Chapter 155
Blake
"Upstairs," she whispered, then realized she'd betrayed her employer and started rapid-fire Russian babbling. I caught maybe one word in ten, but didn't need translation: Please don't kill me, I'm surviving, I have children, I'll do anything.
Children. This desperate, broken woman had kids depending on her. Kids who'd grow up knowing their mother worked here, serving criminals and worse, because the alternative was starvation or worse.
For a second, I saw Kara. Same trapped desperation. How many times had Kara swallowed pride and anger because fighting meant losing her only shelter?
The rage triggered my wolf surging forward, bones starting to shift, transformation burning in my spine. I wanted to tear this place apart, find whoever reduced this woman to this—
Blake. Asher cut through like ice water. Control. Information, not carnage. Not yet.
I know, I snarled back, forcing the shift down. But this place, Asher. How they treat their own. It's sick.
I know, he agreed. Cole's mint-and-ozone wrapped around us, soothing, stabilizing. We'll burn it down. After we find Kara.
After, I agreed, turning back to the waitress. "I'm not going to hurt you." The words felt strange. When had I become the kind of Alpha who had to clarify that?
But I knew. Through years of casual cruelty. If I wanted to be worthy of the woman who'd somehow loved me anyway, I had to be better.
"Get your boss. Now."
She nodded frantically, updo wobbling. "Yes, yes, I get him. Please, you wait. Very fast. Please."
She ran for the stairs, broken heels clicking unevenly. I catalogued the way she favored her left leg—old injury, poorly healed. Defensive shoulder hunch, expecting violence from behind. One hand on the railing, not trusting her balance.
She's been hurt here, Cole observed. Repeatedly. Scar tissue on her shoulder—belt or whip. Her movements suggest cracked ribs never properly set.
Add it to the fucking list.
At the bar, a skinny bartender with dark skin and terrified eyes mechanically wiped the same glass, hands shaking so badly the cloth kept slipping. Maybe twenty-five, cleanest scent in the room—no prison ink, no violence reek, just someone who'd taken a wrong turn.
"Hey," I called. "Bartender."
He dropped the glass.
Shattering crystal like a gunshot. He dropped to his knees, frantically picking up pieces, cutting himself, muttering Russian apologies—desperate placating of someone punished for less.
"Простите, простите, я так глуп, я заплачу, пожалуйста не—"
"Stop," I said. He froze mid-grovel, blood dripping. "Leave it. It's fine."
He stared like I'd grown a second head. Simple mercy so foreign here he couldn't process it. His scent shifted from terror to confusion to wary, disbelieving hope that made me want to vomit.
How many times did Kara look at me like that? How many years did I make basic decency feel like a miracle?
Too many, Asher said quietly, his guilt heavy through the bond. We're going to spend the rest of our lives making up for it.
If we get her back, fear finally surfacing beneath rage. If she's alive. If Konstantin hasn't—
She's alive, Cole interrupted, mint sharpening with certainty. I still feel her through the bond. Faint, muted by suppression tech, but there. Fighting. Waiting for us.
Then let's not keep her waiting.
The waitress was coming back. Her updo partially collapsed, blonde hair in lank strands. Mascara smudged—not from crying, but rough handling. Strap pulled askew, exposing too much bra. Fresh bruise forming on her collarbone—someone's thumb pressing hard enough to leave an impression.
She'd been used. In five minutes, someone took the opportunity to remind her of her value. And judging by how she wouldn't meet my eyes, her utterly defeated scent—not the first time. Probably not the first time today.
Rage exploded white-hot. My wolf surged and I let it—eyes flashing gold, scent choking the room, growl rattling bottles.
Prone wolves whimpered, submissions more desperate. The bartender wet himself. And the waitress—poor, broken waitress with damaged hair and bruised collarbone—smiled.
Not happy. The smile of someone realizing the monster tormenting her was about to meet a bigger monster, and for once, she wasn't in the line of fire.
Blake, Asher warned, but with more understanding now. He'd seen through our consciousness. Knew what that bruise meant.
I'm going to kill him, I meant it with every fiber. Whoever put those marks on her while she was doing him a favor—throat ripped out, burn this shithole down.
After we get what we need, Asher agreed, ebony so dark it felt like smoke. After Kara. Then kill them all. I'll help.
We'll all help, Cole added, mint taking an edge I rarely heard. No one treats people like this.
She shuffled aside. Two men stepped into light.
First was obviously muscle—six-three, two-fifty, steroid and prison-workout bulk. Shaved head revealing scars and poorly-covered swastika tattoo. Prison ink everywhere: crude Cyrillic, Orthodox crosses, shoulder stars marking him vor—career criminal in Russian mob hierarchy. Scent all violence and vodka, undertone of sexual aggression making my wolf snarl.
That's the one who hurt her, I locked on with predatory focus.
Probably, Asher agreed. But wait. The other's more important.
The second man was who I'd come for.
Dmitri "Silver Fang" Morozov didn't match expectations. I'd expected a monster—scarred, battle-hardened, prison tats and dead eyes. What I got looked like a disappointed high school principal who'd let himself go around 1995 and never recovered.
Tall—six-five at least, but hunched like carrying the world's weight. Bulk from decades of vodka and pierogies, not muscle. Gut straining a white dress shirt that fit twenty years and fifty pounds ago, buttons pulling tight. Black tie loose around his neck, knot at mid-chest like he'd given up on professional somewhere around drink three.
Heavy jowls, twice-broken nose set poorly both times, massive gray-white beard to his chest, stained with coffee and meal crumbs. Hair—what remained—slicked in greasy salt-and-pepper ponytail exposing scalp mottled with age spots.
And sunglasses.
At three AM in a dim casino, this man wore sunglasses. Cheap plastic-framed monstrosities with opaque lenses—gas station five-dollar specials.
He looked ridiculous. Pathetic. Exactly the small-time criminal running illegal Fairbanks casinos because he couldn't make it in real cities.
But his scent told different stories.
Beneath old cigarettes, cheap cologne, musty unwashed clothes—something else. Cold, calculating, utterly ruthless. Scent of a wolf who'd survived decades where survival meant doing things that broke lesser men. Someone who'd killed and would again without hesitation.
And buried deepest: faint, unmistakable trace of the same scent from those gloves in Kara's room.
Konstantin's organization, Cole confirmed, mental voice tight with controlled fury. Connected. Scent markers match.
Right man, Asher said. Make him talk.