Throne of Vengeance (Throne Duet #2) - Rina Kent Page 0,37

them how to shoot or accompany them on a walk.

I went into withdrawal with its buried screams, its burning memories, and its silent breakdown.

And I remained in that fucking withdrawal for seven years. But it’s not withdrawal if it lasted that long; it’s an obsession. As soon as I returned, that obsession grabbed me by the throat like nothing ever had.

It’s different from the obsession pulsing under my skin that’s been demanding I avenge my parents’ death.

One is bloodlust with the need to hurt. The other is still some sort of lust, but it’s like a never-ending ache, the type that carved its place into the very marrow of my bones.

Stroking her hair behind her ear, I brush my lips to her forehead, lingering for a second too long so I can inhale her. Then I carefully untangle her from around me and stand up.

I slide my boxer briefs on and head to the bathroom. I hit the light switch and stand in front of the mirror.

My hands grip the marble counter as I stare at the galaxy of colors. Scarlet red, violet, bluish. That fucker Vlad made a painting out of my face—a chaotic one at that.

My eyes are swollen and the cut on my lip has dried blood all over it.

I should have probably taken care of it a bit more before I got here. Peter had a fright when he saw me. The kid shouldn’t have joined the Bratva at all.

Instead of thinking of mundane things like cleaning my face, the only thought in my mind was that I needed to see her before she completely erased me.

I have no doubt she would live a perfectly normal life without me. I’m the one who kept having withdrawals for seven fucking years.

Reaching into the cabinet, I retrieve the first aid kit so I can clean the wounds.

Vladimir, the fucker, should start picking his funeral song, because he’ll pay. Not only for hitting me, but for taking my wife away from me.

The condescending piece of shit always made it clear that I shouldn’t be with her. She’s a mafia princess and I’m a nobody, a killer who should remain in the shadows and only come out when he’s needed to take care of extracurricular activities.

He’s not wrong, but fuck him and everyone who thinks of me as a bloody shadow.

The padding of feet comes from behind me. I don’t turn around, not wanting her to know I feel her, even when she’s far away.

She already thinks I’m abnormal, and I cemented that fact by telling her about my bloody past.

I never divulged those memories to anyone except for Godfather. With her, the words tumbled out of my mouth so easily, as if I was always meant to tell her about it.

Rai stops behind me and tilts to the side so she can peek at me through the mirror.

Her brows furrow when she makes out the cotton filled with alcohol in my hand. “Does it hurt?”

“It looks worse than it is.”

She slips under my arm so she can stand between me and the counter. The only thing that covers her is a flimsy white gown that teases at her rosy areolas and hardened nipples.

Fuck me. She always looks like sin waiting to happen.

“You don’t have to be modest about it. I know Vlad’s punches hurt like hell.”

“My punch hurts worse.” My tone is flat. I’m being petty, but I don’t like that she thinks any other man is stronger than me.

“I’m sure it does.” She takes the cotton from my fingers and dabs it with some yellow liquid instead of alcohol.

Feeling the need to further prove myself, I say, “I was the best sniper in my group.”

“Your group?” she asks without taking her attention from the cotton.

“At The Pit, we were divided into groups of approximately ten. We trained together and basically lived in the same space.”

“Did you go on missions together?”

“No. We went in pairs of two. We usually had a permanent partner.”

“Did you?”

“Not really, but I guess I spent a long time with Celeste.”

Her movements pause and she stares up at me. “Celeste? That sounds like a girl’s name.”

I hide my internal smirk. “It is. She’s crazy but fun to have around.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?”

“Because I’m with you, Princess.” I try to kiss her, but she places a hand on my chest.

“You’re hurt. Stop it.”

“It’ll hurt less if I kiss you.”

“No,” she scolds, going back to dabbing the cotton, not meeting my gaze. “Was she a