Page 129 of Inked Adonis

My gut plummets. Just when I think I’ve finally begun to understand how far he’d go to get what he wants, he shows me there are always lower circles of hell.

The thought of him touching her, hurting her, makes my skin break out in sweaty hives. I feel my pulse in every fingertip.

“Leave Grams out of this.”

“I planned to—until you decided to be difficult.” He shrugs. “All you have to do is listen, and I’ll make sure she stays comfortable. Otherwise, she’ll have to live on the streets with the strays the two of you seem to love so much.”

“She won’t have to,” I croak in protest. “She has me. And Samuil. He’ll bury you for this.”

He scoffs. “It’ll be tough for him to bury me from Moscow. That’s where he is right now, right?”

My good hand clamps around the edge of my seat. It’s the only thing keeping me from tipping sideways onto the floor. My world feels off-balance.

“Your sugar daddy isn’t as powerful as you think he is, Nova. In fact, he’s got quite the storm brewing, and he has no idea how to get himself out of it. You mark my words: his days at the top are numbered.”

“Y-you’re lying,” I stammer out.

He has to be. But my body knows the truth as it clenches and recoils and tries to convince me to run far away from this monster in human skin: he’s not lying at all.

He’ll do it. He’ll fucking do it. He’ll use me like a pawn to get what he wants, and if “what he wants” is Sam’s head on a spike, then he’ll get that.

And at the agonized clutch of my heart as I picture Sam slumped in a bloodstained puddle at my father’s feet, I realize I can’t let the man who terrorized me kill the man I love.

Love.What a word. What a fucking concept. Do I love him? Parts of me that don’t speak knew it a long time before I could put the words to it.

Of course I love him. How could I not? I’ve loved him from the moment he stood tall on that park bench and turned silver eyes on me. I’ve loved him when he woke me from nightmares with a warm touch and a whispered promise that he wasn’t going anywhere. I’ve loved him when I’ve hated him. I’ve loved him when he’s loved me, too.

So even if it ruins me. Ruins us both. Even if my father throws all his endless cruelty at us like one fucking dagger after the next…

I won’t stop loving Sam.

Dad just smiles. Maybe he knows what I’m thinking; maybe he doesn’t. Either way, those teeth shine too white in the gloom of the kitchen where he once tormented me.

“You think I’m full of shit. I might be—but there’s a chance I’m not. The question is: are you willing to bet your grandmother’s life on Samuil Litvinov?”

45

NOVA

The silence in my father’s Mercedes suffocates me. Each breath feels like borrowed time, each heartbeat a countdown to betrayal. The leather seat beneath me probably belonged to some other poor bastard he strong-armed—or worse. Now, it’s my turn to be another prop in his power plays.

It’s been years since we’ve been this close without his fists doing the talking. Years since I’ve been trapped in his orbit. But he doesn’t need to hit me anymore. Not when he’s got his fingers wrapped around Grams’ throat.

“How long have you been working for the Andropovs?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Long enough to know that they will come out on top in the end. It’s in your best interests to pick the winning side, sweetheart.”

“You’re a cop,” I spit. “You’re supposed to pick therightside. You took an oath.”

He merges into traffic. I see his hand itch towards his lights and sirens, desperate to cut through the melee the way he usuallywould. But we’re not in his patrol car. He doesn’t want to draw more eyes than necessary.

“Life isn’t one of your fairytales, Nova.” His lips curl into something too cruel to be called a smile. “There are no villains and heroes. There are only the people who get ahead and the people who fall behind.” He glances over at me, checking to see if his uninspiring little speech might’ve put a dent in my idealism. His scoff tells me he doesn’t like what he sees. “You probably think the bastard loves you, don’t you?”

I turn to the window, watching the city blur past. There was a time when I thought Samuil might be different. When his touch felt like salvation instead of damnation. When the weight of his gaze meant protection rather than possession.

“I don’t pretend to know how Samuil feels,” I whisper, more to myself than him.

Dad blasts through a red light, nearly clipping a father and daughter in the crosswalk. The symbolism isn’t lost on me. “Then let me clear it up: he’s using you.”

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