Emperor of Rage: Chapter 38

The morning light filters around the edges of the blackout curtains, bathing Freya’s sleeping form in a soft, golden glow.

In the last week, I’ve had the window glass replaced with special UV-blocking glass usually used by chemical labs and art museums. If she’s going to be staying here—and she is going to be staying here—then I want her safe and protected.

She’s curled up beside me, her breathing steady and slow, the blanket only just covering her bare shoulder. I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, feeling the steady pull of something I don’t have a name for.

My fingers move without thinking, brushing over her cheekbone. She shifts slightly at my touch, murmuring something in her sleep, but doesn’t wake. There’s a peace in her face I don’t see when she’s awake—a fragile quiet that doesn’t exist in our chaotic world—and I know, deep down, it’s my job to protect it.

I won’t call this what it probably is. I can’t. A broken part of me won’t let me say the word or accept the emotion. But I’m in deep with her—deeper than I’ve ever let myself get with anyone.

It should scare me. And it does, I suppose, a little. But I can’t pull away. Not now. Not when every minute I spend with her feels like a lifeline.

I trace the curve of her jaw with the back of my hand, careful not to wake her. I hate that I can’t protect her from all of it. Not from the past, nor from the future unknown.

But I’ll try. For her, I’ll try.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, shattering the quiet of the room. I pull my hand back from Freya’s face, glancing down at the screen.

Oren.

I slide out of bed carefully, grabbing the phone and shutting the door softly behind me. Downstairs, I slip out onto the patio, and answer.

“Find anything?”

Oren’s voice is low. “Yeah. You might want to sit down.”

He exhales, the kind of exhale that tells me he’s dug up something that maybe should have stayed buried.

“William Lindqvist and Kir Nikolayev worked together briefly—back when the Nikolayev Bratva was first expanding internationally. Way before…what happened to your family. It’s not in any official records, but the underground channels talk.”

I stay where I am, barely breathing. “Go on.”

“That alliance between Kir and William ended fast. Something personal got in the way. That, I can’t seem to find anything on. Which is strange. But… They didn’t just cut ties, Mal. Lindqvist put out a fucking hit on Kir. A big one. Thirty mil.”

Fuck.

My grip tightens on the phone. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t just business, Mal. No one contracts for anywhere near that amount for just business unless we’re talking a head of state or something. This was something personal. William wanted Kir dead, and he wanted it bad.”

I stand, pacing. “So what happened?”

“He never succeeded, obviously,” Oren says with a low chuckle. “Kir’s still alive, and William’s not. But the trail goes murky. After the hit was placed, the bad blood between them grew, but then went silent after your family’s massacre. As if someone wanted the whole thing wiped from memory.”

A knot tightens in my gut. “What do you mean, silent?”

“No more chatter. No more attempts on Kir’s life. It was like Lindqvist gave up on the idea.”

“Why?”

There’s a long pause, as Oren hesitates before continuing. “I don’t have all the answers, Mal. And it’s rare that I’ll say that. But whatever went down between Kir and Lindqvist was buried deeper than most of my usual channels go. And whatever it was, it can’t have been pretty.”

My mind races through the possibilities. “Anything else? Anything that ties Kir back to what happened to my family?”

He was there.

Watching the blood pool. Watching my childhood turn to ash.

“Not yet. I’m still digging. When I find anything, you’ll be the first to know. Be careful, Mal.”

The line goes dead, and I stand there for a long moment, staring into space.

William Lindqvist wanted Kir dead. That changes—well, not everything. But something. I just don’t know what.

Lindqvist had my family brutally killed and their home destroyed. I’ve spent decades thinking Kir’s presence in the aftermath suggested he was a part of it or overseeing it all.

But now…

Why the fuck would Lindqvist want Kir dead, and why the fuck did he not care anymore after that horrible day?

The questions burn, the weight of them settling in my chest. I turn and slip back inside to go back up to bed. I’ve become almost as nocturnal as Freya.

Just as I step into the great room, the bedroom door upstairs on the balcony creaks open, and Freya steps out, her face soft in the low light of the room. She’s wrapped in the duvet from my bed, her hair tied back loosely, and she flashes me a sleepy smile that tugs at something deep in my gut.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “Everything okay?”

I nod, forcing a smile, my thoughts still tangled in Oren’s words. I lift my phone. “Yeah. Just work.”

Freya pads down the stairs and walks over to me, her presence grounding me in a way that both comforts and unnerves me. “You’re always working.”

I meet her halfway across the room, once again thankful for the UV-blocking windows. I catch her hand and pull her with me onto the couch, tugging her into my lap. But as much as I want to lose myself in her right now, or fucking devour her, the conversation with Oren lingers like a shadow.

She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes of hers. “You sure you’re okay?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I just press my lips to the side of her neck, inhaling the soft scent of her skin, letting it calm the storm inside me, if only for a second. I nip her skin with my teeth—not savagely like I sometimes do, but enough to make her gasp sharply.

“I’m good,” I murmur against her skin. “Just tired.”

Freya leans into me, her fingers tracing light circles along the back of my neck. “We should both be in bed.”

Her voice is soft, tentative, like she’s trying to gauge where my head’s at. But I can’t tell her everything. Not yet. Kir’s her family. And I won’t taint that until I know for sure what the fuck all of this means.

“Or we could just go to bed,” I growl quietly. “And I don’t mean to sleep.”

Freya grins, her lips curving in that way that always gets to me, and for a moment, the world feels lighter. But even as I hold her, my thoughts return to The Lindqvists and Kir. William’s vendetta. There’s something I’m not seeing yet.

“Hey,” Freya whispers, her hand sliding down my chest. “You’re distracted.”

I exhale slowly, brushing a thumb over her lips. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

I could tell her. She arguably does have a right to know, considering that this is tangled up in both the toxic family she was born into and the one she found later.

But, no. I bite it back, locking it away with the rest of the shit I haven’t told her yet.

“It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just dumb work shit.”

But deep down, I know this isn’t over.

The past never stays buried. It always comes back to haunt you.

It’s only a matter of when.