Page 91 of Dance of Devils
Then it's over.
I flinch, sobbing out a broken cry as hands gently undo the rope around my wrists. It’s only then that I open my eyes to see Kir in front of me.
His dark eyes meet mine, his face a mask of pure vengeance and fury, but also crumpled with…pain? Sadness? Sympathy?
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he murmurs. “To do that, I’m going to have to touch you. Nod if that’s okay.”
Tears trickle down my cheeks as my chin moves up and down. Kir’s jaw sets as he stands.
He pulls his jacket off and wraps it around my shoulders. Then, without a word, he lifts me into his arms, cradling me like a child, one arm around my back and the other under my knees.
Silently, he steps through the shattered office door, walks down the hallway and kicks open the back door to the club, carrying me out into the night.
Away from it all.
21
KIR
The impulse is to kill.
To go directly back to that fucking place and free all the innocents before chaining the doors shut and setting the whole thing ablaze.
Or perhaps something more personal. Something I cansavor.
I only stopped myself—somehow—from killing that piece of shit who was trying to put his dick in her because I remembered that The Mirage is owned by Dimitri Moskovic and is one of his money laundering operations here.
Whatever the agreement is between us, it’s fragile at best. I feel that murdering the manager of one of the places he’s cleaning his money before our deal forces him out of New York would throw a wrench into the works.
I’m not through with that motherfucker I left bleeding and unconscious in a puddle of his own piss and shit in that office, though.
Not by a fuckingmile.
However, the impulse to murder, maim, and seek revenge is on hold for now.
She’smy only focus.
Brooklyn’s been silent the entire drive back to my house—wrapped in my jacket, curled up in the passenger seat, staring out the window.
I don’t blame her.
When I pull to a stop at the back door of my home, I walk around to her side, open the door, and kneel down to look her in the eye.
“I’m going to pick you up again and carry you inside. Is that all right?”
She nods quietly, dazed but slowly focusing her eyes on mine. Her brow knits.
“Why do you keep asking permission?” she whispers.
My jaw grinds at the question and what it suggests about the current—and probably past—state of her life.
“I’m not one of the monsters you’ve apparently been around,” I growl tightly. My brow furrows. “You need to understand something. When I take you in there, you’ll be in my world. I may touch you. I may push you, figuratively. But I will never do a single thing to you that you do not consent to. Is that clear.”
Her lip slips between her teeth, her blue eyes hazy as she nods. Then I start to reach for her, but she tenses sharply enough that I stop.
“Why…” Her browns knit. “You told me we were done,” she croaks. “That you wanted nothing to do with me.”
My eyes narrow. “That is not?—”
