Judas Romanovski
The door slammed shut and it didn't do a damn thing to cage the storm raging inside me. My hands trembled-rage or something darker that I couldn't fucking name-and I loathed it with everything I had. My fingers curled around the edge of the fucking desk I had her slammed and knuckles whitened, and then-snap. The desk splintered under my grip, wood cracking like her voice cracked my sanity.
Fuck. Her.
I swept my arm across the surface, sending everything flying-papers, glass, the laptop I'd replaced three times this year. It shattered, pieces scattering across the floor. She couldn't see it, of course. Couldn't see me. The real me-the monster that thrived in shadows, bathed in blood, and smiled while snapping necks. But she… she looked at me as if I were someone else. As if I were no better than any man.
A laugh ripped from my throat, sharp and bitter. "Stupid little girl."
I shut my eyes and her face stared back at me, defiant even in stillness, those soft eyes holding secrets that made me burn with something I couldn't name. My fingers itched to crush it, to break her like she was breaking me. But my hands stilled like an fucking pathetic idiot. Why? Why the fuck couldn't I finish it?
I was done holding myself back. And I had no idea why.
If she hadn't looked at me like that tonight, with that maddening mix of defiance and vulnerability, I wouldn't be losing my goddamn mind.
Why does she fucking matter?
Why did every other goddamn thing in this circus of a world was pale next to her?
I snarled like a cornered animal. She was the anomaly, the crack in the mirror, the fucking reason I was unraveling. She makes me weak. And I hated her for it.
Or maybe I didn't.
Was it guilt? No, I wasn't capable of guilt. Not anymore. But when it came to her... I wasn't sure.
I told myself I didn't want her tears, but maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to drown in them.
I grabbed a chair and hurled it at the window. Glass exploded outward, scattering into the night, fragments catching the cold. Just like I was indifferent to the rest of the world. Except with her. With her, it was different. And I hated her for that too.
She shouldn't matter for fuck's sake. I had no trouble burning the bastard, I had no remorse when I slice skins, but one tear of hers and I didn't know what was right and not.
My eyes caught the sight of the shard of glass, and for a moment, I imagined pressing it to her skin. Would she bleed like I did when she cut too deep with her words?
She would never understand. Never. Her world was soft, wrapped in illusions of love and fucking loyalty. Mine? Rot. Fire. Blood. I dragged my hands through my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but it wasn't enough. The chaos in my head wouldn't quiet.
Fuck her.
But I couldn't. Not literally, not metaphorically. Not without breaking apart what little restraint I had left. I'd promised myself I wouldn't touch her again, wouldn't let her drag me deeper into this madness. But promises were for better men, and I wasn't one of them.
Her phantom was still here-her scent, her voice, the memory of her. My chest tightened, an ache bloomed where there should have been nothing. I didn't want to hurt her. Not really. But she made it so fucking hard not to.
Because she was mine.
The thought burned through me, raw and possessive, igniting every dark part of my soul. Mine to protect. Mine to break. Mine to destroy.
A darker laugh tore from me. She was the only act I couldn't stop watching. And that was the worst part of all.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I groaned before pulling it out and seeing the name flash across the screen. Kyle fucking Molotov. Perfect timing. If anyone could stoke the fire in my chest higher, it was him.
I swiped to answer, my voice a mask of eerie calm that barely concealed the inferno underneath. "Что ты нашёл, Молотов?"
("What did you find, Molotov?")
Kyle's voice came through. "Его местонахождение подтверждено. Он в Москве. Ждёшь моих указаний, или сам разберёшься?"
("His location is confirmed. He's in Moscow. Do you want my instructions, or will you handle it yourself?")
My jaw tightened, fingers curled around the remnants of the control I had. He was in Moscow.
"Я разберусь. Держи людей готовыми. Никто не тронет его, кроме меня."
("I'll handle it. Keep the men ready. No one touches him except me.")
Kyle grunted. "Как скажешь, Романовский. Только не убей его слишком быстро. Мы можем извлечь из этого пользу."
("As you say, Boss. Just don't kill him too quickly. We might get some use out of this.")
"Я буду делать это на своих условиях."
("I'll do it on my terms.")
I ended the call without waiting for a response, tossing the phone onto the desk. Moscow. The bastard thought he could hide there, plot against her, and breathe another day? No. I'd make him regret every thought he had of harming her. It would all burn with him.
Before I could finish the next thought, the door burst open and the guard rushed in with his face pale beneath the dim light. His words came out in a frantic stammer.
"Господин Романовский! Мисс Роузвуд… она сбежала!"
("Mr. Romanovski! Miss Rosewood… she's run away!")
The air around me stilled. My head tilted, slowly as my eyes locked onto him. He froze in place, as if he'd stepped into the lair of a lion. "Повтори это." My voice was low, a dangerous whisper that promised pain. And I would inflict that upon him if he was messing with me. But looking at him, I didn't think so.
("Repeat that.")
"Она… Она исчезла. Мы проверили камеры. Она ушла из особняка через боковой вход около часа назад."
("She… She's gone. We checked the cameras. She left the estate through the side entrance about an twenty minutes ago.")
Twenty minutes. Just before I warned her. How stupid this woman could be? There was no where she could go in this fucking storm. Fuck.
"Ты стоишь здесь, рассказывая мне это, вместо того чтобы искать её?" I was already garbbing my jacket and rushing towards the door.
("You're fucking standing here, telling me this, instead of looking for her?")
He followed behind. "Мы... Мы уже начали поиски, господин. Все патрули в пути."
("We… We've already started the search, sir. All patrols are en route.")
My little bird ran. Foolish, stupid girl.
I didn't trust the guards to do the job. I needed to see for myself. She wouldn't get far-not with the storm. Not with me out there.
I ran a hand through my hair, letting the fury settle into something colder, sharper. She was mine. And if she thought for one second that she could slip through my fingers, I'd show her just how wrong she was.
She was talking my words very lightly. And when I catch her, I'd show her what pain and humiliation truly was. I'd do what I just promised.
The hunt had begun.