man, with a gun... go ahead, shoot me. She will be heartbroken when you do. You will be killing her, too. Either way, I win.”

Before I can do anything, he shoves up from the chair, his forehead momentarily pressing against the muzzle as he rises to his feet. I keep the gun trained on him as he strolls over to the fireplace. He hesitates, standing there, staring at the mantle, before he grabs the bear. His hand wraps around the thing, clutching it by the neck as he approaches.

He drops it on the table in front of me.

“Take it,” he says. “It is only collecting dust here now. I am sure it will make Morgan happy to see it again.”

He steps by me to walk away. I keep the gun trained on him, but I still don’t pull the trigger.

Color me curious. “Who’s Sasha?”

Aristov stalls in the doorway, glancing back at me. I don’t expect him to answer, figuring he’ll give me some line about asking Scarlet, when he lets out a deep sigh and says, “My daughter, of course.”

Daughter.

Of course.

Puzzle pieces I never bothered to connect shove themselves together, like I should’ve already riddled out the bigger picture here. The man has a daughter, and it’s not taking a genius to figure out where he might’ve gotten that daughter.

Or rather, who gave him that daughter.

I saw the scar on her stomach.

I see it every time she takes off her clothes.

It’s there, more prominent than the other scars peppering her body, but she’s never brought it up, so I always let it go. Whatever story is behind it must be one she doesn’t want to tell. Because I’ve given her ample opportunity to spill it. Tell me a story. But she’d rather spew some bullshit fairy tales.

I know scars, though. I know the kind of scar a bullet leaves behind. I know the kind left from a knife. Gashes, and welts, and burns—the scars are recognizable. I can read a body like a book and tell you everything it has been through. A litany of f*cking horror stories written right onto the flesh. I know the story of a metal shovel to the face, blunt force trauma that should’ve killed a teenage boy but instead turned him into a nightmare.