Page 34 of Blood Code

But nothing did.

He’d actually left without touching me.

That had never happened before.

It was the first time I met the man I would come to know as Blackwood—the man who would become my everything for the next three years.

Chapter Ten

Xeniya Morozova

Age 35

Well, luckily for me, it was Target Practice Tuesday again, and all of my dolls were hanging from my dartboard.

Before going upstairs to poke through the Russian files, I'd affixed them to it so they could anticipate their next punishments.

But as I stared at them—and now that I had a more important task—I didn’t want to do target practice at all.

I wanted them dead.

I'd imagined a hundred different ways to make them suffer. Months and months of torture, prolonging their suffering as they had done to every Forgotten they touched. They deserved a lifetime of torment. But every minute I spent focusing on them was another minute the blonde woman didn't have.

I wanted my dolls dead.

Saving the woman—all of the women—mattered more.

Revenge was sweet, and torture was fun, but rescuing the Forgotten was my calling—my most important job.

And these men were distracting me.

So I took a blade from my tool table and hurled it across the room. Four more followed until all of my dolls, save Aleksandr, had knives protruding from their throats.

The gurgling hit me first, followed by the overwhelming smell of wet pennies and mineral-rich rain. Blood smelled exactly how you’d think it would and, at the same time, nothing as you’d imagine.

But the sheer intensity was what surprised me most. When an animal—or, in this case, five dickless humans—bled out, blood became the only thing you could smell. All-consuming.

I grabbed my sixth blade, pulled out a folding chair, and sat down to admire my artistic masterpiece.

I’d call it blood rain.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Maybe blood falls? Five crimson waterfalls cascading down men's necks, naked chests, and legs.

The tip of my final knife traced my lips as Aleksandr fought against his chains.

He knew he was next.

He knew his death would be much, much worse.

Because Aleksandr Volkov understood my moods too well.

After all, he’d shaped them, just as I understood his.

Footsteps sounded upstairs, followed by the telltale creak of the upper basement door.

Soft clicks followed.

Click.