Bone Deep(7)

He’d learned little about her from her sisters, but what he managed to glean from their stingy information was that they considered Bone the strongest of them all. Not simply in form, but in how completely she’d succumbed to what Joseph had trained her to be.

Ubiytsa. Killer.

Her sisters’ fear had held a scent, and it was the stale aroma of self-limiting awareness. Dmitry had read more in what they hadn’t said than what they had. If Bone shattered, the others would follow suit and Joseph would win.

What he didn’t know was why. What made her the glue that held their sisterhood together? Why her? Would he ever find out?

The woman stepping onto the stage, her lithe body rippling like golden fire under the lights was his enemy yet in the recesses of his heart he recognized she was much, much more.

Boris had noticed her too, his attention caught immediately, jaw going slack as he rubbed his dick through his pants. Rage choked Dmitry.

She was his, goddamn it. Only his. Only he was allowed to feel lust for her. Only he was allowed to hunt her. Only he would be allowed to break her.

The music changed. A heavy electric bass and startlingly strident piano rift moved through the club altering the atmosphere instantly. Death sang in the notes—the pledge riding the beat sorrowful yet eerily filled with hope.

That’s what Bone brought. Death, or at the very least hope for it.

Ubiytsa. The word whispered through his mind once more as the woman beside him leaned closer and whispered in his ear. She wanted him, in the bathroom, at the table, wherever she could have him. But all Dmitry knew was Bone.

Her body swayed to the rhythm, hips twisting and curling with the beat. She raised her hands raised in the air as she grasped the pole behind her and lifted to hang upside down, legs wrapping sinuously around the pole and holding her aloft.

Anatoly Yesipov stepped closer to the stage. Bone’s gaze settled on him and the smile she bestowed on the man had Dmitry’s blood heating in fury. The curve of her lips was validation that Anatoly was indeed her prey.

Dmitry blinked, once, twice and leaned back against the leather of the booth. He forced his anger to dissipate, swallowing it. It burned a vile path down his throat. There was no place for it here, now. He needed to prepare and the jealousy raging through his veins wasn’t appropriate. It was irrational.

She lowered to the floor before unlatching her legs from around the pole, shifting and then standing in a fluid motion. She turned quickly and cast Anatoly a coy look over her shoulder. Bone was not like the other women in the club and it showed in her healthy, lithe musculature.

As she turned, Dmitry bit off his groan at the sight of her ass. His hands clenched on his thighs and the woman at his side pressed closer, rubbing her hands over his now very hard cock.

Bone sauntered around the pole and Dmitry saw her take in everything—who stood in the corner, how many there were, and how close Anatoly was. He witnessed her calculating the time it would take Boris to react and how many obstacles stood between her and the door.

Then her eyes met his again and as always when their gazes touched, he was lost. Her gaze dropped to the woman’s hand working Dmitry feverishly and for a moment, a tell-tale moment for Dmitry, her eyes flinched.

Dmitry smiled, raised his chin in the air and cocked an eyebrow at Bone. His taunt was clear. She responded by lifting back up on the pole and sliding down slowly, legs wrapped around the metal once again as if she would wrap them around her lover’s hips.

Then she looked at him again and winked. Her cheeks were rouged and she bit her full lower lip, the white of her teeth bisecting the ruby red of her lips. A hardness rode the delicate lines of her face now, speaking more than words about her anger. He thought out of all the killers of First Team, this one had the least control. She always vibrated with untapped emotion that caused her to ride a knife’s blade of life and death.

In Dmitry’s book that lack of control also made her the most dangerous. When everything you were brought death and you could not manage your reactions, those around you suffered. Good or bad, deserving or not.

Anatoly stepped closer, the music reaching a peak as everyone leaned forward in their seats. Even the women on the other stages were enthralled.

Dmitry’s heart pounded in time with her movements and he fell under the spell she wove, the same as every other man in the club, but he was helpless to stop the slide. It was the renewed rise of his anger that prompted him to shut down his emotions.

If she had no control, he had more than his fair share. His dick went limp and the woman at his side sighed. She risked a glance at Boris but her owner paid her no attention so she carefully got up and walked to the bar. She may have cursed at Dmitry but he ignored it.

Anatoly moved even closer to the stage, his gaze rapt on the woman commanding his attention, hands held out in a plea. Bone reached for him, her eyes bright with the light of lust. Anatoly, the poor bastard, misinterpreted that glow. It wasn’t for him per se, it was for his life.

His death.

Dmitry was incapable of stopping what was sure to set the entire Russian Mafia into a spiral. This then was First Team’s next move. Her other kills had simply been foreplay. He stood but no one noticed.

She was too fast for him to catch. Why the f*ck he hadn’t intercepted her before she even made it to the stage?

Maybe because he wanted Anatoly dead as much as she did. Maybe because her need to deal that death was an open wound in his own soul. Eliminating Anatoly would hurt Boris and wasn’t that on Dmitry’s bucket list? Of course the true boss of the Russian mafia, Vadim Yepisov, was the ultimate target, but why not have some fun along the way? Hell, Dmitry didn’t even have to get his hands dirty.