Page 18 of Emerald

Declan made a sort of gurgling noise, his hands coming up to clutch at his ruined throat. The life already fading from his eyes as he slumped back in his chair. I stood there, breathing hard, the knife still clutched in my fist. I felt curiously numb, detached, but beneath that numbness, I could feel something else growing. Something hot and bright and fierce, a rage so pure it was almost holy.

Declan Maguire was dead. The man who had been my boss, my mentor, my fucking surrogate father for as long as I could remember... was nothing more than a cooling slab of meat, his lifeblood staining the plush carpet of his study.

And I had killed him.

Dimly, I became aware of shouts and pounding footsteps in the hallway outside. Declan's men.

The door burst open and half a dozen soldiers spilled into the room. They took one look at the scene in front of them - Declan slumped in his chair, his throat a gaping ruin, and me standing over him with a bloody knife - and went still.

"What..." One of them, a grizzled veteran named Seamus, stepped forward, his gun wavering slightly. "What the fuck have you done, Finn?"

"What I had to do." I said, my voice steady. I turned to face the men, my shoulders squared and my chin high. "Declan Maguire is dead. Cara is now our Queen. So, we’re going to war, lads; and we’re not going to stop until every last one of those Russian bastards is dead or wishing they were."

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The men stared at me, their expressions unreadable. I could see the gears turning behind their eyes. And then, as one, they lowered their guns. Lowered their heads, in a gesture of respect.

"What are your orders?" Seamus asked, his voice gruff but unwavering. "Where do we start?"

I felt a slow, savage smile curve my lips. The rage was still there, burning in my gut like a banked fire. But now it was tempered by something else, something colder and harder and infinitely more dangerous.

Purpose. The sort of pure, unadulterated purpose that came with the knowledge that you were doing what you were born to do. What you would gladly die to do, if that's what it took.

"We start," I said softly, "by painting the streets red with Sokolov blood. And we don't stop until Cara is back in my arms, and every last one of those animals is rotting in the ground."

The men nodded, their faces grim and determined. They knew what was at stake. Still, they were with me. Ready to follow me into hell and back, if that's what it took to save my girl. Our Irish Queen.

Chapter 14: Cara

Pain had become my entire world, and the brief snatches of unconsciousness that were the only respite from the never-ending torture. I didn't know how long I'd been here. Hours, days. Time had lost all meaning in this dank, blood-soaked hell. All I knew was that I was breaking. Slowly, inevitably, the unrelenting brutality chipping away at my mind and body.

I'd fought at first. Of course I had, with every ounce of strength and defiance I possessed. I'd spat curses and insults even as they violated me, even as they tore into my flesh with fists and knives and teeth. I'd laughed in their faces, mocked their manhood, just to prove that they couldn't break me. But I'd been wrong. So fucking wrong, and so goddamn naive. Because there was no limit to the depravity that Mikhail Sokolov and his brothers were capable of.

They'd raped me. Beaten me. Burned me and cut me and used me in ways that made me want to vomit up my own soul. They'd shattered my bones and my pride and my sense of self, until I wasn't even sure if the girl hanging limply from these blood-encrusted chains was still Cara Maguire at all. I still clung to that one tiny, flickering spark. Finn. I knew he would come.

It was the only thing that kept me sane. I let them break me in every way imaginable, secure in the knowledge that when this was over - when Finn came crashing through those - I would have my vengeance. I would watch the light fade from Mikhail Sokolov's piggish eyes, and I would smile as I did it.

But fuck, it was hard. Harder than anything I'd ever done, to hang onto that sliver of hope. Especially now, with Mikhail looming over me, his face twisted in a sneer of sadistic pleasure as he prepared to begin another round of torture.

"You're being unusually quiet, devotchka," he mused, trailing the tip of his knife down the curve of my cheek. I refused to flinch, even as the blade bit into my skin and sent a fresh trickle of blood oozing down my face. " No more empty threats?"

I stared up at him through the tangled curtain of my hair, my split lips curling in a bloody smile. "Go fuck yourself, you sadistic piece of shit."

Mikhail tutted, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Such language from a lady. It seems I still have much to teach you about proper comportment."

I bared my teeth in a feral grin, ignoring the way it made my face scream in protest. "You're too fucking stupid to realize the only woman you'll ever get is the one you have to chain up and torture."

Mikhail's face contorted with rage, his piggish eyes bulging and his cheeks flushing an ugly shade of crimson. For a moment I thought he might actually stroke out and save me the trouble of killing him myself. Instead he reared back and slammed his fist into my face, snapping my head back against the damp stone wall. I felt something crack, felt the hot gush of blood fill my mouth and pour down my chin. But I didn't make a sound. Didn't give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

"You think you're so brave, don't you?" Mikhail hissed, grabbing a fistful of my hair and wrenching my head back at a painful angle. “But let me tell you a secret, devotchka."

He leaned in close, his breath hot and fetid against my ear. "No one is coming for you. Not your father, not your precious Finn. They've abandoned you, left you to rot in this godforsaken pit because you're nothing to them. Just a stupid, worthless cunt."

I closed my eyes, letting his poisonous words wash over me. And for a moment, just a moment, I almost believed him. Because god, what if he was right? What if no one was coming, what if I really was alone and forgotten and left to suffer for the rest of my miserable life?

“Fuck you,” I coughed out, spitting blood at him as he unhooked me from my chains. My broken body no longer capable of running from him.

Then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of gunfire, muffled but getting closer. The shouts of barked orders in Russian, the thud of running footsteps and the crash of splintering wood.

Finn. Finn was here, coming for me. I could feel it.

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