Page 33 of The Bratva's Beast

Even when I needed my typically straight brain to focus on the research at hand, the damn thing refused to cooperate. No matter how hard I tried to reel it in to focus on the computer screen, it kept bouncing back to images of Hanna's tantalizing body in the throes of pleasure.

Figuring out the man's identity from a clear picture was child's play to me. At the speed at which my fingers flew across the keys on my keyboard, I had his whole life compiled in multiple windows on my computer. There wasn't a speck of dust of him that remained hidden from my raging fit to uncover him.

Logan Lockwood.

The son of a bitch who had a death wish.

Hanna picked this damned moron to entertain her? This plain, run-of-the-mill rich brat moron? I was utterly insulted because this was the idiot I lost to. She rejected me for him?! He's the one who got to take my Hanna to bed?

"NO!"

Slamming my hands onto the desk, I shot up from my seat, swept an arm out, and knocked the monitor off my desk, sending it to the ground with a crash. With a cry of anguish and fury, I clawed my hands across my desk from one end to the other, knocking everything off its surface.

Papers scattered with a flutter while denser objects hit the floor with thuds and clatters. The softer sounds of destruction became overpowered by the sound of my chair slamming against a display case after I had violently kicked it.

Unfortunately, the glass case stood no chance against the force of the chair. The sound of glass shattering briefly filled the room before a loud crash echoed the room from me wrenching the metal frame of the case to the ground while letting out another angry scream.

Nothing in my office escaped my furious wrath. Every single object, no matter how big or small, was destroyed either by force from being thrown or by a bullet from my Glock when I couldn't control the itch in my trigger finger.

A completely destroyed office and three spent magazines later, my rage finally settled.

Correction: my rage disappeared.

Just like that, there one second and gone the next.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

It sounded like a drum beating at my ear when, in reality, it was my heart pounding in my heaving chest while I stood amongst the chaos.

Slowly, I dragged my heavy feet over to the floor-to-ceiling window at the back of my office and let my body fall against it with a winded breath. I didn't bother trying to control my sliding body when I felt my knees slowly give from the fatigue, letting it slide to the ground with a slight grunt.

Getting my breathing under control, I ran a hand through my messy hair, gripping it while I took some deep, controlled breaths to reset myself fully.

I should have been terrified of myself because of how fast it was for me to return to baseline, yet I wasn't because I'd grown comfortable with the fact. My fits of explosive fury used to be common in my late childhood and early teenage years, not that I would ever admit it to anyone. My brothers knew about my moments, only the surface, as that's how far I allowed them in.

They never knew—and still don't know—the full extent of the explosive episodes I suffered when my emotions would boil over like a pressure pot. I always kept a level head around them, always bottling up my anger and suffering until I snapped during moments of seclusion in the forests out back of our family home. My brothers didn't need to know about the bullet-riddled trees after I'd emptied countless magazines nor the mutilated animal corpses I'd tear apart physically with my own hands.

I only found myself flipping the switch after years of my father beating into me to be Nikolai's secondhand man and shadow. I was the contingency, Nikolai's replacement, if somehow he didn't work out. Being second meant I had to keep a level head at all times; at least, that's what my father beat into me.

To avoid my father's wrath and punishments, I learned to keep my emotions and feelings locked behind a flat smile and pretend everything was somewhat fine all the time. Things got harder when puberty hit, and the storm of hormones threw a wrench into my self-control for a few years until I reigned myself back in.

For the most part, some time at the shooting range, hunting, a quick spar with Lev, and more typical activities that weren't frowned upon were enough to run my buzz of emotions out of my system.

So, the fact I completely lost my shit just now over Hanna and her stupid little date, well, it was definitely something new in my adult life. Although not going to lie, it felt damn good and cathartic. With how clear my head felt, I felt like a new, fresh man.

Chuckling and laughing crazily to myself, I let my head fall back against the window, my eyes taking an interest in my ceiling.

God, I haven't lost control like this since I was sixteen. Even then, my fits were never this destructive with personal property.

"Fucking hell, you see what you do to me, Hanna?" My frustration echoed through the closed room.

Fine, if she wants to play this game, then I'll fucking play, and I'll fucking win.

Chapter 19

Stepan

"Someone seems happy this morning. You didn't sneak a coffee or energy drink on the way here, did you, little tigress?"

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