Reap (Scarred Souls 2)

A man beside him stopped dead. “But you’re the knayz. The Pakhan ordered you not to fight.”

But the man kept coming, shedding his shirt to the ground, now only wearing a white vest showing his cut muscles. He approached me, fists clenched, his jaw tensed like mine.

I rushed forward and raised my fist to strike, but the man ducked and rammed his fist in my stomach. Pain sliced through me.

He was strong.

Gasping, I turned and swung, landing a hit on his lip. Blood immediately ran down his chin. But he came at me again. Grabbing my hair, I fought to get free. The man’s strength matched mine. He lifted his leg and sent his knee straight into my jaw.

Rage surged through me. I needed to kill … Klavs!

Storming toward him, I wrapped my arm around his waist and took him to the ground. His fists hammered into my ribs, but I pressed my forearm against his throat and pushed down. Face filled with anger, he reached up, hands gripping each side of my head. I pushed down harder, cutting off his breathing. His fingers clawed into my scalp, and with a strength I’d never encountered before, he began lowering my head. I fought back, pressed down harder against his throat. His face reddened from lack of air.

He would die. He would die.

His hands gripped tighter, and just when the fucker was running out of breath, he lifted his head and slammed it against mine. My arm slipped off his throat and he spun me on my back, wrapping my hands behind my back.

I fought to get free. My skin scorching from the poison in my veins. I couldn’t stand the feel of its heat.

“Now!” the man called. “In his neck, now!”

I thrashed against his hold, but I couldn’t break his grasp.

Klavs … Klavs … my mind ordered, Master’s words flooding my head. They wouldn’t stop, the words kept stabbing at my brain. The poison, the pain, the hold. I couldn’t fucking break free!

I heard footsteps beside me, then a pain suddenly stabbed in my neck. I roared and rammed my elbow into my captor’s ribs. I thrashed to get free. Rolling to the side, I jumped to my feet, but I couldn’t see straight. My skin was too hot and dripped with sweat. I tried to walk but my feet wouldn’t move.

The man who’d fought me got to his feet. I blinked away the blur in my eyes. My gaze went to the man. His face was pale as he stared at me. He was mouthing words, firing orders to his men, but only the sound of my own breathing filled my ears.

I tried to reach for the man, my mind telling me to fight, to kill, to create carnage. But as I stepped forward, my knees buckled and I hit the ground hard. Arms grabbed me and began dragging my limp body across the hard ground.

I tried to pull away but my muscles wouldn’t move.

I lifted my eyes, the man was still staring. My skin crawled, my muscles tensed and I wanted to kill. Slit his throat, slice him with my sais.

I heard van doors open, and I was dragged off the ground. My eyes began to close, then suddenly everything faded to black.… The last image I saw was the man looking to the sky and taking a deep breath. I remembered his face, remembered it so if I awoke, his would be the first heart I’d make sure I stopped.

Chapter Five

Talia

Tolstoi Country Estate

West Hampton, New York

Sitting at the window of the living room, I stared out at a dark overcast sky. The light from the lighthouse circled lazily in the near distance, beckoning sailors home. Round, round, round, its hypnotic rhythm relaxed me as I sipped my coffee.

Ilya and Savin, my personal byki, walked in the grounds, my gaze catching the flicker of their movement in the moonlight. Both were dressed in black and as quiet as the night.

I felt safe.

I’d only been here a couple of days, and already I felt at peace. The beach, the salty sea air, this colonial-style house and most important, away from my Bratva cage in Brooklyn.

Taking another sip of my coffee, my free hand subconsciously lifted to run over the necklace I always wore around my neck. My babushka’s—my grandmother’s—necklace, the necklace she’d given me just before she died a few years ago. This delicate chain of gold had been my dedushka’s—my grandfather’s. It was the Tolstoi crest given to him as a boy. All Vor V Zakone received them from their fathers, all Thieves in Law, she had told me. It was a statement of honor. One he passed to her to keep close to her heart when he was gone on business.

I ran the pad of my thumb over the pendent and remembered the woman I’d regarded as my best friend, who just “got me.” Babushka was the world’s biggest romantic. And she’d loved my dedushka with all her heart, only to lose him at a young age. She never got over him and lit a candle every day at church in his honor.

All she had left of him was this necklace. A necklace she’d given to me as a symbol that one day I would find my true love, too.

She had wanted that for me so badly—to love another as fully as she had loved him.

I desperately wanted that, too.

I heard the back door open, and Ilya and Savin entered the room, each standing at opposite windows.

I rolled my eyes. “Surely no one threatening is going to be here in the Hamptons … in winter. It’s the reason we came out here. Practically no one else around.” My father hadn’t been happy about my wanting to leave Brooklyn for a while. With the new Georgian threat, he wanted me close for protection. But with my mother’s help, eventually he caved. Our compromise for my vacation—our summer home in the Hamptons. I was good with the deal. It was far enough away from home, and quiet enough for me to finally relax.

Neither of my byki listened to my complaint about their patrol. My father had made sure I had my guards with me. I didn’t ever know much about Bratva business, but I knew Savin and Ilya were checking we hadn’t been followed. I got that we were on high alert. I got that I was a huge target for the Georgians. From what I could surmise from Savin and Ilya’s quiet whispers was that the boss of the Jakhua clan was insane. And he was to be feared. He was a genuine threat to our position in Brooklyn. That meant I had to endure their constant surveillance.

Leaving the guys to their searching of the house, I looked out onto the rough sea crashing against our private beach, at the tide always chasing the shore, unable to stay away too long.

It made me feel poetic. What was it about the sound of waves rolling and the sea foam kissing the sleeping sand that was so soothing?

Noticing headlights traveling up our private country road, I frowned. “Ilya, Savin, someone’s coming,” I called out.

My heart beat a little faster, nerves swelling in my veins a little more than usual. I placed my coffee on the table beside me. No one knew we were here. Papa hadn’t told anyone for the sake of my safety.

Unless …

“Who could it be?” I asked Ilya, and moved to the center of the room.

Ilya waved me over to stand by him and pushed me behind his back. He looked to Savin. “Did you get a phone call from Mikhail or the knayz? Are we expecting anyone?”

Savin shook his head, watching the TV monitor as the car came to a slow stop at the security gate. The buzzer pressed and Savin answered the call.

“Yes?” he said curtly.

“Savin, or is that Ilya? It’s Kisa, can you let me in?”

I frowned as I saw Kisa lean to the camera, her face coming into view. I nodded my head to Savin, and he opened the electric gate.