Page 99 of Ruthless Lullaby

I turn my head to the door to see what she’s looking at, and that is when I notice the person standing there. It’s Maurice. He stands there with a gun in his hand, pointing it straight at me. "How dare you fuck my woman," he says and his finger squeezes the trigger.

My eyes pop open and I find my entire body swimming in cold sweat. My heart is galloping with the speed of a racehorse. But there is quiet around me. I blink away the memories of the previous moment and look at what’s in front of me. The only thing staring back at me is the dull paleness of the ceiling.

It was just a nightmare.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It's 5:30 in the morning and I'm lying naked on the bed, my legs spread. I'm alone in the darkness, the sheets tangled around my ankles. The remnants of the dream cling to me like a second skin, vivid and unsettling.

I run a shaky hand through my sweat-damp hair, trying to slow my ragged breathing. The room feels too small, too confining. The darkness presses in, and for a moment, I swear I can still smell Mindy's perfume, hear the echo of that gunshot.

Blyad!

My body is torn between my lingering arousal and the feeling of being shot at. I know both feelings too damn well.

I push myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and drop my head into my hands. This isn't the first time I've dreamed of Mindy, but it has never ended like this. The image of Maurice, his face twisted with rage and hurt, is seared into my mind. Is this guilt? Fear? Or some twisted premonition?

I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep and nightmare.

I can't.

Days have passed since Mindy's cryptic message and her sudden departure from my life. Since then, I buried myself in my work at Global Media, trying to ignore the nagging questions and doubts that consume me. But no matter how many meetings I sit through, or how many deals I close, I can't shake off the restless frustration clawing at me like a feral animal. And when night falls, my mind becomes a battleground for haunting nightmares. The suppressed thoughts and questions about why she decided to leave me rise to the surface and haunt my dreams.

My finger hovers over her name on my phone. I almost dial her number but then I remind myself that it's dawn and she’s probably asleep. Or sucking some dude's cock. I throw my phone onto the floor in disgust and frustration.

My hand glides through the tip of my hard cock, and I find it damp from precum. Even now, I’m fueled by this primal need. I've jerked off countless times at night, but nothing on this godforsaken planet can satisfy me.

OnlyMindy Williams can. I want her back. Ineedher back. And not just because I still need a wife who can provide me withan heir. I need Mindy. The curves of her body, the silkiness of her hair, the smoothness of her pussy. Her sensual lips around my cock. The fire in her eyes, the strength of her spirit. The way she looks at me, like she sees the man beneath the monster. She sees me.

I grip myself with brutal force and begin to stroke relentlessly, my legs spreading wider. The sound of my strokes echo through the room as my fingers work furiously. I tilt my head back in a mix of pleasure and frustration. My body is still slick with sweat, but I don't care. All I care about is relieving this insatiable desire. My grip tightens to the point of pain, but I welcome it. It means temporary relief from this craving. But deep down, I know that no amount of release will truly satiate me. The only person who can do that is Mindy herself.

I keep stroking my cock until orgasm comes and with a guttural moan, I release onto the palm of my hand.

But it’s nothing like any orgasm I had with her. Not even close. I can't fucking go on like this. I really can't.

As my breathing slows, my mind begins to wander. Sure, we signed a contract. So what? Do I drag Mindy back, punish her with sex, and force her to live with me? The idea isn't unfamiliar but somehow, I can't fucking get myself to actually do it. Not with her. Not against her will. This is why I decided to not look for her, despite the all-consuming urge to do so. For whatever fucked up reason, I feel compelled to respect her wishes. Which is fucking ridiculous for me. I was always a man who went for what he wanted. And today, I am a man who always gets what he wants. Always. Except when it comes to Mindy Williams. Because deep down, I know that she would never forgive me if I forced her to do something against her will. She would hate me forever. And I could never forgive myself for that.

Of course, I could always get myself out there, find another woman, and offer her a life of luxury in exchange for playing the role of my dutiful wife. It would be easy. Just another transaction in a world where everything has a price tag on it.

But the thought of settling for anyone else, anyone less than Mindy, and trying to build a life with a woman who means nothing to me… Fuck that.

The clock flashes 5:55 am, reminding me of my daily tasks. So, I stand up and drag myself into the bathroom, knowing that today will be just like every other day; ruthless, fast-paced, relentless.

I step into the shower, cranking the knob all the way to frigid. The ice-cold water slams against my skin, numbing my senses and washing away the lingering traces of my twisted dream. I let the freezing droplets pummel me, hoping they'll take away the memories of Mindy, at least for a little while. But not even this icy torture can ease the pain of her absence.

Two hours later, at eight o'clock sharp, I pick up the phone and call Maurice. "Come to my office," I tell him. Another half an hour later, he’s sitting in front of my desk with a fresh look on his face.

"What's so urgent, Maron?" he asks, placing one of his legs across the other.

I give my brother a nod of approval. "Looking sharp,bratok," I say. It's true. His face is smooth, his hair perfectly styled, and his clothes are on point. "You’ve come a long way these last few weeks."

He shifts his weight on the chair across the table. "Thanks for noticing, Maron. I'm focusing on myself and putting in the work. It's starting to pay off."

I lean forward, my elbows resting on the polished wood of my desk. "How’s your AA group?" I ask.

Maurice meets my gaze unflinchingly. "Not bad," he says. "I haven't touched booze for fifteen days, twenty hours, and,” he glances at his watch, “four minutes. Not a single drop."

I feel a swell of pride in my chest. "Well done, brother," I tell him before changing the subject. "I'm proud of you. But I didn't call you here to discuss personal matters. Have you got anything on the Shirkov kidney?" I ask, leaning back in my leather chair.

"Finished. Done. I’m ready to move on to the next job."

---