Reap (Scarred Souls, #2)(14)

“Yes,” Luka replied, and his arms tightened around her waist.

Kisa gripped his arms. “I was so worried. I thought … I was terrified you’d be hurt. That you wouldn’t come back to me.” She stepped back, allowing her gaze to slowly drink in his body. “Luka, what happened? You know the knayz doesn’t fight shoulder to shoulder with his men. He commands. He stays back. He needs to be protected.”

I frowned as Luka’s jaw clenched at Kisa’s words. He ran a nervous hand through his messy fair hair. “No one could subdue him. He came at us like a rabid dog. I knew…” Luka’s fists clenched then unclenched. “I knew I was the only person who could stop him, without having to shoot him.” His face dropped as if lost in his thoughts. “I … I know how he feels. Only I know how to fight his level of strength and skill.” He fixed his gaze on his wife. “Something inside of me instinctively reacted to his rage. Whatever demon is within him, lives in me, too.”

Devastation swept through me. Luka was struggling more than I had realized.

“It’ll be better now, lyubov moya,” Kisa soothed. “You got him. You got Anri’s brother back from Jakhua.”

The sad expression on Luka’s weary face cut me to the quick. His hold on Kisa further stabbed at my heart. She was his gravity, the one thing that kept him grounded, sane. “He … he…” Luka rasped through a tight throat. “He looks just like him. It was like seeing a ghost when he ran out onto the docks.” Luka’s eyes lost focus. “His size, his hair, the weapons he fought with, his features, are all identical, except…”

“Except what?” Kisa asked as she pulled back to search her husband’s wrought face.

Luka lifted his fingers to his eye. “He has green eyes. 362, Anri, had brown eyes.”

Luka’s face seemed to contort at something, a memory perhaps? “I’ve … I’ve never seen a man so gone. He was filled with more rage than any fighter I’ve faced. He never stopped coming at us, killing anyone in his path.” My brother’s eyes filled with tears. Luka swallowed and pressed his forehead to Kisa’s. “I don’t know if he can be saved. I don’t know how to save him. The drug he’s on…”

Kisa wrapped her arms around Luka again, but my attention drifted back to the basement.

I don’t know if he can be saved.…

Luka’s words ran through my mind. He knew this man’s brother? I wanted to ask one of the many questions that were popping in my brain, but now was not the time. Luka looked destroyed.

Noises, sounding like heavy chains rattling, drifted upstairs. Silently moving closer to the open basement door, my curiosity won out and I found myself at the top of the steep unfamiliar wooden staircase leading down.

I quietly tiptoed down the stairs, my heart racing at what I might see. As the wall gave way to a view of the open basement, I stilled, drinking in my father’s idea of a basement, a “private space”—rubber flooring covered every inch of the space, the walls, the floor, everywhere. And chain links were bolted to the walls, a single plastic chair the central feature of the sterile room. And the stench of bleach was so overwhelming I flinched as I inhaled each breath of stagnant air. There were no windows, so no natural light, just a solitary lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was a black box.

Nausea built in my stomach when I realized what the room was used for—the Bratva’s enemies. For interrogation, torture. It made sense. No one lived close. Screams could go unheard. Cell service was nonexistent, the grounds completely secure. No one would ever suspect that in this perfect white wooden colonial mansion was a hidden torture room.

My breath caught in my throat as I took in the sight. Then the byki stepped away from whatever they were doing by the far wall. They were all covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. They looked as though they’d taken one hell of a beating.

As they cleared away from the object of their attention, my eyes fixed onto the huge dark man they’d just dragged in. That they’d carried unconscious through the front door. My heart raced as I stared at his naked body. He was one of the tallest and bulkiest men I’d ever seen. His muscles were many, ripped and taut. And a large chest tattoo stood out through the heavy coating of blood. I scrunched my eyes to see what it said. My eyes widened as I read the numbers “221” in bold black ink. The numbers took up all of his chest. It was an identity tattoo, exactly like the one Luka had … just different numbers.

God! I thought as I continued to stare at the man’s battered and bruised sleeping form. Even out cold he radiated power … danger. I’d never seen anyone like him. It both scared and intrigued me.

Who are you? Why are you beaten? I asked in my mind as my eyes traveled farther down his body. He was naked, scars littering every inch of his skin. Burn marks, and other strange markings covered his torso and chest. Then my eyes drifted lower. His long flaccid cock was bared and hanging low on his thigh. I swallowed at the sight and I could feel my face flush as I struggled to turn my gaze away.

He looked like a scarred blood-covered slave of some kind. Like something you’d see in a f*cked-up Roman-era movie.

My thighs clenched together and I felt heat spread throughout my body and down between my legs. The reaction I was having was new and terrifying but I couldn’t look away. I was transfixed, my mind racing with thoughts of why he was so important that he was brought here to be interrogated.