Inked Adonis: Chapter 44

He didn’t see me.

If he had, he’d be right here in this bathroom right now, fist raised, mouth sneering, violence seeping out of every pore. And I’d be cowering against the tile with cold sweat drenching my body and my throat closing up around all the screams I couldn’t let loose.

It wouldn’t be the first time, either.

I lean my crutch in the corner and grip the edge of the pedestal sink, trying to ground myself in this nightmare. My hands leave sweaty prints on the porcelain.

Tom Pierce and Katerina Alekseeva.

Katerina Alekseeva and Tom Pierce.

The two people who could destroy everything I love, plotting together in my childhood kitchen like it’s perfectly normal. Like this is fine.

I crank the cold water knob as far as the rusty valve will allow and practically dunk my face in the basin.

The water shocking my system isn’t enough to erase the memory that floods back—me, bent over this same sink, washing blood from my face after one of Dad’s poker games went south. The deputy who blackened my eye claimed I was in the “wrong place at the wrong time.”

Dad kept me home from school. Couldn’t let the neighbors “get the wrong idea.”

When I pointed out their ideas wouldn’t be far from the nasty truth, he made sure the next bruise was somewhere only I could see. Taught me another lesson about keeping my mouth shut.

And now, I’m right back where I started.

My leg throbs, an angry knot of pain that pulses with each heartbeat. The dog attack feels like it happened in another lifetime, but my body remembers every tooth that tore into me.

Still, it’s nothing compared to the clutch of panic in the center of my chest. It’s a primal fear of Dad, this bone-deep kind of terror at the thought of his boozy, sweaty smell preceding him into any room. And then the man himself—tall, broad, a hairy, snarling shadow—stepping through the door to find me cowering in any corner I could reach.

It’s been a decade since I was within his grasp.

I feel like I never left.

Only one thought occurs to me, but it echoes again and again. I need to talk to Samuil. Even with the way we left things, I know he’d answer if I called. He’d pick up. He’d come.

No matter how fucked up things between us are right now, Samuil would save me.

Trouble is, I don’t have my phone. Even if I did, he’s halfway around the world.

I squint in the mirror, desperate for some tiny sliver of a bright side. A hint that things aren’t as unprecedentedly terrible as they feel.

But my reflection just shows me pale and shaking, blood spotted on my neck and jaw from the hospital. I wipe it away with the musty hand towel and run trembling fingers through my matted hair.

The girl in the mirror looks exactly like the one who fled this house all those years ago. Terrified. Weak. Ready to run.

“You’re not a coward,” I whisper to her, watching my lips form the words. “You’re not that scared little girl anymore.”

The words feel hollow even as I say them, but I grip the edge of the sink harder. I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve built a life I’m proud of.

I won’t let him take that from me.

“Go back out there and face him,” I growl at my reflection. “Stand up for yourself. For Samuil.”

Whatever Samuil’s vindictive ex-wife is plotting with my father, I owe it to all of us to find out what it is. Hope. My grandmother. Samuil. They’re counting on me, even if they don’t know it yet.

I wedge the crutch under my arm, biting back a moan as pain shoots through my leg. Adrenaline can only carry me so far, but it’ll have to be enough.

This time, I don’t bother trying to be quiet.

He’s still at the table, just closing his laptop when I stop in the doorway. “Dad.”

He turns to face me, not at all surprised to see me standing in front of him. “You’re finally awake.”

“I should be at the hospital.”

“The doctor released you into my custody,” he explains calmly. “He agreed that being home, with family, would help with your healing.”

“This was never my home.” My heart is crawling up my throat, but I force the words out anyway. I’m not a coward. I’m not a coward. I am not a fucking coward. “I don’t appreciate being drugged up and brought back here. I didn’t consent to this.”

“Were you hoping your boyfriend would take you home with him?” His lips pucker. “We’re family.”

“Samuil is more my family than you ever were.”

I don’t mean to say it. The less information my father has, the less leverage he has to bend me to whatever his will is.

But I can’t stop the truth from rushing out of me.

He rises, cracks his knuckles, and takes a sauntering step towards me, silently towering over me the way he used to when I was a child. He’s waiting for me to buckle under the weight of his disappointment and rage. Up to his old tricks again.

But I don’t so much as flinch. “You can’t make me hurt him. I won’t. Not for you and definitely not for Katerina Alekseeva.”

If he’s surprised I know who he’s working with, he does an excellent job of covering it up.

Slowly, he retreats and pulls out a chair for me at the table. “Sit.”

I only accept the offer because I’m milliseconds away from collapsing with sheer exhaustion. My thigh is shaking even as I drop down into the chair.

The silence stretches, straddling the line between discomfort and intimidation—my father’s sweet spot. Finally, he folds his hands in front of him. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“It doesn’t matter. I won’t do it. I owe you nothing.”

“Except your life.”

There are a lot of ways one could take that, but with Dad, the answer is always obvious: it’s a threat. I was unconscious a few hours ago. He could’ve killed me if he wanted. Just like he could’ve killed me any of the dozens of times growing up that he grabbed me by the throat and threw me to the floor.

He could kill me right now, too.

But it still wouldn’t change a thing.

“If you want to hurt Samuil, you’ll have to do it without me.”

He chuckles and scrubs a meaty hand over his chin. “You’ve grown a spine since I last saw you, girl.”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “I’ll go over your head. There are people I can report you to. The commissioner. Or Internal Affairs.”

Tough as he always seemed, my father was terrified of what would happen if people found out what he got up to behind closed doors. It’s why he bullied me into silence and isolated me from anyone who might try to help.

But I’m not a scared kid anymore. I know how the world works.

Or at least, I thought I did.

But even after showing him all of my cards, my father is looking at me like I’m nothing. Less than nothing. A bug underneath his boot.

Just a little pressure, a little oops, and I’d be a stain on his heel. Instantly forgotten.

“Go ahead,” he suggests. “Do it.”

“What?”

He laces his fingers together and leans across the table toward me. “You really think anyone will care? Everyone in this city is on the take from one gang or another, even the commissioner. Make that especially the commissioner.” He snorts. “This whole city’s rotten to the core. No one will help you. They’re just looking for their next payout.”

I reach for my crutch, fingers wrapping around it tight enough to whiten my knuckles. A weapon if I need it. A crutch in every sense of the word.

But my father is relaxed in his chair. He couldn’t be less bothered, by the looks of him. Just a normal chit-chat with his daughter. His casualness is more terrifying than his rage ever was.

He sighs and examines his fingernails as if he’s bored. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering to explain all this. This is a waste of time. You’re going to do exactly what I order you to do.”

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“I suppose that’s true, in one sense,” he agrees, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that chills me to my core. “In another sense, all it would take is a few calls to have your grandmother kicked out of her home—cut off from medical care, secure housing.”

My gut plummets. Just when I think I’ve finally begun to understand how far he’d go to get what he wants, he shows me there are always lower circles of hell.

The thought of him touching her, hurting her, makes my skin break out in sweaty hives. I feel my pulse in every fingertip.

“Leave Grams out of this.”

“I planned to—until you decided to be difficult.” He shrugs. “All you have to do is listen, and I’ll make sure she stays comfortable. Otherwise, she’ll have to live on the streets with the strays the two of you seem to love so much.”

“She won’t have to,” I croak in protest. “She has me. And Samuil. He’ll bury you for this.”

He scoffs. “It’ll be tough for him to bury me from Moscow. That’s where he is right now, right?”

My good hand clamps around the edge of my seat. It’s the only thing keeping me from tipping sideways onto the floor. My world feels off-balance.

“Your sugar daddy isn’t as powerful as you think he is, Nova. In fact, he’s got quite the storm brewing, and he has no idea how to get himself out of it. You mark my words: his days at the top are numbered.”

“Y-you’re lying,” I stammer out.

He has to be. But my body knows the truth as it clenches and recoils and tries to convince me to run far away from this monster in human skin: he’s not lying at all.

He’ll do it. He’ll fucking do it. He’ll use me like a pawn to get what he wants, and if “what he wants” is Sam’s head on a spike, then he’ll get that.

And at the agonized clutch of my heart as I picture Sam slumped in a bloodstained puddle at my father’s feet, I realize I can’t let the man who terrorized me kill the man I love.

Love. What a word. What a fucking concept. Do I love him? Parts of me that don’t speak knew it a long time before I could put the words to it.

Of course I love him. How could I not? I’ve loved him from the moment he stood tall on that park bench and turned silver eyes on me. I’ve loved him when he woke me from nightmares with a warm touch and a whispered promise that he wasn’t going anywhere. I’ve loved him when I’ve hated him. I’ve loved him when he’s loved me, too.

So even if it ruins me. Ruins us both. Even if my father throws all his endless cruelty at us like one fucking dagger after the next…

I won’t stop loving Sam.

Dad just smiles. Maybe he knows what I’m thinking; maybe he doesn’t. Either way, those teeth shine too white in the gloom of the kitchen where he once tormented me.

“You think I’m full of shit. I might be—but there’s a chance I’m not. The question is: are you willing to bet your grandmother’s life on Samuil Litvinov?”