Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (9 page)

"You can't order me around. I'm not your slave."

You would have been someone else's, though.

She makes a disgusted sound and points at me with her index finger, poking me in the chest hard. Right in the solar plexus.

"I want to know something else," she says.

"Oh?"

"You know anything about missing girls at
Fascinations
?"

Fuck. Does she see right through me?

I try to look shocked. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Kenzie said lots of girls are disappearing. Are you the one making them disappear? Like you did to me?"

"That's insanity. I don't know anything about it," I say.

She pauses for a moment, and finally replies, "Fine. But don't tie me up anymore."

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head. "I just can't agree to that."

"What if," she says, hesitating, "You don't cuff me the nights you're home. Under one condition."

"Go on," I say, waiting to hear her suggestion.

"I'll sleep in your bed. So you know I'm not going anywhere."

Her words hit me like a fucking Mack truck. Holy shit. She wants me, I know it. And I want her. I want to say yes, with every fiber of my body.

But I can't. I won't. This is a dangerous game I'm playing, and it's fucking with me. If I don't get my head sorted soon, get this distraction out of my head, I'm going to slip up and get myself killed.

I shake my head, trying to remain poised. "No. Finish your food and then I'm putting you to bed."

A
fter Havok puts
me to bed, I curl up into a ball. I'm wearing a big, fluffy oversized sweater that I pull over my knees to keep myself warm, like I used to do when I was a little girl.

I see the way he looks at me, and I thought for sure he'd let me into his bed when I asked plain as day.

But he didn't. And it confuses the hell out of me.

Maybe he's confused about what he wants. I know I am. Half the time, I want him. To fill me, up, to fuck me hard. The other half of the time, I want to escape from here.

But I figure, getting out of these handcuffs and into his bed, that's a first step toward either goal.

Well, I tried.

I'm getting to know the sounds of the house better. I recognize when the garage door opens, when the front door opens, and when he walks down the hall toward my room.

Right now, I hear nothing, but I still watch the clock and wait a full twenty minutes after he leaves, to make sure he's not coming back.

Finally, when I'm convinced he's gone to bed, I reach out with my free hand and snag my purse. I pull it onto the bed, and its contents spill onto my lap. But I'm not looking for a hair tie or a tampon. I'm looking for something else. An even more precious resource that's rapidly running out.

My pills.

I fish around in my purse until I feel the hidden zipper. I tug at it, trying to unzip it one-handed. Finally it opens far enough to stick my finger in, and I fish out a single, small round blue pill. I threw out the pill bottle long ago, because I'm too low to need it. I have four, maybe five pills left.

I hold the capsule on the tip of my finger like a precious gem, looking at it in the dark. Or maybe I'm holding it like a poisonous morsel. In this case, there's no difference.

I want to stop taking these, but I'm hooked. But it'll work itself out soon. Because I'm going to run out, and I won't have the option to get more. It's going to be a forced detox. Honestly, I'm terrified. It's going to be bad. Really bad.

And I don't want Havok to see me like that. I guess when it inevitably happens, I'll try to convince him I caught the flu, but I bet he'll see right through me.

Sighing, I pop the pill into my mouth and roll it around on my tongue. It's bitter and medicine-like. When I was a little girl, the taste of pills made me gag. They'd stick in my throat when I'd try to swallow them. I don't have that problem anymore. But I still taste them for some reason, every time, even though the taste is disgusting.

I grab the straw of the CamelBak, stick it in my mouth, and suck. A flood of purified water enters my mouth and washes the pill down. Instantly, I feel better, my anxiety melting away.

I'm not so worried to be here any more. Not so worried about what'll happen at my old apartment, when the landlord enters it and reports the both of us missing. Not so worried about what'll become of me.

The worst part is, there's no way the chemicals have hit my bloodstream yet. And that's the true sign of an addict. Getting a fix just from the ritual.

I wiggle around on the bed, getting comfortable. I take the sweater off my legs, and stretch out on the bed. I'm not cold anymore.

My mind wanders. I think about Havok, my mind escaping into a dreamlike state.

There's definitely something sketchy happening. Sketchy beyond him killing Brock and keeping me here. He's hiding something much more than that.

I think he's part of the Russian mob. That's got to be it. I've always tried to steer clear of those guys, but it's not exactly a secret that the Bratva runs this town.

I'll figure it out. Find the truth. Somehow.

He's not all bad, though. Hell, maybe he's not even a little bit bad. He doesn't hit me. Isn't cruel. Has his shit together. In this beautiful home that's a world away from my old, shitty apartment.

This isn't how I dreamed my life would go, or how I wanted things to happen with Havok, but stripping at the club was a dead end. Maybe, just maybe, once I'm detoxed and he lets me go—if that's actually his plan—I can start fresh. I'll just have to avoid falling back into the stripping life. Fast, easy cash is so hard to resist.

No matter how weird this situation is, no matter how frustrated he makes me, I can't help feeling like I'm growing closer to him, emotionally. There's a good man inside there. There's chaos and pain inside, but not evil.

As I slip deeper into my high, I absent-mindedly slip a hand below the waistband of my sweatpants. I press my fingers over my cotton underwear. Wetness seeps through them.

That's what Havok does to me, and I can't help it.

I press harder against my panties, feeling the hard nub between my legs. My eyelids droop farther shut, and I put all my focus into rubbing harder. A tingle, a deep urge radiates out from my clit, filling my body with warmth and need.

I
know
the way Havok looks at me. I know what it means. But for some reason, when any other man would take advantage of me, he doesn't. He doesn't even take me when I throw myself at him.

I need some release. But I'm slipping.

Exhausted, I give up on touching myself. I cross my hands over my chest and tuck my head against a pillow. A deep, chemical sleep takes me away. The only thing I dream of is Havok.

M
y phone rings
, buzzing urgently on the nightstand, pulling me out of my slumber.

I dreamt that Penny slept in my bed last night. I almost couldn't fall asleep, my cock was so hard, but when I finally did, she owned my dreams.

I snatch my phone and answer the call. "This better be good."

It's Luka. "Havok," he says, "We got a situation at the White Bear."

I sit up sharply, adrenaline wiping the sleep out of my eyes. "I can be there in fifteen."

"Alright. Hurry." He ends the call.

I swing my legs out of bed, dressing myself as fast as I can, pulling on jeans and boots and lashing my gun belt to my waist.

Before I leave, I crack the guest room door, and peer in at Penny. She's still sleeping peacefully. I hate leaving her here alone. She should be safe, but that's what I thought about Irina when those thugs broke in to my house in Moscow and raped her over and over.

"I'll be back," I whisper. "I promise."

* * *

W
hen I arrive
at the White Bear, I instantly see something is wrong. Luka and Valentin stand outside the building, peering in through the barred front windows. We never stand around outside. It just attracts unwanted attention.

"What's going on?" I say, approaching them.

"Look," says Luka.

I cup my hands over the glass to block out the sun's reflection, and what I see makes my heart pound in my chest. The store is closed even though it's business hours. Inside, Igor stands in the middle of the room. And Petrov kneels in front of Igor, blindfolded, his hands bound behind his back.

"Damn," I shout, smacking my palm against the metal bars. This has to be by Grigory's orders. I fucking know it. Petrov wasn't getting the job done anymore, and now he's being replaced. By Igor.

Inside, Igor laughs. He's got something shiny in his hands.

A knife.

I should think this over, react with caution, but there's no time. My instincts take over. "Stand back," I tell Luka and Valentin. I reach under my jacket and draw my pistol, checking that the silencer is on tight. Sighting Igor's head through the glass, I raise my gun. Right through the window, and into his skull. That's the way this has to happen.

But Igor reacts faster than I can shoot. He kneels down behind Petrov, using his body as a shield. He raises his knife—fuck, it looks like a serrated bowie knife—and drives it into the side of Petrov's neck.

"Fuck," I shout, banging on the metal bars. Igor withdraws the knife from Petrov's throat. He must've punctured his jugular, because an honest-to-God fountain of blood surges out of his neck, covering an entire shelf of imported Russian groceries. Petrov's body falls to the ground, and Igor scurries into the back of the store, out of sight, before I can come to terms with what I've just witnessed.

Luka and Valentin curse in Russian under their breaths. "Come on," I say. "The back exit."

Thank God it's early in the morning and there's hardly anyone else on the street. We're making a fucking scene.

I run around the building, through the side alley, and around to the back door. Luka and Valentin trail behind me. The door is locked, so I grab my pistol again and put two quick shots into the wood. The lock breaks with a loud snap, and I push the door open.

Igor stands there, blood dripping from his knife. Petrov's lifeless body lays on the floor.

"You motherfucker," I say. "Now you pay for this." I train my gun right on his chest. But I look down at Petrov and swallow hard. We had our differences, but he was a good soldier. "Tell me why," I say, my voice nearly choking up.

"Drop the gun," says Igor.

Instead, I tighten my finger around the trigger. "I'm gonna play in your blood when you're dead." I squeeze harder.

"I'm in charge now," says Igor. "Grigory's orders. You put so much as a scratch on me, and none of you will live to see the sunset."

Fuck. If I put a slug in this scumbag, Grigory will send henchmen from all around the east coast. They'll fucking slaughter me, and they'll find Penny.

I can't fucking risk it.

Luka steps next to me, reaches out, and pushes my gun arm down. "Patience, friend," he says, giving a death glare to Igor.

This changes everything. I have to lie low, grit my teeth and cooperate with Igor, until I find a way to get out of this mess.

I lower my gun.

"Leave," says Igor. "I'll have new orders soon. In the meantime, the hit against Guatemala is still on. Get it done. You're either on board, or you're dead."

He's right. This is how changes of leadership go. You either prove your loyalty to new leaders, or they get rid of you.

And right now, I'm skating on thin ice.

H
avok seems distracted
the next few days, detached. We barely speak, and he's in and out of the house every night. Where he's finding time for sleep, I don't know. I feel like he's getting ready for something.

But I've got my own problems. I've only got a couple pills left.

The withdrawal is going to be brutal. I thought about trying to score a refill somehow. But it would all depend on Havok. And I know what he'd think about drug use. He doesn't even drink. He's not going to help me. I have to face this alone, and be strong when it happens.

So I'm on the precipice, the edge of a cliff that's about to drop off, and all I can do is wait for the inevitable fall.

* * *

T
he next Saturday morning
, I've made waffles for the both of us, and we sit together at his table, the bright weekend sunlight pouring through the window. This place almost feels like home now, which scares me. But honestly, even as a prisoner without a release date, I'm better off here than in my old apartment with Brock.

I take a bite of crispy waffle and savor the taste for a moment. The batter is light and fluffy, and it contains just a hint of vanilla.

"I'm going out tonight," he says, cutting off a segment of waffle with his fork. "Not sure when I'll be back."

The bluish morning light hits his cheek through the window. His skin looks so smooth, so youthful. His face is covered in thick stubble. My eyes dart over it, as I imagine what it would feel like to kiss those lips, to feel his rough face brush against my smooth skin.

Snap out of it
, I think to myself. If anything was going to happen, it would've happened already. I'm only here because he likes me enough not to turn me into a puddle in the alley.

"Okay," I say quietly. "Be careful."

He gives me a strange gaze. "There's nothing to worry about," he says, but I don't believe him. He's going to be in danger, I can just tell.

I poke at my waffle more, but I'm not hungry anymore.