Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“His father,” Serge says, visibly restraining himself from stepping back more. I’m deeply in his personal space now, and he doesn’t like it.
No, he’s fucking afraid, just like he should be.
“The politician,” I say, sneering.
“Michael McGrath was powerful in those days. Until the day he died, he was a force in the Senate and had a knack for making his unruly children’s problems disappear.”
“Is that what he did with you?”
“Seamus was a problem. He gambled too much at a young age. I hear he blew through all the bookies in Maryland, which is how he ended up coming to Philadelphia. I gave him credit, not knowing better, and he dug himself such a deep hole that I had no choice but to make threats. Instead of doing the right thing and paying me off, he decided to do something drastic.” Serge glances at his daughter again. Dasha’s standing still, her spine straight, her chin raised, fury in her eyes. “I found her as fast as I could and brought her home. I was going to light the whole city on fire until Michael McGrath came to me and begged for his son’s life. He offered me favors, made threats, did everything he could. He made it clear that he would bring all his power against me. In the end, we agreed on a solution.”
I take a steady breath. “What was the solution, Serge?”
“Seamus was sent to a rehabilitation school. It was like a military academy. He stayed there for years, and I had hoped it might’ve changed him, but—”
My hand whips forward. I catch Serge by the throat and slam him back into the shelf. Books topple off, and Serge scrabbles at my wrist, trying to struggle free, but my grip is like iron as I squeeze.
“But you were fucking wrong,” I snarl in his face. “Seamus is very much alive. He’s very much a part of his father’s old organization. And he’s trying to kill my fucking pregnant wife.”
I slam my forehead into his nose. Blood spurts down his lips and chin, gushing onto his shirt. I do it again and again until the bone is practically pulp. More blood’s smeared all over me, and I’m growling in his face like an animal, barely able to control myself.
“Please,” Serge says, moaning in pain. “I didn’t know. I did what I thought was best.”
“What was best for you,” I spit and throw him down. He groans as he hits the floor, more blood dribbling onto my carpet. I kick him hard in the gut. “You weak, pathetic piece of shit. I knew you had no spine at the wedding, but now I see you for what you are.” I kick him again, this time smashing my toe right into his mouth. He grunts and falls flat on his back, eyes rolling as he struggles to stay conscious. I put a knee on his chest and smash my face into his. “You should have killed Seamus. You should have protected your daughter. Now, I’m going to clean up your fucking mess.”
Again, again, again, I keep hitting him as all my rage flares and I can’t control myself anymore. I have to break him, I have to kill him, I have to sate his black hunger burning a hole in my chest. If I can’t have Seamus, then Serge will have to be good enough.
“Tigran.”
I hit him. I hit him again. Blood and teeth scatter across the carpet. His begging and pleading are like music.
“Tigran, please.” But that voice isn’t him. A hand grabs my arm. I jerk but stop myself before I yank her off her feet.
Dasha’s there, holding onto me.
“Please, Tigran,” she says again. “Please, stop.”
I can barely understand what she’s saying. My wife is begging for the life of the man who couldn’t keep her safe?
Worse, the man who traded righteous revenge for political favors?
“He deserves this,” I say, breathing hard, sweat and blood mingling on my face. “You know he deserves worse.”
“I know,” she says gently, her face beautiful and calm. “But he’s still my father.”
“Not anymore. He’s nothing to you now.”
“Please, Tigran. That’s enough.” She tugs me, pulling me back.
I want to keep hitting. I want to feed the monster inside and watch Serge die under my fists.
But Dasha doesn’t want that.
And even though there’s a howling, hellish monster screaming for bloody murder gibbering in my skull, Dasha matters.
She’s the little bit of light left in my otherwise rotten soul.
“Come here,” she says, and I let her draw me away from him.
I take her into my arms. I kiss her, smearing blood on her lips and face. She doesn’t seem to mind. I hug her close and have to take a moment to calm down. The bloodlust is fading, leaving only a bitter, acidic taste in my throat.