Reap (Scarred Souls, #2)(26)

I breathed hard, ignoring the throbbing of my now-injured hand, trying to rid my attraction to the damn man out of my mind. But the more I tried to expel the vision of him in my head, the more prominent his features became, every inch of him in perfect, infallible detail in my mind.

Whipping around, I searched the room for a distraction, my muscles jerking like a drug addict trying to avoid their next fix. My head told me to not go down and see him again, to not give in. My head told me to not go to the security room and check in on him on the basement’s surveillance feed.

But my heart propelled me forward, and with a careless abandon I found myself in the byki’s small security office staring eagerly at the main screen.

I stayed that way for a while; staring, trying to avoid the inevitable craving I knew I was going to cave into viewing.

Because I was obsessed.

I was obsessed with 221, and could no longer lie to myself that it was just intrigue, that it was simply a harmless bit of self-indulgent interest. It was more. I knew it was more.

I f*cking hated myself for the fact that it was more.

Slowly reaching out, my index finger found the On button for the feed and the large screen came to life. And there he was, lying on the black rubber floor, wrapped in chains and static in motion.

As soon as my eyes found his slumped, broken frame, my heart raced in my chest and my lungs seemed to squeeze at the sight. My skin grew hot, and an ache formed between my legs. I wanted to touch him again. I wanted to hold him in my arms.

I stood there like a statue glued to the ground for what could have been hours, and as the minutes ticked by, the gold necklace around my throat suddenly felt like an open flame brandishing my skin. It was burning me, burning me with guilt.

And just like that, I knew I had to get away from this place. I needed distance. I needed to clear my mind. I needed to pull myself together, get away from the temptation.

Shit. I needed a Goddamn drink. Or two.

Seeing my byki, Ilya and Savin patrolling on the far west of the property’s extensive grounds, I knew it was my chance to get away alone.

Without hesitation, I ran to the kitchen closet that held the car keys and took the nearest set I could find: the Mercedes. Running toward the front door, I slammed my hand on the button that opened the electric security gate and, grabbing my purse, burst out of the front door and beelined for the Merc.

In seconds I was at the blacked-out C-Class 250 and, with a lead foot on the gas pedal, roared out of my family’s isolated Hamptons mansion, quickly hitting the open road. Destination: Brooklyn.

As the miles passed by, the trees a blurring stream of brown, a dull ache set in my chest.

I needed this, needed to breathe the Brooklyn air. And I needed my best friend. Keeping my eyes on the dark country road, I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell. In seconds I’d found her name and the call connected.

“Hey, girl!” Kisa’s soothing voice greeted. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Kisa,” I said anxiously, “can you meet me for a drink in a couple of hours?”

Kisa paused then asked, “Tal, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I’m driving back to Brooklyn. I … I just need to get back for a while, is all.”

More silence. Then, “Talia, you’re worrying me. Why are you coming back so soon? Has something happened?”

I sucked in a breath, and explained, “Kisa. I need to talk to someone. I’m going insane. And I’d really like a long f*cking drink of vodka to accompany that chat. So? Can you meet me?”

“I’m at the Dungeon, Tal. I’ll be here awhile more.”

My heart fell, but I exhaled a relieved sigh when my best friend offered, “How about we meet at Brighton Beach for a walk? It’s close to the Dungeon, I can get away easier.”

I rolled my eyes at Kisa’s alternative plan, but couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up my throat. “You never were one for the bars, were you, dorogaya moya? Always been the good girl,” I teased.

Kisa laughed in return, clearly easing her worry for me. “And you’ve always had to be the rebel, haven’t you, Tal?”

My laugh turned into a guilty cough. Kisa was right. I’d never walked the “good old Bratva” woman’s line. My father had given up trying to keep me in check. I was his little girl and could wrap him around my little finger. But this, what I was doing with 221? I knew he’d never forgive that.

“Tal? Do you want to meet at the beach?” Kisa asked, breaking my inner self-chastisement.

“Yeah, we can meet at the friggin’ beach,” I agreed, “but, Kisa?”

“What?”

“Make sure you pick up a bottle of Grey Goose and bring it with you, okay?”

“Tal—”

“Don’t worry, Sandra Dee,” I interrupted. “I’m not going to make you drink. That liter of Russian perfection is all mine.”

Kisa’s light laugh filtered through the car, instantly making me feel better. “Tal?” Kisa said as her humor faded to silence. “Drive safe. I’m worried about you, girl. You don’t sound right.”

With a steady voice, I assured, “Don’t worry about me, Kisa. I’m good, as always. Nothing ever fazes me for long. Whatever this is, I’ll get over it.”

My unyielding grip on the steering wheel told an entirely different story.