“Sorry, lass, but you’ll have to play too,” he says, blocking her escape.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Everyone’s watching. Artyom’s got that victorious smile back on his face. Massimo looks outraged. Serre is fascinated.
My world’s about to fall to pieces.
“You’re fucking crazy,” I say breathlessly, not able to move an inch.
Zohran beams, showing teeth. “I told you, becoming a Dragon is about sacrifice. It’s about winning, and this ismygame. Kill your wife. Cut her pretty throat and stare her in the eyes as you do it. I’ll crown you Dragon over her rotting corpse myself. But if you refuse—“ He leaves the ending hanging in the air.
If I refuse, both of us will die anyway.
That’s the fucked up part of the game. There’s no real choice. If I do this, if I take the knife and kill Nika, then Zohran owns me. He wins either way. If I refuse, his chosen man takes the seat; if I accept, I murder my own wife in front of witnesses, likely filmed the whole time, and the shame and the horror of what I’ve done will taint me for the rest of my life, and I will be Zohran’s to manipulate and destroy. He’ll use Nika’s death against me, over and over, until I’m nothing more than his puppet.
Kill her and become Dragon.
Refuse and she’s still dead.
I thought the game would be easier—I thought it might be a game I could win.
Instead, there’s no way out of this.
I feel like gagging and screaming. My heart hammers as sweat beads on my back. I reach forward slowly, barely thinking, blinking sweat from my eyes, sweat from my forehead, and grasp the hilt of the blade, my hand sticky with more sweat. I draw it away from Zohran’s grip.
Kill the girl. Win the game.
What was she to me? The day we spent in bed, our bodies twisted together. She was a checkbook from the start. She was a collection of sums in a ledger.
What did we say earlier? Those were words, weren’t they?
I’d sacrifice anything to get what I’ve always dreamed about.
And Nika’s only one life. She’s only one girl against all my people, against Daniel, against Massimo and my sister and my brother. What’s one person compared to all that?
I slowly turn and face her.
Nika’s eyes are pleading. Tears stream down her cheeks. She whimpers, shaking her head, trying to form words but she’s too afraid to speak. I want to tell her, it’ll be okay, it’ll be fine, I’m good at this. She won’t feel a thing. There won’t be any pain. A part of me is dying, it’s breaking and struggling, it’s cracking into pieces. I hate what I’ve become and hate what I used to be, and I know I’ll be worse when I cross this impossible line.
“Sacrifice,” I say gently, reaching out to touch her cheek. I wipe some wetness away. She nuzzles into me, whimpering, sniffling.
“Sacrifice,” she repeats, voice husky with fear.
I draw back the blade, angling it at her throat?—
Then turn in one, fluid motion, and plunge it directly into Zohran’s chest.
CHAPTER 34
GABE
Zohran’s wearing a bulletproof vest. I feel its resistance the second the blade hits the Kevlar. I drive forward, tackling him as the Greek screams in rage and protest, his hands swatting and punching. I land on top of him, driving the blade down, down, shoving it hard, harder, leaning all my weight and roaring my fury, the fucker, the bastard, how dare he think I’d hurt Nika, how dare he try to make me into more of a monster than I already am, how dare he, how dare he, and there’s yelling and chaos all around, the crack of gunfire, screams of pain, but there’s only me and the knife and a body as the Kevlar splits and gives way.
The metal plunges into soft tissue, through bone, and into his heart.
I roar with the effort, with the victory, with the hate and the joy of overcoming impossible odds.
Zohran arches. He gasps, like a lover, and groans. Blood flecks his lips as he screams, spraying me in the face. I twist, stabbing again, wrenching the knife around to rip his heart into shreds. Ifeel it shuddering against the blade, working desperately, trying despite the mortal wound to keep the Greek fuck alive, but it’s too late. I hold the knife as he punches me in the face, in the side, tries to twist my hands back, but I don’t let him go.
“Sacrifice,” I hiss in his face. “Sacrifice, you sick?—“