Emperor of Rage: Chapter 26

The dream always starts the same.

I’m small again—just a boy—standing at the edge of the pool at my family’s estate. The night air is thick and suffocating, the smell of blood and smoke mingling into a bitter haze that clogs my lungs.

My hands shake as Uncle Lars shoves the garden hose into my hands.

“We’ve practiced this, Maleqqi,” he growls, his voice tight. He glances behind him, and I watch the glow of fire shade the tense lines of his jaw before he turns back to me.

“Hold onto the drain at the bottom, just like I showed you, so you don’t float back up. Keep the hose to your mouth. Breathe in, cover the end, exhale slowly, so there aren’t any bubbles. Mal…”

I’m staring past him, my face ashen and my heart racing in my little veins as I watch the roof of our house erupt in an explosion of sparks and flame.

“MAL!”

My attention snaps back to Uncle Lars.

“Repeat what I just told you!”

I swallow, my pulse racing.

“Jump in the pool, hold the drain at the bottom, breathe through the hose, exhale slowly. No bubbles.”

Lars’ lips curl into a dark, proud smile as he ruffles my hair. “Good boy,” he rumbles quietly. An explosion and more gunfire erupt from behind him, up the garden path near the house.

“I have to go now, Maleqqi.”

My eyes snap to his, going wide as the fear claws at me. I reach for him, trying to stop him. But my mother’s brother, who’s acted like a father to me for years, is so much bigger and stronger.

He stops me with a firm shake of his head.

“I need you to get in the pool⁠—”

“No!!”

“YES!” he roars at me, shaking me to my core. He never yells at me. He’s stern, and he can raise his voice at times. I’ve seen him yell at other people plenty of times. But never at me.

It makes me realize how serious this is.

“Please, Mal,” he hisses. “Do as I say, okay? I have to go, but I will be back. I promise.”

I nod, swallowing thickly as smoke and ash drift down onto the surface of the pool behind me. More gunfire erupts back toward the house, followed by the sound of men screaming.

“Now, Maleqqi!!”

Uncle Lars hugs me tightly. Then, without any preamble, he lifts me up and shoves me backward.

I hit the water with a splash, the coldness of it making my lungs seize up for a moment. But then I remember what he taught me to do in the event of something just like this. I grab the hose, and my eyes lift to my uncle’s.

“Down!” he hisses. I nod, slipping under the surface as he turns, pulls out a gun from his jacket, and bolts back toward the house.

At the bottom of the pool, I do as I was told. I slip my small fingers into the drain grate at the bottom, holding myself down. I bring the hose to my mouth, sucking the first few inches of water out before the principles of a suction syphon kick in, bringing in air tinged with the scent of smoke from up top.

My chest is tight. Through the ripples in the water, I see flashes and explosions above, fire and death and screams. I heard the muffled sounds of thunder and staccato gunfire.

I don’t know how long I stay down there. Long enough for my fingers and toes to turn wrinkly. Long enough that my eyes sting horribly from the chlorine.

When I finally surface, gasping for air, the world is eerily silent.

Deathly still.

My family is gone. Every last one of them.

Their bodies lie crumpled and lifeless, scattered like broken porcelain dolls in pools of blood around the burning, crumbling home I grew up in. My mother and sister are both naked and face down, their hands bound behind their backs.

It’ll be years before I realize just how horrific their last moments were.

All of our soldiers are dead. The housekeeper is also naked, tied like my mother and sister. The groundskeeper, beheaded. Arnold, our butler, along with the rest of the household staff—summarily shot against the side of the garage.

For a while, hope flickers in my chest that Uncle Lars made it out, because I can’t find his body anywhere.

Then I realize what the charred, shapeless thing hanging by a coil of wire from the fire-blackened flagpole is, and I understand how alone I really am.

They’re all gone.

Every single one.

The taste of their death lingers on my tongue like poison, bitter and acrid. As I stare at the horrific carnage, I make an oath to myself: I’ll never hide again.

I’ll never be that weak again.

The scene shifts, like it always does. The shadows lengthen, the bodies fade away, and I’m left alone, drowning in silence. Always alone.

I jolt awake, my body drenched in sweat, my heart pounding violently. My chest heaves as I try to steady my breath, but the familiar rush of adrenaline has already taken over. The dream lingers, clinging to me like bitter, choking smoke.

It’s always the same nightmare. Always that night.

I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face to push the images away. Outside, the sunlight is fading, casting long shadows across the room. I’ve been drifting further and further into the night, sliding into a nocturnal rhythm without even realizing it.

The darkness feels more natural. More…comfortable.

But I know the real reason I’ve been avoiding the daylight. It’s because of her.

Freya.

Her name swirls in my mind, a reminder of just how complicated all this has become.

Freya Holm is Freya Lindqvist, daughter of the monster who destroyed everything I’d ever known. Who burned my home, raped my mother and sister, killed my family.

That’s the blood the runs through the veins of the woman I’ve become almost irrevocably entangled with.

And I don’t know what happens next.

The house feels too quiet as I make my way downstairs. The dream is starting to fade as I walk the quiet path back to the main house. But the remnants of it still cling to my skin, making everything feel heavier.

I find Hana in the kitchen, sitting with a cup of tea, scrolling on her phone. She looks up when I enter, her sharp eyes sizing me up.

“Late night?” she asks, her voice carrying that edge I’ve come to expect from her.

I grunt in response, grabbing a mug and sticking it under the instant espresso machine. Once the water bubbles and froths out the sweet, sweet caffeine, I bring the mug to my lips and lean against the counter, still trying to shake off the last of the nightmare.

“So…”

I take a slow sip and then raise my eyes to my cousin.

“Yes?” I ask, trying to sound casual and failing utterly.

She arches a manicured, unimpressed eyebrow, her hawklike eyes dissecting me as she smooths a perfectly straight lock of bleach blond hair behind her ear.

“What’s going on with you and Freya?” she asks bluntly.

I take another slow sip of coffee, not meeting her gaze. “Nothing.”

“Mal,” Hana sighs, setting her cup down with a clink. “I’m not stupid. I sent her to your place last night.”

My grip on the mug tightens, but I don’t respond.

“And then I saw her stumble back to the main house an hour and a half later, looking like you’d just beaten the shit out of her. But the thing is,” she continues sharply, eying me, “I know you, and I can’t imagine you beating up a woman. Which means…” She clears her throat, smirking. “Yeah.”

“Am I supposed to know what yeah means?”

She rolls her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Mal. I know you’re sleeping with Freya.”

I frown as I glance up at her. “What makes you say that?”

Hana leans back in her chair, eying me like I’m a moron. “I dunno, dummy. The fact that she staggered out of your house an hour and a half after walking in, bow-legged and wearing one of your hoodies instead of the clothes she wore going in? The fact that she had this ‘just been fucked’ look on her face⁠—”

“Jesus, Hana,” I scowl.

She snickers. “More importantly, I’d say it was the slightly crestfallen, sad look on her face.”

God, I hate the stabbing feeling I get in my chest when she says that part.

“Huh,” I grunt.

“Exactly. Huh,” Hana throws back. “So what the fuck happened? I don’t think you smacked her around, but something happened to make her look that upset.”

The truth is, I don’t know what happened with Freya last night. One moment, I was having—bar none—the most explosive, hardcore, fucking insane sex of my life with a very, very willing partner. A partner who was completely aware of my emotional limitations and knew what last night was.

The next moment, it was over, I could barely walk or think, and Freya was asking for a sweatshirt. I gave her mine, then went to get us water, and when I got back, she was gone.

The confusing thing is, I might have implied at the start of it all that leaving afterward was expected.

But once she had gone, I wanted her to come back.

I’d wanted her to stay.

And I hated that she’d walked out.

Hana sighs, her frustration palpable. “You don’t have to keep pushing everyone away, you know. Freya’s not the enemy.”

I turn away from her, my jaw set. “It’s…complicated.”

“Probably isn’t,” Hana tosses back. She gets up from her chair, her voice softer. “Mal, why do you keep thinking you have something to prove to this family? You’re in it. You’re a Mori. You don’t have to prove shit to us.”

The words hit harder than I’d like to admit, but I keep my face neutral. Hana’s always been perceptive, always seen inside my head in ways no one else can. But she doesn’t know the half of it.

She doesn’t know the full truth about what haunts me.

“Look,” she says, grabbing her coat from the back of the chair. “If you’re this twisted up about Freya, maybe it’s because you, I don’t know, actually care about her.”

Fuck.

She could be right.

And that’s the most dangerous truth of all.

The house is too still after Hana leaves. The quiet only amplifies one particular memory I’ve been trying to bury. But the dream—the nightmare—has dragged it back to the surface.

I close my eyes, letting the images flicker to life again. The night my family was murdered is burned into my mind, seared so deep it’s a scar I’ll never shake. The fire, the blood, the cold water enveloping me in the pool.

And then, him.

It was after I’d found them all dead and spent hours circling the burning house, stepping over blood and bodies, trying to find a way to fix it all.

That’s when I saw him—a figure with dark hair, dressed in black, standing on the edge of the chaos by the far fence of our property, watching unblinkingly.

For years, I thought it was a hallucination. A ghost or a demon conjured up by my fractured mind, desperate for someone—anyone—to be there. There was a time in my early teens when I dabbled with religion, and wondered if who I’d seen had been the Devil himself.

I know better now.

It was Kir Nikolayev.

I just don’t know why he was there.

I’ve gone through every possible scenario. But none of them makes sense. Uncle Lars did some business with the Bratva, but not with anyone as high up as Kir. Even if he had, how would Kir have gotten to Norway so fast? I mean, the house was still on fucking fire when I saw him.

He wasn’t there out of concern for either business or people.

He was there to watch.

And the question why has been gnawing at me for years.

Was he there during the massacre itself? Did he stand by while my family was slaughtered? Worse… Did he orchestrate it?

Participate in it?

The thought twists like a knife in my gut. It has for years, but there’s an extra edge to it now.

I pull out my phone, my fingers shaking as I dial a number I haven’t used in years.

The extra edge is Freya, and the fact that I care more than I should for the woman who’s essentially Kir’s adoptive daughter.

And that’s the reason I’m calling Oren.

When he picks up, I don’t waste any time. I’ve worked with him before, and I know he’s the best. I also know he works quickly and efficiently and doesn’t need any fluff. Just the facts.

It’s me,” I say, my voice low. “I need information on Kir Nikolayev, specifically anything that ties him to the Lindqvists.”

Oren clears his throat. “Good to hear from you, Mal,” he grunts. “It’s been a while.”

“That it has,” I growl back. “When can you get this to me?”

He’s silent for a second.

“Oren—”

“What happened to your family… It was over twenty years ago, Mal.”

“And,” I hiss quietly.

“And we’ve known each other for, what, going on six years or so?”

“That’s about right. Does this sermon have a conclusion approaching any time soon, Oren?”

“Why now,” he growls. “You could’ve asked me this six years ago.”

“Why the fuck does it matter?”

“Because I’m not a robot, Mal,” he mutters back. “And one of the reasons I’m still doing this job, even now that I’ve got a family to worry about, is that the why matters. Even if it doesn’t matter to you, it sure as fuck does to me. So—do I need to ask again?”

I don’t immediately answer. Oren sighs.

“Look, no disrespect, Mal, but without a why, I can’t do this⁠—”

“A girl,” I finally growl quietly. “I’m involved with a girl connected to Kir, who was maybe involved with the Lindqvists, and I need to know how all of that⁠—”

“You’re with Freya Holm.”

I stiffen instantly, words failing me.

Oren just chuckles quietly.

“I’m very good at what I do, Mal. I don’t generally like to indulge in hubris, but I might be the best at what I do.”

Yeah, no shit.

“For what it’s worth,” he goes on, “that’s just one of about a million secrets inside my head, any one of which could be very dangerous to various people, that I don’t ever plan on sharing with anyone. So, you can relax.”

He coughs.

“Give me a week or two. I’ll see what I can dig up connecting Kir to the Lindqvist family, or what happened to yours.”

I nod slowly. “Thanks, Oren.”

“Be well, Mal.”

I hang up, my pulse racing. I’m walking a dangerous tightrope here. Investigating someone as powerful as Kir could get me killed. That’s partly why I didn’t do it before.

But now, I have an even bigger reason.

The truth is clawing its way to the surface. And once I uncover it, there’s no going back.