Scarred Souls: Raze & Reap

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  To music for the constant inspiration.

  And to Little Big Town, for inspiring this novel with your beautiful words.

  You roll through life like a roaring fire.

  I bring the rain like a thunderstorm …

  — Little Bis Town, “Live Forever”

  “They were always meant to be together, one boy and one girl, two hearts split into two, sent to far-off lands on their own. For God wanted to see if true love could be tested. He wanted to see if two halves of one soul could find each other again, even against the odds. Years would pass. They would both be hurt. They would both be sad, but one day, when they least expected it, they would stumble into each other’s paths. The question is: would they recognize each other’s soul? And would they find their way back to love…?”

  PROLOGUE

  His heart beat like a drum—fast and hard and loud.

  His breath blew strong like a windstorm, his chest contracting with his harsh pants.

  Fear seeped from his bones, from every cell of his being, his hands shaking like a leaf and sweat dropped from his hot skin.

  “Welcome to hell, boy.”

  These four words greeted Boy as he was brutally propelled into a dank basement by a hugely built guard. Everywhere was black; the blackest of black. The guards wore black, the walls of the truck that had brought him here were black, the sky outside was black, and the windowless room they now stood in, black. The stagnant air was humid and thick, the temperature in the room, scalding. The stench of slick grease, sweat, and something more putrid burned Boy’s nostrils making him retch and his feet stuck to the sticky, grimy ground.

  Hell, Boy thought, considering the guard’s words. It was a living breathing hell.

  Then the guard pushed him again, this time down a steep, slippery staircase, dull lights sunken into the walls. The high brick walls were a browning-yellowing color and ancient fans whined in the background vainly attempting to cool the too-hot air. Overhead pipes steadily dripped raw sewage on the concrete floor and rats and other vermin swarmed around his feet.

  The place was a shithole.

  Once again, a heavy hand pushed Boy’s back, thrusting him down a narrow hallway. With every step, Boy could hear his breath echo louder in his ears. With every step, he could feel his pounding heart slam harder in his chest at an almost bruising rate. And with every step, he could hear more and more loudly a raucous cacophony coming from straight ahead, just beyond a thick-looking iron door. People were screaming and jeering, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of metal clanging against metal.

  Boy’s eyes were wide as he stared at the door, his nostrils flaring with terror. Nothing in this place screamed “safe”; in fact, with every new turn all he felt was pure terror.

  The guard reached around Boy; loudly and slowly he knocked twice on the iron door, each knock thudding through his chest like a cannon. Locks unbolted, keys jingled, and finally, the iron door cracked open.

  Boy’s eyes widened in disbelief as he drank in the scene. Grown men were everywhere in the overcrowded room. There wasn’t a spare inch free, sweaty bodies pushing and shoving one another from thick wall to thick wall. The men were drinking vodka, exchanging money, hands waving in excitement as they all faced straight ahead, their focus set on something just ahead.

  “Move, boy,” the guard ordered. Boy dragged his feet, reluctant to step across the threshold into “hell.” He couldn’t move. He was frozen to the spot, his legs shook and a dizziness spun in his head.

  Gripping the scruff of Boy’s neck, the guard tightened his hold, making Boy wince as he was steered aggressively through the baying crowd. Grown men stopped and sized up Boy, some in approval, most in dismissal. They all became a blur to Boy, the sight and smells too much for him to process.

  Boy felt faint. His lungs burned with the velocity of his short breaths. Boy’s fingers trembled in sympathy with his fear, but he shook his head, cleared his fearful thoughts like his father had taught him to do, and he managed to keep his head held high, meeting the owner of each curious stare right in the eye.

  As the crowd slowly parted, Boy startled at the scene in front of him—a huge floor-to-ceiling square steel cage, the top wrapped with sharp razor wire. Flashes of movement were coming from within. Pained grunts and spurts of blood escaped the cage, splattering his gray-uniformed chest and bare face. This time no breath came from his lungs at all. He was frozen; frozen on the spot with shock, the tinny scent of blood invading his nose.

  Boy couldn’t believe his eyes. Could not digest the sight that greeted him: pain, cut flesh, cries, blood … so much pain and blood.

  Suddenly, a wash of putrid breath blew past his ear. Boy flinched as he inhaled the sickening stench of stale food and acrid tobacco smoke.

  “Drink it in, boy. That will be you in the cage before too long.”

  Boy held his breath until his chest could take no more. He exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to cough or cry out.

  Boy had been taught from a very young age never to show emotion. His father would punish him if he dared complain, never mind cry. He refused to start here and now. Boy resolved to remain composed, lugubrious, and stoic … anything he had to be to get through this … this, whatever the hell it was.

  A loud rip sounded from the cage, the sound slicing down his back and bringing vomit to his mouth. As a huge spectator abruptly moved out of the way smiling in celebration, everything became clear. The fighters in the cage were kids … boys who looked no older than himself.

  And they were fighting … to the death …

  Boy’s disbelieving eyes darted around the cage. Weapons of all kinds lined the cage: blades, chains, hammers, axes, to name but a few.

  One of the young fighters stumbled back, clutching his stomach, as his opponent circled like an animal, crazed eyes bulging as he concentrated on his prey. Clearly the stronger of the two young fighters, the attacker clasped a long-bladed knife, which dripped blood.

  When the prey staggered around to face the crowd, he clung to the thick wire mesh that enveloped the cage. Only then did Boy see that the prey’s stomach had been sliced open, blood and guts oozing from the gaping wound.

  Nausea fought its way up Boy’s throat as he watched the mortally wounded fighter drop in agony to his knees. Boy’s stomach tightened to a painful intensity and suddenly, he vomited onto the already filthy floor. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his gray uniform, Boy righted himself, only to see the young losing fighter expire his very last breath.

  The too-full crowd of men erupted, a mixture of shouts of success or groans of dismay, as wads of money rapidly exchanged hands. The fight was done. The noise in the basement intensified and the men focused on their wins and ignored the victor in the center of the cage.

  But Boy didn’t look away. Couldn’t look away, his eyes were glued to the sight.

  He watched as the victor, covered in
his opponent’s blood and guts, dropped to his knees, all energy drained from his too-bulky body. His eyes were red, his body shaking.

  Boy watched as the victor tensed with rage, tipped back his head and screamed out in pain upon witnessing his victim’s blood, his life, oozing outward.

  He watched as the victor let drop his bloody knife as an all-consuming numbness washed over his body.

  And Boy watched as the victor’s lifeless gaze dropped to meet his, revealing how Boy’s future would unfold.

  That same rancid breath once again blew past Boy’s cheek and he heard, “From now on, you’ll be known as fighter 818, and if you want to live, you’ll learn how to fight and how to survive here, in hell.”

  And 818 did.

  With the passage of time, 818 became unrivaled.

  818 became death.

  A.

  Fucking.

  Stone.

  Cold.

  Killer.

  1

  KISA

  Present day …

  “Fuck, Myshka, your cunt’s so fucking tight…”

  Pinned to the bed, my fiancé’s strong hands held me down by my shoulders as he slammed into me, his cock pounding my pussy with incredible force, his strong hips locking me in place.

  I tried to move. I pushed hard against his chest, but he wouldn’t budge, not even an inch.

  It was always like this when he took me—hard, rough, raw … totally out of my control.

  Alik’s blue eyes lit with fire as I fought against him, flaring at my resistance, the aggression he expected me to exude every time he took me in this bed—an aggression he loved, an aggression he craved.

  He liked to fuck. Never make love. Just to fuck, hard, so long as he was in control.

  His right hand moved from my shoulder and wrapped around the front of my neck, not too tight to stop my breathing, but tight enough to keep me in place as I clawed his back and shoulders with my French-manicured nails.

  I bucked my hips, but his thick thighs pinned me down even more, his dick unrelenting and slamming against my G-spot, forcing me to cry out in pleasure. Alik laughed at my failed effort to throw him off, his mouth now an inch from my face.

  “Just try it, Myshka. Just try to move me … I fucking own you,” he growled in my ear, and his cock jerked in my channel, making me scream and bite into the skin on his shoulder, drawing a trickle of blood. Alik’s fingers tightened on my throat, restricting my moans. His breath blew harder. His chiseled jaw tensed, eyes boring into mine.

  “Come, Myshka. Come!” he ordered. Thrusting into me three more times, almost bruising my clit with his hand as he did so, I shattered, clenching his cock so tight—whether I wanted to or not.

  I hated that he knew my body so well. Hated that he knew how to get me off, make me scream, make me cry out. When I came, Alik saw it as a testimony of my love for him. I just saw it as another way to be used so he could lord his power over me.

  Hand moving from my shoulder and wrapping in my hair, Alik yanked hard on the long light-brown strands, his eyes squeezing shut and his mouth hanging open. Then with a deafening roar, he came, flooding my pussy. My chest heaved as my hard nipples brushed against his solid, packed chest.

  “Kisa … fuck!” Alik groaned and thrust slowly into me, winding himself down, hard muscles flexing and tensing all over his large body.

  Without releasing his grip on my neck and hair, he crushed his lips to mine, his tongue forcing itself inside my mouth. I submitted, as always, moaning, like he would want, as his lower torso worked against my sensitive clit.

  Alik pulled back and amusement flashed across his sharp-featured face. “Myshka, always mewling like a little pussy, huh?” His mouth lowered to my ear and his tongue licked along the outer shell. “Love me fucking you hard? Love me bruising your slit?”

  Alik released my neck, only to reach down and squeeze my breast, pulling on the raised nipple. I hissed and cried out, making his smile widen.

  “Love fucking you too, Myshka,” he murmured. Then abruptly, Alik pulled his still-hard dick out of me, leaving me lying on his wide bed in his luxurious Brooklyn apartment, trying to catch my breath and recover. He strode across the room, his ripped, tall body all walking perfection, and he ran his hand over his buzz cut dark hair.

  Alik grabbed a towel from the closet and wrapped it around his defined waist. I moved myself up the bed and watched him.

  Alik had changed so much since we were kids. His large-framed fighter’s body was bulky. His skin was lightly tanned. His face chiseled, aristocratic, handsome even. He was Alik Durov—the man who decided to make me his when we were just a couple of Bratva kids trying to wade through the trials and tribulations of a rough mob life. The boy I never looked at as anything more than a friend, until he forced me to look at him as something more.

  We grew up together. His father and my father were two of the three “Red” Bratva Kings of New York. My father, Kirill Volkov, was the Pakhan, the top boss, the one who ruled the Russian underground here in New York. Alik’s father, Abram Durov, was the enforcer, the next in line to the highest seat, the one who would deal with the darker side to the mob, the violent things, the revenge, the kills, the intimidation. He was sadistic, unforgiving and cruel …

  Like father, like son.

  For years, Alik wanted me. From childhood, he always wanted me close. He was always angry, starting fights and getting into trouble. He would tell me he heard voices in his head, voices that would tell him to hurt people, but when he was around me, he was calm, the voices went away.

  I felt sorry for Alik. I always had. Having Abram as a papa would be like living with the devil himself. But I had had someone else, a boy I completely loved, adored … was born for the sole purpose of loving. Then a tragedy ripped us apart when I was a teen. Within days, Alik made his move and, in turn, made me his.

  We’d been together ever since.

  As a mafiya prince and princess, all of New York’s Russian society looked upon us as the “perfect” couple. Alik would have it no other way. He was obsessed with me. He monitored my every move. I was his Myshka—his little mouse.

  And I dared not look elsewhere. Alik would kill anyone who came between us. And this was no threat; it was what Alik did.

  He killed.

  His place in this life was to kill.

  He was a fighter—a death match fighter—but I knew he killed for the Bratva outside of the cage too, killed those the Red Kings really wanted to make suffer.

  Alik “The Butcher” Durov was the undisputed five-time champion of The Dungeon. At twenty-five, nearly twenty-six, years of age, he was the most feared man in New York.

  I could never, ever leave him. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. In the Bratva life, men led and their women followed, dutifully, in their path. It was the essence of Bratva life, one that served you very well if you played it safe.

  Sentimental feelings and notions of “true love” didn’t matter in this life. It was an underground society based on respect and your ultimate support of the “family.”

  Alik looked me over and his light eyes flared again in need. He stroked his hard dick under the red Versace towel wrapped round his waist. Slowly, he shook his head, his thoughts clearly at war with his needs.

  “I gotta shower, Myshka. I have to be out in ten. Serge is coming to take you home. Can’t be deep in your sweet pussy again even if I wanted to.” His eyes then softened. “And you know I want you, don’t you? Can’t ever have enough of you, baby.”

  Frowning, I gently asked, “So we’re not going to dinner? We do have a date, remember?” I tried to act disappointed. But all I felt was relief. Relief that I wouldn’t somehow piss him off in public by some arbitrary thing he viewed as wrong, which would warrant being fucked too hard as punishment.

  Alik strutted toward me, his packed, scarred abs clenching with the movement, and grabbed my chin, dragging my head level with his, making damn sure our eyes met.

  “Got business, Mysh
ka.”

  “Where? And for how long?” I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t, as Alik’s face turned to stone.

  His grip on my chin strengthened to ensure I understood I’d overstepped my boundaries. My jaw ached and I winced at the dull pressure and pain.

  Alik tutted, shook his head slowly, then said, “Business is business. It takes as long as it takes. It happens where it happens.”

  I lowered my eyes in submission and tried to nod in understanding, but my intended movement was inhibited by his unyielding hand. Alik sighed long. Next thing I knew, my mouth was latched to his, his teeth biting at my lip, causing me to whimper. He ripped his lips away a second later.

  “Fuck! I can’t stay mad at you, Myshka. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  I cautiously lifted my trembling hand to stroke Alik’s stubbled cheek. “I love you, Alik,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. He was all I had. He was my only future. And I did love him in a fashion … he needed me. And I wanted to belong to someone. I wanted to be loved.

  Alik’s eyes softened, but only a fraction. He couldn’t show any weakness. But I knew he loved hearing those three words from my lips. They calmed the monster inside.

  Pressing another hard, bruising kiss to my lips, he stood and made his way to the bathroom.

  Heart beating and fighting back nerves, I asked, “Can I give charity with Father Kruschev tonight? He’s distributing care packages to the homeless.”

  Alik halted. He turned to look at me, a patronizing smirk on his face, and joked, “Have at it, my good little Myshka. Go serve God! Go rescue the scum on the streets.” His condescending laughter followed him into the bathroom, but I ignored the humiliation and the curt dismissal. I simply felt myself breathe … normally.

  At church, my father and fiancé didn’t send their men to spy on me. No one would dare fuck with the Bratva at their sacred church. It was the one place I felt truly free. The one place I could live in my head with my past, with the memories I held so dear.