Page 10 of Voracious

My legs burnfrom running the entire way as I reach Amon’s loft and his creepy violet eyes are the only thing that move as his assistant opens the door. Jones nods politely at me, and his voice is low as he steps back. “Miss Ana, enjoy your stay.” I nod and wait for him to leave knowing Amon won’t start while there’s anyone else here. He’s still dressed in his suit which means it’s going to be ten times more fucked up than usual. Men like him are the way they are because of two things — their mothers didn’t hug them enough as a child or she hugged him a bit too much. That’s why he hates every female he comes across.

My brows come together as he drops two stacks of bills wrapped in brown straps on the table. It’s $5,000 short. Our agreement is for $15,000 every time because I’ve never passed out. Holding another two stacks covered with mustard straps, he raises one brow and looks to my face as his deep raspy voice fills the room.

“Double or nothing?”

I pause. It’s $30,000. Free money that isn’t already accounted for. I’ll be able to eat whatever I want, get that shampoo that makes your hair stop falling out. And I’d be able to finish the tattoo, have it moving up my neck like I wanted it to.

I’m already agreeing as I take my shoes off and grab the bag with my chosen outfit. My excitement comes back, and I feel like skipping, I’ll be able to get steak. Not a shitty one that’s burnt and rubbery. But in one of those places where they ask you how you want it cooked and they give people a special knife just to cut it. The shampoo will stop my hair falling out and I won’t look like a wet dog anymore. Natasha usually has her seat booked out for six months so that will give me enough time to heal before I finish the ink.

Changing in the corner of the room, the outfit hasn’t changed. Small shorts and a crop top. Both black so they look like censor bars and Amon rattles behind me. Folding my clothes into a pile, I leave them on top of my shoes and go to the center of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m not afraid and it pisses him off, if he wants my fear then he has to work for it because there are thirty thousand reasons for me to last until I die.

I lock the cuffs in place against my ankles and stand straight as I raise my wrists, waiting for the others to be lowered. He’s taken his rings off, as kind of a gesture that I’ll get from a man who’s going to beat me within an inch of my life and my throat goes dry as he snaps on gloves. He never touches me with a bare hand, it’s always with a weapon. A cane, whip, or a belt. Gloves means he needs to feel his full power being transferred and I shut everything out as the cuffs snap around my wrists.

FOUR

Dima

Valentin and Tali are both pouting at the fact Ana got away as they stop me driving away from the warehouse after we’ve completed our collection of a new shipment. I’m not her parent or keeper, she can do whatever she wants. Preferably away from me because she keeps fucking with my head. She left her bag so I’m assuming she’s coming back, but it’s been two days since the hellion has disappeared.

“She’s probably dead.”

My assumption is met with two scoffs like it’s impossible.Backing away when Inessa calls so I don’t get dragged into some bullshit family time, I leave the warehouse and go home without saying anything. The old Vartanovs would spit if they saw who they’ve turned into. It was different when Katya and the boys were kids, a certain amount of innocence allowed for less open violence. But now there are kids in the house and it’s a caricature of a normal family.

The moon is the only light as I pull into the private road leading to my property. It highlights the hooded little shit trying to break into my fucking house. My knee knocks the kill switch under the engine automatically and the little fucker is too dumb or brave thinking they’d get away with it. They’re trying to climb up the wall but keep losing their footing. Stopping the car before they hear me, I walk the rest of the way, taking my time. The resin drive mutes my steps without there being any loose stones to give me away and I hold my gun loosely. Whoever it is must be a teenager, the baggy hoodie doesn’t give their figure away but they’re at least a foot shorter than me.

There’s no scream as I grab the back of their hoodie and I’d recognize the elbow swinging back at me in a hundred lifetimes. My other hand moves knowing I’ll be able to write it off as an honest mistake and I dig the gun into her temple. There was an intruder, whoops didn’t realize it was the pain in the ass I can’t get rid of.

Her thrashing causes the hood to fall down, and my finger pauses on the safety. Ana always fucks with my head, makes me see shit that isn’t real. The image doesn’t change despite how many times I blink, and I harden. Her entire face is swollen, split lip and cheek, dried blood staining her nostrils and her eyes are red raw. Sweat beads at her hair line and her chest heaves as though she’s struggling to draw in air.

Turning her to face me, I inspect the rest of her body like I can see through her clothes. There’s something heavy in the front pocket of her hoodie and she quickly pushes her hands through, protectively holding it in place. She’s not limping and the only skin I can see is her face and hands before she put them in her pocket. But I’m sure there were no scraped knuckles.

What the fuck? She’s a fucking fighter, there are very few people I would bet on against her. Even then they’d probably all end up killing each other with being evenly matched. I gentlyhold her jaw and tilt her face up to see her neck. Fingerprints mixed with wavy lines. I’ve seen those fucking marks before, seen how they were caused and the aftermath.

People like my father love finding an Ana, a fighter who they can break down to feel better about themselves. She can fight, but she doesn’t fight him so it’s an ego boost. Sick fucking cunts. I want to kill her because she’s annoying, whoever fucking hurt her has done it under the guise of a relationship. Choking is personal, passionate, it’s why people fuck with their hands in the same position.

My hands itch to drag her but I force them to relax, some part of me doesn’t want to add to her pain. She’s accepting it, pretending it isn’t there and I won’t force her to acknowledge it. She doesn’t argue as I herd her inside, that should set off alarm bells given her character, but I soften. Maybe they cut her tongue out and it’s not a change in personality but a physical barrier. No, she’s too fucking stubborn and would just mumble her insults.

There’s still no fight as I guide her into the kitchen. She sits down and her eyes close as her chin drops to her chest. It’s not the same as her creepy meditation, she’s trying to breathe, and I make her a sandwich. It’s not a conscious thought, my body moves, trying to look after the hellion because I’m having a mental break, and this isn’t reality. Ana is in the same false reality as me and remains on the other side of island. She slowly lifts her head and I pause, staring at her eyes. The color looks fake with the redness, as though someone has taken a marker with the dullest brown and stamped over her irises. There’s no depth or fluctuation like a normal eye.

Fucking devil woman.

Even battered and bruised she’s not human and I push the plate towards her with a grunt while I try to make my mind work correctly instead of hyper fixating on her eyes. She pullsmy attention from that thought and stares at the plate as though I’ve given her the moon with a small smile on her lips as she mumbles, “Thank you.”

If I was an emotional person, I’d have tears in my eyes at how much gratitude she shows for two pieces of bread with some cheese and meat slapped between them.

A lump builds in my throat watching her hands pick it up so quick they’re a blur but she forces herself to chew slowly. Her nimble fingers leave indents in the slices. Making another one while she eats so I’m not staring at her, I focus too much on the bread and filling. I remember those days, holding on to each morsel in fear of it disappearing. Fighting your body’s urge to chew faster because you want to savor the feeling of having more than your own saliva in your mouth.

If she didn’t keep fucking disappearing and was more responsible with her winnings, she could live comfortably. No one knows anything about her, little snippets will come out filled with the abuse she witnessed in a monotonous tone as though she’s speaking about the weather but nothing with substance. Clearing the cobwebs out of my throat, I ask, “How long were you on the street for?”

Katya and I had six months, but Ana’s must be more with how engrained her behaviors are.

I uncap a bottle of water and slide it across to her as I wait for her to answer. That little smile comes back, gratitude and innocence.

“Yulia failed at killing me two weeks after I turned sixteen, she disappeared the same day.”

Eight fucking years of having nothing. She was a kid. But she laughs to herself, and her psychotic side comes out.

“I probably shouldn’t have spent three years killing her favorite clients, I’d be a madam now.”

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