Ruthless Saint

XVII

MIKA MALIKOV

        By the time Mischa pulled into the driveway, I was exhausted. My body didn't feel like my own and I had to muster the strength to unbuckle my seatbelt and pull myself out of the car.

        Mischa had yapped his way home with Pavel, switching back and forth from Russian to English when it benefited him.

        I wasn't sure what all the commotion was, but I knew Mischa hated not knowing who kept tailing us and it jeopardized the very reputation he'd worked hard to build in Russia.

        After all, who would follow a man who couldn't keep a bunch of boys with guns in control?

        He was still on the phone as he slid out of the car, slammed the door and bulldozed his way ahead. He was on a warpath, and I knew it—the whole mansion would find out in a couple of minutes with his long strides and heavy look.

        And if they were smart like I was, they would stay away.

        Pavel was walking beside me, his shoulder bandaged, and pride diminished but he was alive.

        Mikhail on the other hand wasn't so lucky—he survived but he would spend a while in the infirmary before resuming his bodyguard duties.

        I felt bad, a flash of guilt bloomed inside of me. I wondered what would happen if I hadn't followed Mischa to the casino and if he had gone alone.

        Would he have grabbed dinner at the Casino?

        "It's not your fault, Mrs. Malikov." Pavel said quietly.

        He was a few steps behind me, but I could hear him clear as day. It was silent outside except for the crickets and the sound of my ragged breath.

        I smiled to myself. "Thanks, Pavel." He really was a sweetheart. "You know you can call me Mika."

        "Boss forbade it."

        Of course he did. I wasn't shocked at the level of possessiveness he had but this—this was downright psychotic.

        We entered the mansion, and I could see the effect of the storm that'd just passed through. Broken jaws and a beaten-up solider in the kitchen.

        I paused, inhaled a deep breath and moved towards the island where a box of cupcakes was.

        I took a chocolate cupcake and greeted everyone goodnight like there wasn't an almost dead body on the ground.

        Roxy trotted behind me, oblivious to everything that'd happened today. I came to a stop in front of our rooms.

        I knew Mischa was probably getting ready for bed in my room—or the room we'd both spent our nights in—but if he was still going to have a bad attitude then I didn't want to sleep in the same bed as him.

        I took the sharp turn to the empty guest room on the right.

        A hot shower later and another cupcake half-eaten and I felt like my mind had finally caught up to my body's state of consciousness. Emotionally exhausted and haunted by the sounds of gunshots.

        I'd shut my eye, waited for the darkness to envelop me but nothing came. Roxy was curled beside me probably dreaming about what dogs dreamt about.

        I turned to the other side, flicking the television on and playing a random telenovela.

        I thought it would help but every time I closed my eyes, I saw everything—flashes of memories I'd desperately buried till it was staring at me in the eye. With a beating heart and a taste for revenge.