Vanko POV
A knock on the door swivels me around on the chair.
One of my father's men comes in with a thick assortment. He marches inside and deposits it on the desk behind me. "Everything you asked. I retrieved this from our plant in the BPD. He compiled a dossier of every person of interest in Amara's sphere of influence; information you won't find on public records. Including a medical file on each. It's a lot of intel, I can have someone look it over for you."
I shake my head and with that he departs my bedroom. I swivel back around to face the galore; a treasure trove of everything I need to know about her. And those she holds close. So I take my time to assess, study and examine, combing through every granular detail about her and her family, from before I left, when I was still in Braidwood. And the five years I was gone.
She didn't just grow… she blossomed like a desert rose burgeoning despite adversities… traumas. Me. I didn't expect it. Because I never do, no matter the scope of unspeakable things I've done. This is disrupting. Earth-shattering. To feel nothing… to feeling everything. I drag my gaze over the hospital records where one time she was emitted to the hospital three times in one year. The last one… she was on suicide watch. She was diagnosed with depression, anxiety and had a severe ED, only worsening her already declining mental health. I slap the file close. A ripple of rage rushes through me and my back hits the seat. That anger that is reserved for the point of origin.
I lift my eyes to the display on the wall above my desk. A wide-ranging collage of candid pictures of Amara, covering the entire expansive breadth, most pictures taken from a distance, but all were taken without her knowing.
"At first—"
I whip around to see Petrov in the doorway.
"—I thought she was just a mark to you," he says, thinking it over. "Just business. A way in. But your meticulousness is not diligence but devotion; devotion teetering on obsession."
"She is the key to all I want."
"For your ambitions… or for yourself?"
I get up and I unpeel my shirt, changing in front of him.
"Where are you going?"
"Gym."
"I'll come with you," he says as a demand more than a suggestion.
"Is everything arranged for tomorrow? It has to be… perfect."
"Import from France will be delivered by morning."
¬¬¬
The entrance of the exclusive, ultra-modern boxing gym is fixed with brushed steel. The interior unfolds into a minimalistic design, where muted tones of charcoal and midnight black dominate. The glossy, polished floors reflect the soft glow of concealed LED lights.
I go in to make my request—an order the head trainer counsels me against whilst Petrov does his rounds. Instead of going for the ring—meant for controlled chaos, I take one of the sparring mats for less restriction. In the searing silence, the strip of cloth around my knuckles tightens as I clench my fists. The first opponent steps forward, a silent challenge hanging in the air. I strike first, each punch and parry a brushstroke of the first winds of a thunderstorm. Beads of sweat scatter like diamonds in the harsh glow of the overhead lights.
He goes down easy. I need more. Pain. Pleasure. Destruction. One opponent isn't enough to sate the bloodlust. The second springs in with an overhead strike that I evade—his attacks like a snapping eel. With a deadly barrage, I pulverize his torso—the last shot—blood bursts from his nose before dropping to the floor.
"Come on!" I roar, tearing through the silence. "Is that all you fucking got?"
Three more figures emerge from the shadows, then another three.
"We didn't want to mess up that pretty face."
"It's not mine you should worry about." I raise my guard. "And touch my face. I'll rip your heads off and feed the pile to my dogs."
As more than a quartet, they encircle me before they release an onslaught. I face the force with the ferocity behind my merciless attacks. Three more go down, then four, and only I remain. It's not enough. Another score of six enter and I can see Petrov stirring from the periphery. One releases an ambitious kick—I catch his ankle. I snap it—a thrill surges through me when his mindless scream follows the satisfying crunch, using momentum to swing him away from me. I duck, evading another swing. Each contact, the sounds of cloth meeting flesh and the muffled grunts of exertion fill the space.
A blow catches me in the back of my knee. I drop to a lunge. An explosive moment later, my body hits the ground. They rally around me to unbridle a devastating beating, my flesh mincing from the vicious kicks that slam into my ribs, back and stomach, avoiding my face. I don't do anything to stop it. Not because I can't, but because I don't seem to care. I allow it. I just lie there, twitching from every violent, bone-breaking blow. Petrov can't hold himself and he intervenes, flinging my opponents away like rag dolls. He tries to get me up, but agony lacerates through my torso to the point that I drop against him, but he heaves me back up.
"What the fuck was that, Yôchânân?"
"I—" my raspy breaths wheeze past. "I could take them. And more."
"I know that," he rumbles. "It's not your body, I question, or even your mind, but there is a weight in your chest that weighs heavy. That is a pain worse than any wound."
¬¬¬
I wait in the parking lot for her.
I spot her talking to a classmate. Amara's skin, a rich tapestry of warm, velvety brown, glows like the sun's embrace on a summer afternoon. I can't believe there was ever a time I was blinded to such a wonder. Her classmate says something that makes Amara smile, dimming sunlight itself, kindling a flame in my hollow chest. I look away, my jaw locked. It's because I know I could never do that. That smile could never belong to me—not even a glimmer or a glimpse. And the moment she sees me, her steps stutter on the long flight. Her smile vanishes, dousing the blaze.
"Where's your bodyguard?"
She gives me a warning look. "He doesn't know about this. I just want you to help you and be done with you."
I pull an effortless smile. I lift myself from the hood of the M4 before I go around, opening the passenger door and I close it after her. A tremor of pain passes through me, restraining a wince as I go to the other side to climb in the driver's side.
¬¬¬
Petrov opens the passenger door for her.
"Thank you," she says, smiling warmly at him. "But you don't have to do that for me."
Amara's eyes skim over the mansion's sharp angles and clean lines. Walls of frosted glass seamlessly meld with sleek concrete, creating a structure that appears to defy gravity. As the evening sun casts its light, the glass facade reflects the warm glow, turning the structure into a prism of light. Amara shoulders her bag, looking bored. Unimpressed.
"What did you think would come of this?" she asks flatly. "I would ogle your beautiful house." She tosses a careless hand toward my father's Rolls Royce. "And cars, and I'd just be enamored? There is an insult in there somewhere… if you think I'm that easy."
I know her enough to see that she was never the type to be lured by that type of things.
"I know a lot of millionaires and their sons."
A snort escapes me. "Millionaires? That's cute."
I walk ahead, and Petrov casts me under his shadow. In Russian, he says, "Your father told me to inform you that our friends touched down in the states last night. We have scouts monitoring every private airfield—"
"Not now," I seethe back.
"He implores you to keep a low profile," he concludes, casting a furtive glance at Amara.
"I said not now."
"Yôchânân," he snaps back.
"La 'urid 'an 'akun masdar 'iizeaj," Amara says in Arabic, out of nowhere.
Petrov is the first to turn. Petrov responds with a measure of friendliness he has shown to no person I have ever brought home. Amara fumbles over some words, her pronunciation raw but coherent enough for us to understand. But soon, she gives up.
"I don't know much." She gestures to his prayer beads. "My church does mission trips to Turkey, so I picked up a lot over the years. It's a beautiful language."
Stone cracks and a crevice of a smile emerges on Petrov's face. He escorts us inside, but remains as I lead the way through the botanical garden. The gazebo's intricate lattice-work, painted in a palette borrowed from the vivid colours. Adorned in a robe of emerald green ivy.
Amara's eyes scan the ornamental foliage, a glister of admiration in her dark eyes stewing, burnished in the westering light. Within the gazebo, ornate wrought-iron furniture adorned with plush cushions. I invite her to sit with a hand gesture. She lowers her bag before she takes a seat reluctantly. I ease down in the chair carefully. Amara begins to take out a playbook, notebook and folder, getting straight to business. I cock my head to the side before I flag over the string of ready servants, prepared with special instructions.
"Even though I'm just desperate to get into Shakespeare, can't let you do it on an empty stomach."
Amara glances over her shoulder and she quickly shoves her collection aside to make room. Different dishes are laid out in front of her until the surface is decked with French cuisine. And to my surprise, she recognises the foods quite quickly.
"Something wrong?" I ask, faking confusion. "I can get something else if you would prefer."
"This," she begins dreamily, a smile kisses her lips. "This looks exactly like the food I had on my trip to France. A family vacation."
Her eyes flick up at me, and my pulse flicks on fire, drumming beneath my skin. I shift uncomfortably, unfamiliar with the discomfort of anything resembling true anxiety.
"This doesn't seem like a coincidence."
"It isn't," I say truthfully. "I saw you posted it on social media two years ago—expressing you would do anything to have it one last time. So I had it delivered."
"From France?" she exclaims, struggling against her shock. "Why would you do that?"
"Because it's the only way I know how." Unable to stop myself like a sinner seeking penance, like so many men I've seen beg for his life, like a condemned man who dug his own grave, I confess, "When my mom died, my father got me a thoroughbred. The first time I was hospitalized, I got my first exotic car. It's the language I know best."
A cold knowing enters her eyes, and she looks away momentarily.
"Amara."
She squirms with disgust at the sound of her name in my mouth.
"There is nothing in this life I can do to atone for what I did," I try, resisting a verbal retreat. I push, for her, I push through my own resistance. "I know that. I am not here for your forgiveness. I do not deserve that. I'm not here to lighten my soul, because we both know it's beyond salvation. I'm here to spare any closure I can, and I—"
"I forgive you," she says quickly.
My jaw unhinges, my lips parting slightly.
"My father told me that forgiveness is setting a prisoner free only to find that it was yourself. Resenting you… has harmed only me. You hurt me, tormented me, tortured me, but it was after you that nearly killed me. I won't ever let you have that kind of power over me again. If I hate you, I let that cycle continue. Perhaps if I do this one good thing, I can inspire you to be better."
Rendered wordless, I stare at her helplessly.
All I ever saw in those eyes was fear and fury bound to my existence. There is something else… something worse. She would never love me, so I could never possess her heart. But at least if she hated me, at least I held her mind. Now I dread I hold nothing.
She casually draws a dish over: black angus tenderloin, truffles with mashed potatoes. "This doesn't mean I want you in my life. It just means there's no enmity."
"Then let me in your life," I say thoughtlessly. "Let me be what you see I am capable of becoming."
She hesitates, then a server materializes out of nowhere between us.
"Miss, I think this belongs to you?"
She looks at the necklace with the pendant of the cross. Amara's hand flies to her chest to feel it bare.
"Yes, it is. Thank you so much."
I snatch it on impulse.
"Vanko." My name from her lips rouses something feral in me.
"Let me in."
"You ask too much."
My body rises and I walk off the gazebo, drawing shouts from her. She goes after me and I whip around.
"You really haven't changed," she says with a lethal dose of venom.
"Then change me," I whisper. "Mold me into the vision of all your desires. Break me down to my foundation so all that I am, all that remains of me, is only you."
Without even touching me, her eyes evoke a myriad of emotions from the quiet strength that lines her gaze. My eyes stray to her sumptuously soft, lush lips, petal pink, lips that demand to be kissed.
"Give it back."
"Take it from me," I challenge.
Her hand shoots for it. I keep it from her grasp despite the pain pulsing through my limbs. I had enough drugs pumped into me to dull the pain, but it was wearing off a while ago. Still, I tease her, tendrils of aches ripple through every movement. Suddenly too fast, I hide it behind my back and she stumbles forward, colliding into me with her arms wrapped around my waist.
"Wait until the mayor hears how inappropriately you're touching me."
Out of pure frustration, a smile flashes across her face before it disappears. I hold it above her head so it dangles above her face, drawing her eyes skyward. I exploit a chance, powerless against the magnetic pull beyond my control—my lips crash down on her own. And the world catches on fire. My heart pounds at the sound, half-gasp, half-moan. A deep yearning breaks forth inside me, unveiling a need as vital as one's own breath as fierce as god-touched fire.
I surge forward, eager, ravenous, catching her bottom lip between my teeth and nipping it gently before pressing my lips against hers again. To my unutterable shock, she pulls me closer, her body melding into mine, fingertips kneading the expanse of my back with shared desperation until my full weight pins her against the flank of the gazebo.
A glimpse of a hundred lifetimes locked in a single moment, severed when she rifts us apart, squirming away from me.
"Amara."
With tears brimming in her eyes, she slaps me and my face stays angled towards my shoulder. She rushes back to clumsily gather her books and bag before she speeds down towards the house.
"Amara."
She accelerates her speed until we reach the interior. I stop at the doorway when I see she dashes to Petrov.
She asks Petrov if he can take her home alone. Suppressed pain smashes into me, fully unbound the moment she leaves my presence. I go for her again, but Petrov slams a halting hand on my chest, allowing her to escape through the front door. I smack his hand away, but another clamps down on my shoulder.
"You've done enough, you're scaring the girl. Let her go or you will lose everything."
I force myself still and that's when he backs away cautiously. Wincing, I ease toward the floor-to-ceiling window to watch Petrov usher her into the Rolls Royce. Inundated by a feeling resembling guilt, grief, then determination. Because now I know a small part of her longs for it too. She only ran because she's afraid of wanting something she's meant to hate.