The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

The first two days, I humored them, mostly because I was trying to play nice with my fiancée. By day three, however, I made the executive decision to throw all the fucks the doctors had asked I give about my health out the window.

“Nix, stop.” I caught her hand. It rested on my chest in our apartment—yes, our apartment—as she patted my forehead with a hot, wet cloth. “No more of this bullshit. I’m going back to the streets tonight.”

Her peacock eyes widened in horror, her rosebud mouth pouting.

“You’re still recovering.”

“I’m bored out of my ass, and I have a job to do.”

“You can do it when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m feeling pretty fucking great. Would you like me to demonstrate?” I raised an eyebrow, my eyes dropping to the impressive bulge in my pants. No matter my physical state, whenever Aisling was in the room so was my need to fuck her through the mattress, floor, and earth.

“We had a deal, remember?” She withdrew her hand from mine, stepping back, standing in front of me in our bedroom.

“Yes, my love. I was right fucking there when we had it.” I smiled impatiently.

It was one thing to give up half my kingdom for her. It was quite a-fucking-nother to be happy about it. “Yet another reason why I need to get my ass out of bed and take care of business. Give me my phone.” I snapped my fingers toward the nightstand.

She quirked an eyebrow, knotting her arms over her chest.

She was my fiancée, not my soldier. I had a long way to go when it came to treating her like the princess that she was. Mostly because I’d never had to treat anyone well my entire life.

“Please. And thank you.” I grinned wolfishly, and she picked my phone up, handing it over to me.

“Who are you calling?”

I already had the phone pressed to my ear. “Troy.”

“Where are you two going?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“You’re always going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?” She sighed but looked happy about it. I grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled her down for a filthy, deep kiss.

“Not at all. Sometimes I’ll keep you on your back, too. And on all fours. But whatever your position, I promise you’ll fucking enjoy it.”

The following evening, Troy parked in front of Vasily Mikhailov’s Russian deli in Brookline. He tossed me a doubtful look.

“You sure you wanna do this? You can tell her you did it, and she’ll be none the wiser. I know you’ve worked hard to conquer Brookline.”

“Whatever happened to chewing more than I could swallow?”

“Just playing devil’s advocate before you make a move.”

“You don’t have to play devil’s advocate with me. I know what goes on inside the devil’s head.” I pushed the passenger door open, sliding out and cocking my gun as I did. I heard Troy doing the same behind me. We rounded his car, popping the trunk open. Vasily’s daughter, Masha, blinked at the sudden light coming from behind our shoulders, her mouth gagged, her hands and feet tied together behind her back.

I smiled cordially. “Miss Mikhailov, thank you for contributing to our cause.”

She murmured something hysterical around the fabric covering her mouth, but I couldn’t distinguish it.

“What’s that?” I asked. “Never mind. You were never captured for your conversational skills. Only as a pawn to ensure your daddy knows I will slaughter you if he doesn’t bend to my will.”

I hoisted her up over my shoulder, marching toward the deli.

The bell above the deli’s door chimed as we stepped inside. I aimed my gun toward the shop owner with my free hand, an elderly Russian man with a weather-beaten face marred with red and blue from years of braving the cold. Masha was still draped over my shoulder, like a pig on its way to slaughter, still dressed in the same expensive coat and designer heels she wore on her shopping spree this morning.

“Where’s Vasily?” I clipped.

The man’s eyes flared at the sight in front of him. Masha thrashed desperately, trying to wriggle out of my hands.

“I … I …” he started, knowing full well he was not allowed to let people into the back office. That was where his boss was situated.

I turned my aim from his head to Masha’s spine, digging the gun into her bones. “Better fucking hurry or you’ll have to explain to your boss why his daughter’s guts are spilled all over your floor. I’m guessing it’ll be a bitch to clean up, too. Though, I doubt he’ll spare your life after letting it happen.”

“Come with me!” the man blurted out, jumping from his place behind the counter, rounding it and pushing an old wooden door open.

The place smelled of pickles, dried meat, and smoke. I followed the man’s back, Troy at my heels. After passing through a narrow, dusty corridor we reached another door. He opened it.