Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

The man barely reacts at first, only swatting at the site of the injection with a feeble hand. A moment later, however, his eyes go wide and he sits upright, his breathing speeding up as color rushes into his pallid cheeks.

“Epinephrine mixed with a few other fun substances,” I tell him cruelly. “It’ll keep you wide awake until the moment you croak. Which will be either a few neutral or a few terrible minutes from now. Your choice.”

He’s panting now, sweat running down his face. “Who the fuck are you?”

“If you don’t start talking, the man who makes your last moments hell.” I nod at Arkash and Kirilov, and they seize the man’s arms, easily lifting them above his head despite his struggles.

“Last chance,” I prompt, but the motherfucker just glares at me.

I smile darkly. I was hoping he’d prove difficult. As much as I prefer to play nice, this is the one time I’m looking forward to applying the skills Pavel taught me.

With the speed of a striking rattler, I stab my knife into the man’s kidney and twist the blade.

The scream that rips from his throat is barely human. The drug not only keeps him conscious, it enhances all sensations, magnifying pain a thousandfold.

Before he can recover, I yank out the blade and slice at his stomach twice, slashing through skin, fat, and muscle in a big X.

His eyes bulge, another inhuman scream tearing through his throat as I peel back the triangular flaps of flesh, revealing his insides.

“Have you ever wondered what it feels like to have your intestines cut out without anesthesia?” I ask conversationally. “No? Because you’re about to find out. Actually, wait—I think that might kill you too quickly. We’ll start lower.” With another swift motion, I slash through the groin of his jeans, exposing his limp cock and balls.

“Wait!” His eyes are wild as my blade descends again. “I’ll—I’ll tell you.”

I stop an inch from his shriveled dick. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t know why, okay? He never told us.” He coughs, spitting up blood. “Just said we had to take them out.”

“Them?”

“The woman and… the girl.”

Fuck. “You were supposed to kill them both that day?”

“Yeah.” His face is paler with each moment. “Only the girl was late. And then somehow she saw us and…” He coughs again, weakly, and I know the drug is losing the battle against his dying body.

“Who was it?” I demand urgently as his lids drift down. “Who hired you?” I press the sharp point of the knife against his balls. “Give me a fucking name!”

His eyes open blearily, and he croaks out three syllables—a name that nearly makes me drop my knife. My stunned gaze meets Arkash’s and Kirilov’s; written on their faces is the same slack-jawed look of disbelief.

“Did you just say—” I begin, returning my attention to the assassin, only to fall silent in frustration.

His eyes are vacant, his chest unmoving as his head lolls bonelessly to one side.

It’s over. The motherfucker’s gone.

I leap to my feet, my mind furiously sifting through what I know.

The man he named would definitely have the resources to do this, but what’s the motivation? The connection? How would his and Chloe’s paths have even crossed?

Unless… they didn’t.

Chloe wasn’t the only person on his hit list; her mother was on it too.

And then, like an avalanche, it hits me.

California. Young mother, still underage at the time of Chloe’s birth. A father she never knew. A full-ride scholarship that came out of nowhere.

A different man, one with a normal, loving family, would never leap to a conclusion so twisted, so dark. But I’m a Molotov, and I know shared blood doesn’t buy loyalty or safety.

I know love can be more violent than hate.

Heart thudding heavily, I turn to look at Chloe.

If I’m right, her very existence is a career-ending scandal—and another so-called father deserves my knife.

53

Chloe

I’m in hell. Either that or trapped in a nightmare. My arm is on fire, my insides are roiling, and each time the dark haze in my mind clears and I crack open my eyelids, I see Nikolai doing something ever more terrible as his deep, smooth voice utters threats that make bile churn in my throat. And the screaming that follows… My stomach lurches, and it’s all I can do not to roll over and vomit.

This isn’t real.

It can’t be.

The dark haze threatens to swamp me again, and I focus on taking small, shallow breaths and keeping my eyes closed. It has to be a dream, a horrible, graphic dream, or a hallucination brought on by extreme terror. How else would Nikolai be here? How would he have found me?

Then again, how did my mom’s killers?

My consciousness must cut out again, because when I open my eyes next, I’m in the backseat of a moving SUV, comfortably ensconced on a man’s lap. Nikolai’s lap—I’d recognize that cedar-and-bergamot scent anywhere. His powerful arms are around me, holding me tight, and my pulse leaps with joyous relief as I realize this isn’t a dream.