Lies of My Monster: A Dark Mafia Romance(17)

Just once.

So I wait until after my hours for the day are done. Usually, I go to my new room in the lonely basement that could be mistaken for solitary confinement. Then someone from the kitchen delivers my food since I’m not allowed in the other guards' quarters. After finishing dinner, I toss and turn all night or train until I’m physically exhausted and eventually pass out.

Usually, my nights are plagued with nightmares. Some of them are about Mike, but most of them are a replay of Kirill being shot and the gruesome images of his bleeding chest and unconscious face at the bottom of that hill. I wake up with tears in my eyes and a heart so heavy, it feels like it will burst.

Tonight is different, though.

During the last few days, I’ve spent time planning how to get around the security cameras and sensors installed all over my route to the mansion.

So now, it takes me minimal effort to avoid them. I have no doubt that Viktor has someone specifically watching my movements so he can stop me whenever I get too close.

Still, I spend about fifteen minutes getting to the mansion because I was basically put at the farthest point of the property while still being inside it.

I head to the back of the main building and use the bushes as camouflage. Once I reach my destination, I ensure my surroundings are clear and silently crawl to the huge tree closest to the house. Then, after one last look around me, I grab onto the trunk and climb.

I always told Kirill that this tree is a security hazard because any sniper could use it as base to attack the property, but he said it actually strengthens the security because it offers privacy.

At any rate, I’m glad he didn’t listen to me.

Once I reach the level of his balcony, I realize that the distance to the ground is actually greater than I thought. I stare down and wince at the height—about three stories. If I fall, there won’t be any happy endings.

I start to scoot across a branch that’s less sturdy than I anticipated and suppress a yelp when it breaks. Two other branches catch my fall and once I get my balance, I leap toward the balcony. My left leg hits the railing, and I nearly stumble out, but I dig my fingers into the wall and glue myself to it before I jump onto the balcony as silently as a ninja. I don’t stop to inspect my injured leg, but I do lift it off the ground to keep from putting weight on it.

The balcony door is closed, but voices speaking in Russian reach me from inside. The first is Viktor’s—gruff and unwelcoming—but the second…my heart picks up speed, and I have to tap my chest to be able to breathe properly.

It’s been so long since I listened to Kirill’s steady deep voice, and although I don’t hear the words clearly, I can’t help leaning in. I’m no different than an addict who’s finally getting a hit after nearly two weeks of deprivation.

If this plan doesn’t work, then I at least got to hear his voice. He’s alive. He’s right here.

And nothing will change that.

Whenever I close my eyes, I only see his dying face. I can’t erase it, no matter how much I try. But this…witnessing him speaking, might help keep him alive in my nightmares.

A few minutes later, Viktor’s voice disappears. Then so does Kirill’s.

But I know he didn’t leave. I can feel his presence in the room and even sense a hint of his warmth through the walls.

Him being alone gives me the opening I’ve been waiting for, but now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to move.

I remain in place for what seems like forever, forcing my limbs to step forward but unable to move. After a few moments, I finally clutch the handle of the balcony door, inhale deeply, then slide it open.

The sound is heightened in the silence, and I pause for the time it takes me to fit myself in the opening.

Then I slip inside soundlessly and freeze when a gun clicks at my temple.

Shit.

I underestimated Kirill. Since he was injured, I thought maybe his reflexes would be slower, but the weapon pointed at me proves that those thoughts are a far cry from reality.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Slowly, I start to turn to face the owner of the cold question, but he pushes the gun against the temple.

“You don’t need to change your position to answer.”

“Can’t I at least look at you?” I hate how my voice sounds so emotional and weak.

Even if he’s harsh and indifferent. Even if he’s holding a gun to my head right now.

“No,” comes his closed-off reply.

Still, I turn.

“I said. No.”

“And I want to look at you.” I lift my chin. “So if you’re going to shoot, do it.”

The more I continue turning, the faster my heart beats. I know he won’t shoot me. If he wanted to kill me, he would’ve done that when he woke up. He wouldn’t have chosen to torture me by depriving me of him.

Sure enough, the moment I fully face him, he’s lowered the gun to his side.

I’m rooted to the spot as if struck by lightning due to being able to look at him closely. All of him.

Although he’s wearing casual sweatpants and a black T-shirt, neither can conceal the masculine perfection of his physique. He’s lost some weight due to the injury, but his build has retained its charismatic edge.

Tattoos in the form of skulls, roses, and a human heart swirl along the visible parts of his forearms and biceps, but they don’t look hauntingly black now.