Page 75 of Wild Heart
Excitement made my toes curl, and I grinned at the man a yard or so in front of me. Saliva pooled in the corners of his mouth, slipping down his chin and drenching the gag Papa shoved down his throat. His chest heaved beneath a threadbare t-shirt, eyes round and desperate as they searched the room for a savior.
Anxiety pulsed through the room, coming off his body in waves so thick I could smell it. My nostrils flared, and I shivered against the evidence of his dread. Below the surface of my skin, there was a buzz of anticipation that could’ve just as easily been rage.
Papa’s blood still lingered in this man’s nail beds. Ihatedthe way it had dried against his knuckles, staining his skin with something that didn’t belong to him.
Mine.
Property of Marcos Cabrera-Koslov.
“That blood wasn’t yours to take,dolboyob.”
Papa made a hungry sound, and I felt his breath on the slope of my neck when he whispered, “I love when you speak Russian.”
“I said it right?”
“Fucking perfect.” His hands were warm when they slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers dancing over my chest and the sensitive place just above my waistband. “Where’s your target, Solnyshko?”
“His hand.”
My chest knocked, blood heating as I zeroed in on the place where his hand met his wrist. Each stilted breath that left his lungs was one too many, and I refused to let him die with my Papa’s blood all over his skin.
“Alright, baby. Plant your feet and set your grip.”
A concentrated breath left my lips, and I readied my body with the same sort of confidence I felt in a pair of ballet shoes. It was all a dance, one my Papa and I did together.
He was positioned behind me, chest flush against my back. Mouth at my ear, he made a soft, satisfied sound when I wrapped my palms around the handle of my gun. Settling my weight, I used both hands to raise my gun the way he taught me and positioned the barrel in line with my target.
“You’re doing amazing, Solnyshko. Deep breath and pull the trigger when you’re ready.”
The warehouse lights were dim, and every so often, they’d flicker, but somehow the beams they cast were still enough to highlight the wedding band wrapped around my finger. It gleamed the way it always did, and I knew the moment Papa caught sight of it because he rolled his hips against my ass, pressing his stiff cock between my cheeks.
Ohmygod.
“Papa, I have to focus. I don’t want to miss.”
“It’s okay if you do, baby. He’s not going anywhere.”
Papa had hog-tied him before securing him to the metal chair, making careful adjustments so the hand used to bruise his jaw was on full display. The cement ground beneath him was wet with his sweat and stained with the blood of the man that came before him.
Any manwho dared touch my papa ended up in that chair.
Papa had given me a pistol the night he proposed to me. My new initials were engraved on the barrel, and I hadn’t been allowed to even hold it without him assisting me. I’d practiced first at a shooting range with paper targets and his hands on mine, guiding me. My determination was unmatched, and with my husband as my teacher, I felt unstoppable. Each time I pulled the trigger, I got a little closer to the bullseye. After our wedding, Papa surprised me with a new kind of practice.
Human targets.
They were my favorite.
“If I miss, he’ll bleed out too quickly, and I won’t get to have as much fun.”
“If this one dies before you’re ready, I’ll get you another.” He pressed a kiss to the base of my neck. “Are you ready?”
Nodding, I took a deep breath and steadied my trigger finger. The man in the chair began to tremble, tossing his head from left to right as if it would be enough for him to escape.
Boom.
A guttural scream punched from his chest, echoing past the sharp sound of my shot. Blood gushed from the top of his hand, seeping around the edges of the bullet now lodged in its center. The space around us smelled like iron and gunfire, and I couldn’t help but grin at the crimson puddle forming between his feet.
“Can I shoot him again, Papa? Please?”
