Torrid (Sordid 2)

“I can help with your uncle,” she said in a rush. “I could—”

“I don’t need your help.” My voice was hard and cold. Her eyes doubled in size with every step I took.

“Oh, God, don’t,” she cried. “Not with a knife.”

Her gasp of horror was surgical, cutting deep to my bones, and I fell to my knees. I slipped the tip of the knife between the tape and the bench leg, and jerked upward. She used her newly freed hand to wipe away a loose tear while I cut her other wrist free, and the knife clattered to the floor.

She scrambled into my arms, and I went on autopilot, allowing it for a moment before I realized what she’d done. It was wrong to hold her, but it didn’t make it feel any less good, and I hated her for it. I dumped her from my arms.

“If you stay here,” I said, “I’ll come to my senses and kill you.”

She pressed her blood-red lips together, but otherwise didn’t move.

“I’ll probably fuck you again, and then kill you,” I added. Although, I’d thrown everything at her and she was still here, sitting on the floor and looking at me with her big doe eyes like I was her savior and not the devil.

“I’m not leaving.” Her tone was firm. “You said you always get what you want, but you also said we’re the same. I want your help.”

I stood. “I need a shower to wash your fucking stink off me.”

I trudged toward the stairs and lumbered up them, ignoring her as she followed. I kicked open the door to my room and stormed through it, walking directly into the shower. I didn’t even take my clothes off, and neither did she. Only her shoes were left outside the glass shower door.

I turned the water on. It blasted us, cold at first and then so fucking hot it should have melted our skin off. I wanted it to wash away her lies, but all it did was soak my jeans until they were stiff and heavy.

Water cascaded down her pale skin, drenching the lingerie. I finally gave her my attention, backing her up against the wall and putting my hands on either side of her head, trapping her in. Although I wasn’t sure why. She’d had every opportunity to leave and hadn’t done it, even after I’d ordered her to.

She reached a hand up and set it on my jaw, but I pushed it away and slapped my palm against the tile right by her head, making her flinch. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say so.”

I moved, gliding my hand down her body, following the flow of the water, making my point without words. I didn’t need permission to touch what was mine.

“If Konstantine dies,” she said, “my father won’t stop until every Markovic is in the ground. But if you kill him, and your uncle . . . Vasilije, you’ll run this town.”

If I put the personal shit to the side, deep down I knew she was right. I couldn’t trust her, but the opportunity was hard to ignore. Killing my uncle was my priority, but inheriting the family empire afterward was a nice perk, and the idea of her keeping the Russians at bay was tempting.

I’d stay on my toes and could always kill her if I sensed her loyalty was fake. Which gave me an idea. “If I stop the order on Konstantine, I’m going to need something from you.”

She looked eager. “Anything.”

“You need to kill Alek.”

Oksana barely blinked. “Fine. How do you want me to do it?”

33

Oksana

After the shower, I went to my room and dressed in the outfit I’d been wearing the first night I’d come to the house. Vasilije had instructed me to. He wanted to burn my clothes after I took care of Aleksandar.

It was him or Konstantine, I reminded myself repeatedly. If it would save my brother’s life, I would have to pull the trigger. I might be a panicked mess while I did it, but it would happen. Killing Ilia hadn’t been premeditated. It had felt right, and I had no regrets.

However, this murder felt . . . muddy.

Vasilije sat on the couch in the living room, and looked up at me when I entered. His gaze was cold and impersonal, and it stung. I’d shown him the side of myself no one had seen, and I believed he’d done the same.

I’d been so wrong.

“Alek’s on his way,” he said, setting his phone down on the coffee table. “There’s the gun in the office. You know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

“Go get it.”

It felt like a test. I strode into the darkened office, yanked open the bottom drawer, and scooped up the gun. When I came back into the living room, he eyed the weapon in my hand. I’d had plenty of opportunities to kill him, and hadn’t. Wasn’t this proof I wanted to work with him?