Twisted Love (Twisted #1)(77)

They didn’t move.

“Now. ”

Camo hadn’t tied their legs, so they could scramble out of the room even though their hands were still bound.

“Think of all the good times we had together,” my uncle coaxed, his affable mask falling back into place. “When I took you to your first Krav Maga lesson, when we visited Kiev for your sixteenth birth—”

The shot rang out loud and clear over his pleas.

Ivan froze, his mouth hanging open in shock. A crimson stain bloomed across his chest.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not someone who waxes poetic before I pull the trigger,” I said. I felt no hint of remorse for the man who’d raised me. He was a murderer and a liar. I was too, but I’d resigned myself to hell a long time ago. “You’ll die today, looking as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside.”

“You ungrateful—”

A second shot rang out. His body jerked. “That was for my mother. The first was for my father. This—” A third shot. “Is for Nina. For Ava. For Bridget. And this—” I cocked my gun for the last time. “Is for me.” I fired the bullet straight between his eyes.

My uncle was long dead by this point, his body riddled with holes and his feet steeped in a glistening pool of blood, but my words, like my bullets, weren’t for him. They were for me, my own fucked-up version of closure.

I turned to Camo, whose complexion now resembled the color of chalk. Rhys still had him pinned to the ground.

I picked Camo’s gun up from the floor and examined it. “You can let him go,” I told Rhys. “He’s mine.”

To his credit, the bodyguard didn’t even blink. He’d maintained the same stoic expression from the moment he entered the room. I had a feeling the man wouldn’t blink an eye even if aliens in silver tutus poofed into existence before him and started dancing the Macarena.

“You sure?” He dug his gun harder into Camo’s temple.

“I’m sure. Your princess is waiting for you—” My mouth formed a half-smirk. “So let me take care of the trash.” I pointed my gun at Camo while holding the second weapon in my other hand.

Rhys pulled back, keeping his gun aimed at Camo but his gaze on me.

Smart man.

I could tell he wanted to fuck up Camo himself, but Bridget was his priority, and a bodyguard’s mandate was cover and evacuation, not combat.

The second he disappeared, I fired two shots into Camo’s kneecaps—not to kill, merely to hobble him while I went to work. I ignored his pained screams as I locked the door.

“You made a mistake today,” I said conversationally, kneeling next to him. Images of Ava’s bruises and terrified face flashed through my mind, and my expression hardened. “You touched what was mine—” I pulled a wicked-looking knife from my boot. Camo’s eyes popped in terror. “You hurt what was mine—” The smell of urine filled the air as he pissed himself. For such a tough-looking dude, he scared easily. My lips curled in distaste. “And now, it’s time to pay. Don’t worry.” I pulled his shirt up and dug the tip of the blade into his abdomen. “I’ll make it slow and sweet.”

If Ava and Bridget had already called the police—which I was sure they had—I only had precious minutes before they arrived. But with a few handy tools and creativity? One could make a minute feel like an eternity.

We didn’t pass the ten-second mark before Camo’s screams started again.





36





Ava





The next hour passed in a blur. The police and paramedics arrived, peppering me with questions and medical checkups and lots of somber-looking faces. I endured them all, my answers flat and robotic.

By the time they finished, I wanted to crawl into my bed and never get out—if I could bring myself to move.

“Ava?” Bridget placed a tentative hand on my arm. “The police said we can go. Rhys will drive us back.”

The massive bodyguard hovered so close he was practically on top of us, his usual stoic mask replaced with pure fury.

I didn’t blame him. We’d gotten ourselves into this mess.

Bridget and I had wanted to see one of our favorite bands perform in D.C. last night. Cool indie bands didn’t visit the city often, and when they did, we took advantage. Except…Rhys had flat-out forbidden Bridget from going because it wasn’t safe, and instead of arguing with him—which we all knew by now was useless—Bridget snuck out in the middle of the night. Everything had gone according to plan until the camouflage-wearing psycho yanked us off the street after the concert and into the back of his van. It’d happened so fast we didn’t have time to scream. We’d fought back as hard as we could, and my amateur self-defense training allowed me to land a few hits, but he’d eventually knocked us out. When we woke up, we found ourselves in freakin’ Philadelphia.

A shudder rippled down my spine. Our kidnapper must’ve been watching us for God knew how long before he made his move, which creeped me out more than the actual kidnapping part.

“Are you ready?” Despite her calm tone, I detected a small shake in Bridget’s shoulders, and I suspected that was the reason Rhys hadn’t torn us a new one yet. In fact, he hadn’t said a word to us except to explain he’d found us via the chip he’d placed in Bridget’s phone, which he’d activated when he discovered she wasn’t in her room that morning. It was a testament to how much we’d fucked up that Bridget didn’t utter a peep about him secretly tracking her.