Page 12 of Cognac Vixen

“But Cordelia is no longer yours to claim,” he tuts. “She never was. From the very beginning, the bitch was mine.”

“When Cora had the choice, she ran from you. She didn’t think twice.”

He ignores me, carrying on like I didn’t say a word. “And now, I have her back. Soon enough, I’ll have her in every way imaginable. I’ll break her until it’smyname she screams when she comes. Until she can’t even walk straight, let alone run back to you.”

I should know better than to let this stupid, petty motherfucker get to me. But I’m seeing red. It takes every ounce of my restraint to stay quiet and let Mikhail prattle off his taunts and jeers.

“Are you finished?” I ask once the line goes quiet.

“No,” he sneers. “I’ll finish inside Cora later. But I’m done talking for now, if that’s what you meant.”

Fuckingg’andon.“If you hurt her, you’ll answer to me, Mikhail. And I’m—”

“What? You’re breaking up,” he lies. “I can’t hear what you’re—”

Then the line goes dead.

This time, I don’t hesitate. I hurl Francia’s phone against the wall. It shatters into pieces, taking a chunk of the wall with it.

But it isn’t enough.

I roar, my voice echoing down the long corridor. I yank a fire extinguisher from its cradle, leaving a gaping wound in the drywall. I kick through a wooden door and rip an exposed air duct down from the ceiling.

I rage and destroy and break shit until my chest is heaving and there are so many cuts up and down my arms that I don’t know where the imagined pain stops and the real pain begins.

Francia and Mikhail and whoever else is working with them are going to regret crossing me. I’ll track them down. I’ll chain them up. And only once I’ve emptied my near-bottomless rage on them will I give them the mercy of ending their lives.

8

CORA

The sun has no business shining on a day like today.

Golden light streams through the car’s windows as Mikhail pulls into the long, familiar driveway I ran down years ago. It was nighttime the last time I was here. The windows on the front of the house were dark except for the one next to the front door. That lone light glowed, one single window like an open eye watching me flee down the driveway with nothing except what would fit in my ratty old backpack.

As I turned my back on Alexander McAllister’s house, I swore to myself it would be for the last time.

But here I am again.

“Does it look how you remembered it?” Mikhail is grinning, watching me through the rearview mirror. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been home. Your dad will be happy. He’s missed you.”

“Alexander isn’t my dad.”

Mikhail stretches an arm across the passenger seat and looks back at me. His nose wrinkles. “You could use a shower. And a change of clothes.”

“Next time you kidnap someone and hold them captive, keep them at the Four Seasons then,” I snap.

His eyes narrow for only a second. Then he chuckles. “Alexander will understand. As soon as you open your mouth, he’ll know exactly why it looks like you were dragged through a sewer.”

Mikhail climbs out of the car and comes around to the back door. He opens it, but I stay put.

I can’t force myself to move. Can’t bring myself to slide across the seat and closer to Mikhail. A single inch closer to the house I’ve spent years running from is an inch too far.

He looks in at me through the door, his smile gone. “You promised, Cordelia.”

“Promised what?”

He arches a threatening brow. “You’d come willingly. If I have to force you, you won’t like how things end up.”

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