Throne of Vengeance (Throne Duet #2) - Rina Kent Page 0,79
want to change him? I accept him the way he is.” My lips part at that confession, because it’s true. I do accept him the way he is. I even love those darker parts of him, the overprotectiveness, the possessiveness, how he makes me feel like I’m his world. I love everything about him, from his infuriating passive-aggressive attitude to how he provokes me and everything in between.
I love him.
I just love him, and that’s what has been breaking my heart since I woke up to find a letter in his place.
“No wonder he said he drove you to the point of no return,” Julian muses.
My heart picks up speed. “Have you talked to him?”
“Yes, some time ago.”
I leave Sergei’s side and stand in front of him. “Where is he? What is he doing?”
“Last time I checked, he was trying to kill Rolan.”
“He’s not dead.” I chance a glance at Sergei. “Right?”
“No, he isn’t,” my granduncle confirms.
“Then…where is he?”
Julian forms a steeple at his chin. “I suspect something went wrong.”
“What?” My voice sounds as spooked as I feel.
“When I was talking to him, I believe he was interrupted.”
“Interrupted by what?”
“The question is who.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Julian stares at his watch. “If Rolan has a demand, he would make it about now.”
“You think Rolan has him?”
“I’m almost sure. Kyle went there to kill him, and since he’s not dead, that means the situation slipped out of control.”
I brace myself against the chair, sucking in a deep breath. The idiot. Why did he have to go there? Why did he jeopardize himself like that?
He’ll be okay, right? It’s Kyle, after all. No one will be able to hurt him.
Sergei’s office phone goes off, its ringing echoing in the silence of the space. My head jerks up at the sound.
Granduncle picks it up and puts it on speaker. “Sergei Sokolov.”
“Rolan Fitzpatrick. How have ye been, Sergei?” The unmistakable voice with the Irish accent slips through the phone. My fingers dig into the cushion of the chair.
“Good, good.”
“Unfortunately, the piece of news I have might ruin yer mood.”
“What happened?”
“Sadly, I was attacked by one of your closest men. Your grandniece’s husband, I believe. How unfortunate.”
“Where is he?” Sergei asks slowly, not losing his cool, which is far different from how I’m barely holding on.
“He’s with the lads downstairs. How unfortunate, indeed.” He has a provocative way of speaking, slow, but meant to get on your nerves.
“What do you want?” Sergei asks.
“Not much. Just the territories you’ve been slaughtering my lads over. Hand me those and I’ll hand ye yer in-law.”
“You think I would ever give up brotherhood territories?”
“Does that mean you’d rather give him up? Unfortunate. Very unfortunate.” Rolan pauses. “I’ll give ye a day to think about it. After that, I’ll send ye his head.”
The line goes dead and I stagger against the chair. My stomach churns and I grab it as I slowly sit down.
“Are you okay?” Sergei asks me.
“I’m…not.” My voice catches at the end, but I swallow and meet his gaze. “We have to do something.”
“I won’t give up Bratva’s territories, not even for my own daughter. After all, dozens of men died to secure them. The leaders would choose to kill Kyle themselves instead of making the brotherhood appear weak.”
I know that. I know it, and yet, my brain is fried. All I keep thinking about is the image of Kyle’s head.
Shit.
My stomach lurches again and the need to vomit hits me out of nowhere. I breathe deeply to shoo the sensation away.
I can’t fall down now. If I do, I won’t be able to protect Kyle and our unborn child.
Sucking in a deep breath, I face Sergei. “Can you call a meeting? I have a plan.”
30
Kyle
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
Mam? Where are you?
The place is pitch-black like a cave. It smells rotten too, as if a dead animal is decomposing inside it. My legs get lost in something sticky underneath, but I can’t see it.
I can’t see anything except for darkness.
The sound of weeping gets louder the more I walk. It’s my mother. I’d recognize the sound anywhere, even though it’s been thirty years.
“Mam? Where are ye?” I don’t know why I’m speaking in a Northern Irish accent, but all of a sudden, it feels as if I’m back to being that small boy. The only difference is that I’m trapped in a grown-up’s body. “Mam!”
The only answer is the sound of weeping. It’s long and wretched as if her grief is