Emperor of Rage: Chapter 39

“Freya?”

I startle from my thoughts, glancing up over the rim of my coffee to Kir and Damian, sitting across the table from me. We’re sitting outside a little coffee and tea shop near the Philosopher’s Path bridge, between Kyoto University and Higashiyama Jisho-ji, the famous Zen temple.

Kir and I are sipping coffee. Damian has a neon pink bubble tea sitting in front of him that looks ridiculously comical against his formidable and downright dangerous appearance.

Kir arches a brow at me as I blush and clear my head.

He and Damian are leaving for New York today. Part of me feels bad that I haven’t spent as much time as I could have with them while they’re here. Even when I have—like right now—it’s been hard to focus on anything else when Mal is so deeply rooted in my thoughts.

In my everything.

“The server…yeah.” I frown, setting my cup down. “It does look like someone definitely tried to get in. They didn’t fully succeed, but the fact that they even got close is concerning. Whoever it was, they’re good. Really good, actually.”

I scowl. I mean I built Kir’s network, from the ground up, layering his cybersecurity myself. For someone to even be able to attempt to breach it is troubling. Maybe I’ll reach out to Cain and see if I can bounce some ideas off her.

“Did they get anything?” Kir asks quietly, his voice laced with tension.

I shake my head. “Nothing was copied or downloaded that I could see. But I’m going to massively reinforce everything. Whoever it was, they’re good. I’m not taking any chances.”

Kir lets out a low breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “All right. Keep me posted.”

Kir excuses himself to the bathroom. Damian stays silent, his purplish gaze stabbing into me until I can’t take it anymore.

I exhale with a sigh. “Okay, what.”

His brows furrows. “I’m not going to hold back, Frey.”

I smirk. “Do you ever? Fine. As if I don’t already know what’s bugging you: proceed.”

“Okay, fine. I don’t like your psycho fucking boyfriend, there-I’ve-said-it.”

I roll my eyes. “Mal’s not a psycho boyfriend.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Highly disagree.”

I glare at him as he smiles smugly and spreads his arms.

“What?” he counters. “You’re telling me the guy doesn’t give you psycho vibes at all?”

“Damian…” I fix him with a look, and he sighs heavily. “Do you trust me?”

He smirks, already knowing where I’m going with this. “Of course.”

“Then trust that I know what I’m doing,” I say, holding his gaze. “And trust that I trust Mal. Implicitly.”

“You know what he does for the Mori family, right?”

I groan. “Are we seriously doing this? Do you know what you do for our family? What I do? Welcome to the fucking criminal world, Damian. We all do not-so-nice⁠—”

“He infiltrates,” Damian growls. “He gets into places or systems no one else can, or he breaks people no one else can, all to get what he needs.”

“You break people’s faces to get what you need,” I snap back.

“I’m just warning someone I care for,” he growls. “Aka you, about Mal!”

“Damian!!”

I stand abruptly, my hands balled to fists. Damian frowns, realizing just how far he’s pushed me. He takes a breath, exhaling slowly as he shoves his fingers through his silvery hair.

“I’m just worried about you, Frey,” he mutters, calmer now. “C’mon, sit. Please.”

I grit my teeth, but I do, sitting back down and glaring at him.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” I say quietly. “Do you trust me?”

He nods. “I do. With my life, actually.”

“Well…” I spread my arms. “I do actually know what I’m doing, Damian.”

“And what’s that?”

“Living,” I murmur. “And it feels pretty fucking good.”

Damian’s jaw clenches for a second before he finally relents. “Fine. But I still don’t like the guy.”

I shrug. “You don’t have to like him. You just have to trust me when I say he’s not a monster.”

At least, if he is…

He’s my monster—fierce and protective, yet somehow also incredibly tender.

Damian sighs again as he glances back at me. “All right, all right. I’m done. We cool?”

“Pay off my outstanding room service tabs at the Chelsea, Greenwich, and Crosby Street Hotels when you get back to New York, and yeah,” I smirk. “We’ll be good.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I’m gonna miss you, too, Damian.”

Kir gets back from the restroom, and I ride with the two of them to the private airstrip, giving them each a huge hug before they get on the jet back to New York.

And then they’re gone, leaving me standing on the tarmac, feeling empty inside. I hate goodbyes, even when I know they’re temporary.

When I get back home—which feels oddly easy to say these days—I feel the familiar rush of Mal’s presence before I even see him.

He’s there, waiting, his eyes locked on mine the moment I step through the door. Before I can say anything, he grabs me, pulling me close and kissing me hard, a kiss of fire. I can’t help the way my body reacts to him, the way my heart pounds in my chest as I cling to him, letting him take control in a way only he can.

He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze searching mine. “Something’s wrong,” he murmurs.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head, breathless from the intensity of his stare. “I just need you.”

He pins me harder to the wall, his cock surging thick, pulsing against me as my knees shake with anticipation.

“How?” he growls, his voice rough.

“Hard,” I whisper back, barely able to speak. “Rough.” I tremble as I lean up into the crook of his neck, my lips brushing his ear as his hands tighten around me. “Make it hurt.”

Without another word, he grabs me again, lifting me into his arms and carrying me toward the bedroom. My heart races, knowing what’s coming, knowing that this is where we both thrive—in this mad, mad world of our own creation.

A world so good it takes my breath away.

When I wake up, it’s still light outside, though the sun is starting to dip behind the mountains. I turn over, smiling to myself as I watch Mal sleep beside me. He’s adjusted to my nocturnal schedule. I never asked him to, or even suggested it. It just…happened.

Now he’s a vampire, just like me.

Quietly, I slip out of bed and head to the kitchen for some water. As I drink, I decide to check the output from the diagnostic I ran on Kir’s home system, plus I want to see if Cain got back to me with any ideas on the attempted break-in.

I grab my laptop from the table and plop down on the couch. When I open it, though, I realize it’s not mine. It’s Mal’s.

Oops.

I’m about to close it when a document open on the screen catches my eye, grabbing me like claws around the throat, making my heart stop.

Intel report: Kir Nikolayev

Exploration and deep dive into possible connections between Kir Nikolayev and Lindqvist crime family

I stare at the screen in disbelief, my eyes racing over the words.

It’s not just this one document—there’s a folder of them, each more damning than the last. The headings alone make my stomach churn: Surveillance Logs, Bratva-Lindqvist Family Ties, Suspected Hits Orchestrated by K. Nikolayev. There’s a timestamp on a file that dates back almost twenty years outlining a failed hit on Kir—organized by none other than my father, William Lindqvist.

I scroll down. My fingers are shaking, but I can’t stop. I have to know more. The words blur together as I read.

Report Summary: Evidence suggests Kir Nikolayev may have been a key player in the Lindqvist family and empire’s downfall, beginning with his severed ties to William Lindqvist. Historical records indicate that Kir may have orchestrated retaliation, resulting in William Lindqvist’s downfall and ultimately that of his criminal empire.

Possible Motive: Betrayal by Petra Lindqvist, an affair with Kir Nikolayev⁠—

Wait, WHAT.

Fucking what?!

Kir and my mother? That’s impossible. That can’t be real.

I scroll faster, a sick need clawing at me to uncover every horrible detail. Then I freeze.

Focal Subject: Freya Lindqvist, aka Freya Holm

My own name leaping out at me from the page is a slap to the face. My heart pounds in my chest, the air around me suddenly too thick, too suffocating.

My blood runs cold as I read the detailed profile on me, my mind recoiling from the clinical dissection of my life:

Subject identified as a close associate to Kir Nikolayev, raised within Lindqvist family. Potential asset due to proximity to Nikolayev. Recommend utilizing emotional connection to gain access to Nikolayev’s personal dealings. Close bond between subject and target could prove invaluable in gathering intelligence and leveraging control over Nikolayev.

The words potential, asset, and utilize emotional connection burn into my brain.

I’m nothing more than a pawn.

Every moment I’ve spent with Mal—everything we’ve shared—has been nothing more than cold, calculated tactics.

Lies.

A thousand horrible thoughts flood my mind at once, twisting and curdling inside my chest, filling me with dread. Is this what I’ve been to him? Every touch, every kiss, every whispered, whimpered, gasp just a way for him to get closer to Kir?

I feel sick.

The bile rises in my throat, but I’m unable to stop staring at the screen.

There are legit surveillance photos—blurry images of me taken in various places over the last few months. Outside Kir’s mansion, at that restaurant in Tokyo, even a shot of me leaving a bar with Damian. There’s a red circle drawn around me in each one, highlighting me as the target.

There’s a final line in bold that seals it, making my skin crawl.

Freya Lindqvist may be the key to unraveling Kir Nikolayev’s operation. Recommend full investigation into familial ties.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I slam the laptop shut, my fingers trembling, nausea rolling over me in waves.

“Freya…”

I whirl at the sound of his voice, instantly scrambling off the couch. Mal’s standing in the doorway, his expression dark and lined.

“That isn’t⁠—”

“What it looks like?!” I scream. “Then what is it, Mal?!”

“Freya…” His voice is low, almost pleading. “Let me⁠—”

“WHAT. FUCKING. IS. THIS. MAL!!” I scream again, my heart breaking as I stare at him. My vision blurs with tears. It feels like poison is roaring through my veins, spreading pestilence to every single corner of my being.

He hesitates for a second. “I was looking into theories, that’s all,” Mal says quietly, his voice tight with restraint. “I needed to know the truth about Kir. About your family⁠—”

“About my family?!” I gape at him, my voice laced with disbelief. “You seriously believe all of this?!”

Mal looks away, his jaw tight. “Not all of it.”

“You really think Kir had something to do with your family’s deaths.”

“I…might.”

The room spins, until I feel like I’m going to collapse under the weight of everything. “Is that why you got close to me?!” I choke, my voice trembling. “Was this all just some way to get to fucking Kir?”

“No,” he growls quickly. “No, Freya, I wasn’t⁠—”

“You were!” I scream, my chest heaving. “You’ve been watching me and investigating me my entire life! Plotting against me and my fucking family!”

Mal’s face contorts with frustration, struggling for words. “Freya, you have to understand⁠—”

“I trusted you!” My voice breaks, the tears finally spilling over. I wipe them away angrily, hating that he’s seeing me weak and vulnerable like this. “Was any of this real, Mal?! Or was I just part of your plan?”

“Freya, listen to me,” Mal says, his voice raw with emotion. He takes a step closer, reaching out for me. “You have to believe me.”

I don’t believe him. I can’t. Not now. So as he moves toward me, reaching for me, I do something I never do when it comes to him.

I move away.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I hiss, my heart shattering with every word. “I need you to leave,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice breaking.

Mal shakes his head. “I’m not doing that.”

“Leave.” I hiss. “Get out.”

“I’m not fucking leaving until I can explain,” Mal growls, his voice tense.

“There’s nothing to explain,” I whisper, my voice hollow. “You’ve said enough. Done enough.”

Mal’s jaw clenches, still standing there, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, his hand still outstretched. His eyes, once so cold and unreadable, are filled with something raw now—something desperate.

“Freya, I love you.”

I break completely. I start sobbing, unable to stop. My entire world wrenches sideways as I flounder and stagger back from him.

“Leave—”

“There’s not a chance in hell,” he growls firmly, “that I’m walking out⁠—”

“If you don’t,” I whisper. “I will.”

The room goes silent.

We both see the daylight streaming in from outside through the UV-blocking windows. He knows the threat I just made.

“Freya…” Mal says quietly. “Just⁠—”

“Neon.”

Everything goes still and quiet.

“Neon,” I choke out again in a whisper.

My lip quivers. Tears bead in the corners of my eyes as they lock with Mal’s.

And then, without another word, he turns and walks out.

The door shuts quietly behind him, leaving me to collapse in tears, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.