Page 117 of Beautiful Scar

“Yes, baby, I got you an expensivefuckingring, because you deserve something beautiful.” I slip the ring slowly down onto her finger, relieved that it fits. I had to get sneaky measurements when she was sleeping, and even then, I wasn’t sure. “I love you. I want our life and our marriage to mean something. This child is coming, but for now, it’s only me and you. I want you to look at that ring and remember that I love you no matter what happens from here, no matter where we go, no matter how difficult our life as parents might become. You are mine, and I am yours.”

She’s crying now. I didn’t mean to get the tears started, but they seem like happy tears, so I don’t say anything. She pulls me into her and kisses me, and I can taste the salt on her lips. I lean my forehead against hers, and she’s breathing fast and grinning big.

“I love you too,” she says with a sigh. “And I love this ring. Thank you so much.”

“You are more than welcome.”

She leans against my shoulder for the remainder of the drive, her hand held out, light glittering through the stone.

And all I can do is watch her face, breathe her smell, and wonder how I got so lucky, ending up with this woman. The perfect fit for my dead, rotten heart.

Though I feel it coming alive again every day that we’re together.

Chapter 37

Tigran

Poor Dasha Sarkissian. All those constant doctor appointments. Week after week, image after image, all to make sure her child is still safe and healthy. Poor, poor girl, what a mess, and all of them so stressed, what with the Irish war going on all around them.

That’s the rumor, anyway. Everyone’s been talking about it mostly because Sona’s been making sure they do. Poor, poor Dasha. I smile to myself as my truck follows after the SUV with the extremely dark tinted windows. The same SUV that drives from my house to the private hospital every single Thursday morning at ten and returns on the same roads exactly one hour later. We’re six minutes into the trip, and I’m just starting to relax.

Six weeks of this. The same thing, over and over again. A trip to the hospital, a trip back home. And all the while, the rumors keep swirling. Poor, darling Dasha, so brave and strong, holding it all together for her baby and her husband. I am miserable with worry, of course.

Sona is many things, but she’s good at her job most of all.

I’m beginning to let myself relax. We’re seven minutes from my house and in a decent neighborhood now. Grigor is driving conservatively, following all the rules, going nice and slow. That’s part of the plan too, but it still drives me crazy.

I’m halfway ready to say this was another failure when Grigor pulls up next to a parked van and an explosion rips into the day.

I’m two cars back, and I still have to slam on my brakes. Slag and flaming chunks of plastic rain all around us. The van just went up like there were ten tons of dynamite inside. Grigor’s SUV is lying on its side, and all the car alarms in the area are screaming.

“Fuck,” I growl and kick open my door. The drivers ahead of me are doing the same: a young woman in shock, an old man looking like he wants to help. “Get back in your vehicles,” I snarl at them, brandishing my gun.

The girl’s mouth drops open, and she screams.

The guy just runs.

Fine, good enough, as long as they aren’t in the way. I head forward as a car comes screaming down the street, heading the wrong way, and slams on its brakes.

I throw myself to the side. The flames from the van are sending huge plumes of thick black smoke over the area. I cough, hiding behind a beat-up sedan, its front bumper missing from the explosion. My teeth grind, and I want to check to make sure Grigor survived the blast, but I can’t, not yet.

A good fisherman knows when to be patient.

Figures surround the SUV. I’m guessing they came from the nearby houses and from the car that pulled up. I stay low, heart racing in my chest. My hands are steady, and I’m prepared.We’ve gone over this scenario a dozen times over the last six weeks to the point that it’s almost routine.

Only I wasn’t expecting another fucking car bomb.

I peer out and watch men in combat fatigues try to pry the SUV’s door open. It’s locked and partially melted shut, which is what’s giving them trouble. I count to five, making sure they’re all focused away from me, before I step out of my hiding spot.

The man closest to me takes a bullet in the back of his head. It’s an easy shot. His skull cracks, and blood and flecks of brain-splattered bone explode around the entry wound. Two soldiers turn toward me, and I kill another before rushing the third.

He gets his hands up, rifle raising to blow a big gaping red hole in my chest, but he’s too slow.

My shoulder rams into him, knocking him back into the smoking SUV. He shouts in surprise and pain, and I put two bullets in his chest. A soldier to my left attacks, swinging a baton at my head, and I manage to duck just in time. His blow smacks against his former comrade’s corpse, jarring his grip, and I come up with a vicious knee and break his elbow.

He screams in agony as the bone splinters through flesh like the jagged stump of a burned-out tree.

I smash my forehead into his nose, reveling in the blood and pain, before shooting him point-blank in the face.

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