Page 23 of Twisted Cage

My God, he called me by my name. When he fucked me—because I refuse to call it anything else now—he called me by my given name.

Her name.

“It was a long time ago.” His eyes plead for me to listen to him, to give him a chance to explain. But this world is twisted in lies, drowning in deception, and the one person I thought I could count on is the last person I should have given myself to.

Weakness frustrates me.

But feeling stupid and small—cuts me open wide and leaves me bleeding endlessly.

Too stunned to cry, I stumble back another step just as a torrent of bullets rip through the front doors, splintering pews and shattering centuries-old glass. Vlad and my father dive behind marble displays, guns ready, but instead of worrying about us, they’re aimed at the door.

The twisted sordid tale lies between us, and I should be grateful that I know before it goes too far.

A humorless laugh bubbles from my throat followed by a sob I’m helpless to contain.

Because it’s already gone too far for me to ever go back, and it turns out the one man trusted to keep them from breaking me broke me most of all.

Konstantin doesn’t cower. He doesn’t flinch. Strong and sure, he reaches out to me even as the war arrives at our feet and our sanctuary crumbles in a hail of gunfire. “Take my hand, Pcholka. Right now! Take my hand and I’ll go with you. We’ll leave all of this behind.”

10

KONSTANTIN

Memories mock me here. Despite the certain misery, I’m helpless to stay away. A full year, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since I brought my goddaughter, Nikoletta, here and crossed every line existing between us.

When my every vow to her, to her family, and to God shattered and rained down in jagged pieces at our feet in the shadow of her virgin blood streaking my cock.

My gaze follows the same path hers did that day, sweeping up the parade of colors casting a glow through the stained glass windows. Rich smoke lingers in the air from the last mass. Warmth, hope, forgiveness live here—but not for me. Inside, my soul has plummeted into a deep freeze impossible to shake.

Fragments of memories, regrets, and wishful thinking whisper through the still air. Shadows flicker and dance where row after row of candles burn. My gaze lands on the altar, where I held her as a baby—where I took her virginity when she was barely a woman. I haven’t let myself touch the marble since that evening… when I took her, when I broke her—and she ran under a hail of gunfire and her brother, Vlad’s, maniacal laughter.

Vanished.

And in three hundred and sixty-five days, absolutely no trace of her exists.

Tonight I can’t avoid the altar. My desperate heart rules, making it impossible to keep my feet rooted to the spot. Despite any remnants of our encounter having been washed away long ago, I need to touch the place where my oaths died, where I took someone precious who was never meant to belong to me.

The cross looms heavier with every step I take down the center aisle. All evidence of the violent shootout that day gone, taken care of by a heavy donation to the church. Just one more way Nikolaj has earned respect and increased his edge in the war for New York City against his father and brother, the ruler and successor of the Romanoff Bratva respectively.

Maksim, once my best friend, and for a brief time my competition in matters of the heart, slowly slipped into madness, a kind of madness Vlad, the legitimate, yet deranged heir stoked and manipulated. Over time, Maksim Romanoff, a name that instilled respect and fear, transitioned into uncertainty and terror.

His kingdom cracked and twisted into something unpredictable and venomous with each passing day. Vlad slowly taking the helm only guaranteed the Romanoff empire will feed on itself and destroy everything in its path until it plummet straight to hell.

Generations of power and wealth I helped nurture for the past thirty years, pissed away by a psychopath.

I promised Nikolaj I will help him build an army and take control. If we fail, my purpose will become singular.

Protect Nikoletta from Vlad’s wrath.

Regret haunts me. The crushing guilt for all the time I spent protecting her and completely missed how she had been tortured right under my nose by her own brother. She’ll never be locked in the dark by him or with him again. He’ll never again touch her, abuse her, violate her.

If that means destroying the world in the process, so be it. If I die protecting her, I’ll take his deranged soul with me.

I falter on the second step, my gaze catching on the leather book lying there. The air lodges in my lungs. My eyes roam the well-worn leather. A sense of dread consumes me from every direction until my gut hollows out and the hair on my neck stands up. I spin on my heel, scanning the sacred space with a shrewd eye, searching for the slightest movement.

The silence has a heartbeat, or maybe that is mine. Tingling skitters up my spine, my senses telling me someone watches from the shadows.

Or perhaps that is my own guilt.

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