Asher Page 3

  Oh god. This is what I was panicked about. He’s going to torture me.

  As my survival instincts overtake my panic, I search the table for an instrument to protect myself with. If I’m going to be brutalized for murdering someone, I may as well attempt it.

  Before I can locate an item useful for my campaign, the freestanding cart is knocked over. I bumped into it in fright when someone whispered in my ear, “Do you really think that’s wise?”

  I twirl with my fists held out in front of myself, certain the hotness of Asher’s breath hitting my neck means he’s standing within an inch of me. When my pivot awards me nothing but a severe bout of dizziness, I realize I am wrong. I’m certain it’s Asher, though. He may have only spoken six short words, but I’d recognize his voice anywhere. It’s thicker than I remember, but there’s no denying how it makes my heart rate accelerate. When we were children, it was a good acceleration. Now it’s more frightening than anything.

  “You can’t kill a ghost any more than you can fight fate, Zariah. I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

  “I’d rather go down fighting than be seen as a coward.” While my lungs struggle for air, I take a step forward. “Is that why you’re doing this in the dark, Asher? Because you’re not man enough to face me head on?”

  A childish squeak pops from my lips when his deep, rumbling voice vibrates through my chest. “Why see fear when I can smell it?”

  His arrogant sniff makes my wish to live trump my fear of dying. “Who said I’m afraid of you? I could be merely scared of the dark.”

  As my eyes struggle to adjust to the poor lighting, I scan the room. I’m beyond frightened—both of the dark and Asher—but I’m putting on a brave front. I’m older now, wiser. I’m also hopeful Dominique was the only thing he lost the past year. If he still holds the morals his mother raised him with, I may have a chance of getting out of this situation alive.

  “Not the first time you’ve been scared of the dark, is it?” My head twists from left to right when the direction of his voice alters its course. He must be circling me. “But childhood fears aren’t why we’re here. Your betrayal is.” I try to interject, but he continues talking, foiling my endeavor. “You took something too innocent and pure for our world and changed it.” His breaths zigzag through my hair when he growls, “You changed her.”

  “No.” Although I’m doubtful he can see me in the blackness shrouding us, I shake my head. “Dominique was my friend. I never wanted to change her.”

  “Your friend? Is that how you lured her into your trap, Zariah? By pretending to be her friend?”

  The goosebumps prickling my skin double in size from the way my name rolls off his tongue. His usually thick timbre has been softened with an American twang, making it huskier than normal. It conjures up hazy, obscured memories that are more frightening than the black hole attempting to swallow me whole. My chest tightens as my breaths turn wheezy. It feels like the room is closing in on me. It shrinks in size with every second that ticks by.

  I’m moments away from a debilitating anxiety attack when Asher grumbling my name draws me from the darkness. He’s unhappy with my delay in answering him, but his grumble reminds me that I’m not alone. That fact shouldn’t comfort me, especially considering the reason for our reunion, but for some reason, it does.

  With my knees clanging together, I turn to face his voice. Although it is extremely dark, my eyes are adjusting, meaning I can see the outline of his face. It has sharpened with age, but is still familiar.

  “I wasn’t pretending. Dominique was my friend. I was as devastated as you when I heard what happened to her.”

  I’m not lying. Dominique didn’t speak a word of either English or Russian, but we grew extremely close in an immensely short time. We had a lot in common because she was as imprisoned by the underworld as I still am.

  “I never meant for her to get hurt. I just wanted her to be free.”

  Something I said angers him greatly. Before I can comprehend what is happening, his hand curls around my throat, and I’m thrust back until I am pinned to a wall. Part of me is petrified, but another part is glad we’ve finally reached this part of our exchange. You have no idea how tiring running from the truth is.

  Although my mind wants to give in, my body isn’t as eager. My nails claw at Asher’s hand as viciously as my oxygen-deprived lungs fight for air. Both fights are pointless. I’m not strong enough to battle a man as fierce as Asher under the best of circumstances, let alone when he’s filled with rage.

  “To be free from what, Zariah?! From me?! From this lifestyle?!”

  I try to answer him, but I can’t. His grip on my throat is too tight. I can’t get any air, much less relinquish words... and that’s not even the worst of it. His violence should render me frozen in fear, but for some reason, I’m responding on the opposite end of the spectrum. I’ve never been held in such a manner before, or spoken to so belligerently, but my body isn’t registering my distress as panic. It’s turned on.

  As my lips part for air they’ll never suck in again if Asher doesn’t loosen his hold, my nipples bud. As if that isn’t bad enough, the scent of my aroused state lingers in the air within no time at all. Its unique sharp fragrance is unmissable in a room that reeks of death.

  I want to blame the vodka I downed during my hour trip to the Yurys’ mansion as the reason for my odd response, but that would mean leaving this earth a liar. It’s him—Asher—his hot breath on my neck, his firm body pressed against mine. Before he became the vicious man needed to see his empire grow to the magnitude it is now, he caught the admiring eye of every woman in Moscow—myself included. I was so besotted with him as a child, my infatuation was borderline unhealthy for someone so young and immature.

  My admiration was never returned, though. Not just by Asher, but by anyone in our realm. Before his ruling was toppled by Asher’s crew, my father was the most revered and well-respected man in Russia, so much so, no one was game to touch me. My cheek has never been brushed by the back of a man’s hand, nor my lips parted by a tongue. Excluding Feodor Balstra’s sloppy peck when I was fourteen, I’ve never been kissed. Feo wasn’t eager for a second round of seven minutes in heaven after my Uncle Nesti gave him more than a black eye upon discovering us in the coat room. He spent three weeks in the hospital recovering from six cracked ribs, a shattered cheekbone, and a list of other injuries he’s still too ashamed to admit.

  While I settle on the fact I’m about to die a virgin, I bask in the bits of Asher I obsessed over when I was younger. I can barely see through the white spots dancing in front of my eyes, but what I can see is still perfect. The darkness of his hair. The speckles of black in his icy-blue gaze. The way his thumb and index finger nearly touch as he steals a life I’ve barely lived. I take it all in slowly, painfully, almost woozily.

  I’m on the verge of collapse when Asher’s voice breaks through the dizziness clouding me. “Fight me, Zariah. Prove your life is worth living.”

  I’m most likely hallucinating, but even if I’m not, I won’t fight. I don’t have the willpower or the enthusiasm to think up a reason to stay alive. What good would it do me? Running doesn’t fix anything. It will only make matters worse. This is easier. Simpler. No one will miss me anyway, except perhaps Vaughn, but this will keep him safe. It will also save him more torment. His pain is my pain, his error mine as well. We never meant to hurt anyone.

  I use the last of the air in my lungs to speak words I should have spoken years ago. “I’m sorry, Asher. For not fighting harder. For giving up on you. I’m so sorry.”

  My head is so woozy, I’m not even sure what I’m saying, but Asher must understand, because just as my body gives up its fight to live, he loosens his grip on my neck. My feet scarcely touch the ground when the same hand he choked me with zooms past my head. Splinters of drywall scatter across my bare shoulders, his hit so forceful it pelts through the wall. Under different circumstances, his strength would be impressive.

>   Air whisks across my face when he spins on his heels to stalk across the room. Even in the poor conditions, I notice his swagger. It’s a cocky, egotistical walk that reveals how close I came to death tonight. I’ve been issued a pardon. Why? I don’t know. For how long? Your guess is as good as mine. Am I relieved? Yes. But I’m panicked more than anything.

  The Yurys don’t award mercy without stipulations attached, so I’m left wondering what my punishment will be—and if death would have been the better option.

  Chapter Four

  Asher

  Lenin’s almost black eyes lift from my bloody knuckles to my face when I exit the torture chamber at the speed of a bullet. He has his tools at the ready: tarp, industrial tape, and a shovel. I don’t know why he needs the shovel. If I had gone through with my plan as intended, Zariah’s body wouldn’t be buried here. That’s just asking for trouble.

  Perhaps the shovel is for me. Lenin knows me well enough to know no matter how deep my hate is, I can’t instill the same level of punishment on women as I do men—let alone the woman I promised not to hurt over a decade ago.

  My kill count is high. I’ve ended thousands of lives without an ounce of hesitation thickening my blood, but for some fucked-up reason, I can’t claim the lives of women and children. I’ve always seen them as innocents in the game I’ve played since before I could walk—especially the ones who smell as innocent as Zariah. She has a pure scent, a smell as rare as me issuing a pardon. She either truly believes she has nothing to answer for, or she’s a damn good actor.

  I should have ended her life. I came close. When she said she wanted to free Dominique, I saw red. Dominique was nabbed within minutes of her landing stateside three years ago. She was supposed to meet a group of backpackers she befriended when they toured her tiny village in the French alps. They promised to teach her English and show her a life outside of the strict environment she was raised in.

  All they did was arrange for her to meet her maker.

  Before Vladimir was killed, his palate was diverse. He liked women from all over the world, of all ethnicities and ages, so it didn’t take him long to become besotted with Dominique.

  He wasn’t the only one she sparked an immediate interest from.

  I should have pulled rank the day I helped Vladimir’s men secure her. My importance in our industry had already peaked, so I could have demanded for her to return to Russia with me that very same day, but for some inane reason, I didn’t. I watched Vladimir’s fascination ignite from afar, certain no woman was worth fracturing ties I had built with the Popovs the prior four years. I was also confident it wouldn’t take Vladimir long to grow bored of her. Once that happened, he’d pass her on to anyone willing to look past the broken gleam his whores’ eyes always held once he was done with them.

  That never happened with Dominique. No matter how hard Vladimir tried to beat the spirit out of her, she maintained it. Her fight increased her allure. She never gave in, no matter how low the odds. Even being shipped to a foreign country when Nikolai gifted her to me last year didn’t weaken her determination. If anything, it increased it. I was convinced she saw something in my eyes not many see: the man behind the monster I need to be to maintain my reputation. She wasn’t scared of me, nor did she live in fear of her life. She was free.

  That’s why I snapped when Zariah said what she did. I didn’t keep Dominique captive. I freed her from Vladimir’s insanity before giving her options so she’d never have to face it again. She chose to stay with me. She wanted to be a part of my life, so she didn’t need anyone’s help to be free. She already was.

  Lenin’s slow, drudging steps to the room I just exited halt when I say, “Send Velika in.”

  He dips his chin, his smile not needed to reveal he heard the request I didn’t voice: I’ve given Zariah a pardon. His twinkling eyes expose this, much less the smartass I-told-you-so expression stretching across his face. He voiced caution when I requested he bring Zariah to the underbelly of our compound, but I couldn’t hear it through the vengeance bubbling in my veins.

  I had planned to kill her, but something more than my inability to kill women stopped me. That’s why I’m so frustrated. The softness of her words when she spoke and the way her breathing quickened when she sensed my nearness infuriated me more than they comforted me. They hit me with the same niggling, gut-churning response I got when the Popov crew snagged Dominique. I didn’t act on my intuition that day. I ignored it, and look how that turned out, so I’m happy to use that as my excuse for changing my mind today.

  My deliberations wane when Lenin places his hand on my shoulder in silent support. He’s a good man. He’s been my guardian since I was eight. He doesn’t push his beliefs on me; he merely voices his opinion before leaving me to make my own decision. I can’t fathom it being an easy role when you have a custodian as stubborn and as opinionated as me, but Lenin brings what is needed to the table. He has kept me grounded the past twenty years, and he is the only man I listen to in a crisis—excluding tonight.

  I’m extra edgy today. Although annoyed I’ve been kept in the dark the past six months, I understand that’s the price I had to pay to tighten my allegiance with Nikolai. You’d think setting aside my quest for revenge so long would have weakened it. It hasn’t. It’s stronger now than it’s ever been. Witnessing first-hand how hard Nikolai and his Ahren fought for one another strengthened my campaign to right my wrongs. Nothing will bring Dominique back, but every step I take from here on out will ensure I never experience that type of injustice again. Only men with no fear of death will be game to go against me, and even then, they won’t come out a winner.

  I crank my head back when Lenin asks, “Shlyukha or gornichanya?”

  “Let Zariah pick. I’m not bothered either way.”

  If only the tightening of my jaw reflected my reply. I shouldn’t care if Zariah is passed through my men as the whore of the month or forced to answer their every whim as a maid for the compound, but for some stupid fucking reason, my blood boils more at the former.

  When memories of my childhood pop into my head, Zariah always presents as the shy little mouse who followed me like a shadow. There was nothing meek and demure about her tonight. Not even poor lighting could conceal her sweltering frame, and don’t get me started on how she responded when I pinned her to the wall with my body. She reacted how I wanted her to when she was too young for me to be having those kinds of thoughts about her. She was responding as if she was seconds from being mauled instead of having her blood siphoned from her veins.

  It equally frustrated and intrigued me.

  Not as much as this will, though. “Lenin?”

  He stops entering the room to peer back at me.

  “Whatever Zariah chooses, keep it from my father.” When his brow arches in silent shock, I add, “If he discovers he arranged for me to marry a whore, it might be the final push he needs to fall into the grave he dug for himself a long time ago.” With a grin of a man planning to ease his craving for bloodshed tonight, I murmur, “I’d hate for you to steal my fun.”

  Chapter Five

  Zariah

  Thud. Thud. Thud. My pounding head kicks out a new tune when a bright orb stops to stand in front of me. I’m sitting on the floor of the dark room, too scared to leave and too tired to fight through the insecurities plaguing me. Asher left a while ago. It could be an hour; it may be three. I’ve truly lost track of time. I’m hungry, confused, and certain the anger he dispelled earlier was only the tip of the iceberg.

  When a blonde with a tiny face and an even smaller waist bobs down in front of me, I blink back my confusion. Where did she come from?

  “Does it hurt?” Her accent is highlighted with an American drawl.

  I wait for her fingers to stop tracing the mark I’ve felt throbbing in my neck since Asher left before shaking my head. It’s a little painful, but with my confusion at an all-time high, it’s the least of my worries. I was seconds from death—literally seconds—yet fea
r for my life didn’t enter the equation during my last thoughts. Excitement, hope, and another sensation I’ve never experienced have left my stomach in a curdled mess of confusion.

  The blonde smiles while pushing my hair out of my eyes. “Good. It wouldn’t have slowed the men down if it did, but it’s better if you’re not feeling any pain.”

  I suck in a shocked breath. “Men?”

  Standing to her feet, she marks some notes on a clipboard before dropping her eyes to mine. Although I can barely see them through the flashlight strapped to the thin belt circling her designer dress, it’s not bright enough to take away from their dark blue coloring.

  I flatten my back until it becomes one with the wall when she discloses, “The men you’ll be serving from 5 AM tomorrow morning.” No amount of confusion could have me mistaking the way she snickered “serving.”

  Ignoring my wide eyes and gaped mouth, she takes a mental calculation of my body. “Size two?”

  “Four.” For a one-word reply, it’s extremely hard to deliver. I had to force it through the lump in my throat.

  She jots down my details on her sheet. “It’s most likely your breasts increasing your dress size. I’ll talk to Roderick, see if we can get you some custom-made outfits by the end of the week. They’re not cheap, but they’ll do wonders for your overall gain. You’ve got plenty going for you to entice priceless gifts and bundles of money, but why not take advantage of your newness before the well dries up?”

  After her eyes drift over my hair, face, arms, and the skin between my toes, she returns them to my eyes. She seems pleased I’m relatively untouched. Except for the mark I feel thrumming in my neck, I appear as pure as my title of virgin suggests.