Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(67)

“You’re marrying me. This Saturday,” he growls, fucking me with those fingers, and I moan my agreement, my body igniting anew.

This Saturday, tonight, tomorrow—it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done fighting, done resisting.

He was right all along.

I’m his, and he’s mine.

This was meant to be.





53





Peter



She’s sleeping, exhausted, when I carefully climb out of bed and gather the clothes I left folded on a chair. I dress quietly, taking care not to wake her, and then I pad out of the bedroom on sock-clad feet.

My boots are by the entrance, so I pull them on and pat my jacket pocket to make sure my phone is there.

I’ll need it to navigate to the current location of one Mr. Samson “Sonny” Pearson, Monica Jackson’s stepfather.

Danny is already waiting for me in the parking lot, so I pull up the email from my hackers and give him an address a few blocks away from where Pearson lives—which happens to be at his ex-wife’s apartment.

Monica’s mother clearly has no qualms about letting her daughter’s rapist crash with her.

It’s a risk I’m taking, doing this myself. It would’ve been smarter to hire someone to carry out a discreet hit in a few months, when no one could possibly connect Pearson’s death to his stepdaughter’s visit to the nonprofit women’s clinic. However, my ptichka was crying today—crying because of this ublyudok—and I can’t let that stand.

He’s going to die tonight, and his stepdaughter will finally be free.

“Drop me off here,” I tell Danny when we reach the address I gave him, a building that’s a few blocks from my real destination. The guy is loyal and quite willing to operate outside the law, but I don’t trust him like I do my own men.

It’s better if I do this alone, with no witnesses.

Amira Pearson’s apartment is on the second floor of a rundown four-story building. There is a faint smell of piss and vomit in the lobby, and the paint on the stairs is chipping, reminding me of Soviet-era buildings back in Russia. However, the apartment door I stop in front of is made of regular wood, not two layers of steel as is common in my corruption-ridden home country.

I could break this door with a single kick if I were so inclined.

I press my ear to the wood instead and listen. I can hear the low murmur of voices, so my information is correct. Sonny got a job unloading grocery store trucks at three in the morning and will be leaving for his shift shortly.

I go back down and step outside to wait. I could’ve broken in while the fucker was sleeping, but Monica’s mother and brother are in the apartment, so it’s better to wait.

It’s better if I catch Sonny on his own and make it look like a robbery gone wrong.

It’s nearly a half hour before he comes out, but I stay sharp and alert, the adrenaline pumping steadily through my veins. I can’t deny the dark anticipation I’m feeling, the bloodlust fueling me like jugs of coffee.

I’m a predator, a monster, and I know it.

Now Sonny Pearson will know it too.

I stay half-hidden in an alley, and as he passes by, I reach out and grab him by the front of his shirt, pulling him in.

“Hey!” He tries to take a swing at me but freezes as soon as I press my blade to his throat.

“Don’t move,” I whisper, leaning in. “Don’t even breathe.”

The Adam’s apple in his thick neck bobs dangerously close to my blade. “W-what do you want, man? I ain’t got no m-money.”

“I know.” I don’t have to see him blanch to know my smile is chilling. “That’s not what I’m after.”

And with that, I slice my blade across his throat. His warm blood bathes my fingers, and the stench of evacuating bowels fills the air. I watch the life fade from his mud-brown eyes, and then I say softly, “Monica sends her regards.”

Letting his body drop to the pavement, I wipe my hand and my blade on the cleanest part of his shirt, extract his wallet from his pocket, and step out of the alley, heading back to where Danny is waiting.

We’ll have to stop by a motel on the way back.

I need a shower before returning home.





54





Sara



I’m still not ready to openly wear my ring in the office, but at lunchtime, when the dress people—two stylish women about my age—show up, I lead them through the main lobby, ignoring the receptionist’s curious stare. We go into one of the exam rooms, and they measure me from head to toe—a process that takes mere minutes with their skilled hands.

“You’re very slender, which is great,” a tall, dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Suzie says. “We have a gorgeous Monique Lhuillier that will fit you with minimal alterations. Pam, do you have a picture?”

Pam, a short, curly-haired blonde, pulls out her phone and shows me a sleek, mermaid-style dress hanging on a mannequin. Covered with delicate lace, it’s strapless with a square neckline and a row of pearl buttons in the back—simple yet so perfect that I can only stare and drool.

“We have many other styles as well,” Suzie says, incorrectly interpreting my speechlessness. “Is there anything specific that you’d—”