My eyes blazed as I watched her press kiss after kiss on the back of my hand. A hungry growl rumbled in my chest. Reaching down to the coat that had fallen to the floor, Zoya picked it up and pushed it in to my chest.
“Put it on,” she said playfully.
Taking the damn coat, I pushed it on and followed Zoya to the door. I pulled on a heavy woolen hat and pulled the hood of the coat to cover my face.
Zoya opened the door, but when she caught sight of me behind she pushed it back shut. I frowned, wondering what she was doing. Then she reached up and pushed my hood down. I swallowed hard at that look on her face, the one I couldn’t believe she ever cast on me. The one that told me she loved me.
The one that told me I owned her soul.
Zoya pushed the hat off my shaven head and kissed along the scars on my cheek. As she pulled back, her gaze bored into mine. “Do not hide away from me,” she said.
I pushed my fingers into her hair and said, “I’m not hiding from you. You see me. I could never hide from you, kotyonok.”
Zoya sighed and said, “Then don’t hide from everyone out there, either.” She pointed out of the door. My stomach clenched at the thought of going outside. I had barely been outside in the daylight since becoming a free male. I never went out during the day. I had seen the reaction of the Volkovs and Tolstois when they met me. I saw the way the guards stared at my face. Unlike Luka and Zaal, I couldn’t hide the scars of my past with clothes. I wore them for everyone to see. The few people we had come into contact with had cowered away at one look. The people who lived close by always gave me a wide berth.
Zoya had made me promise to walk through Brighton Beach with her today. She was sick of being inside. She wanted to show her people we were together. She was sick of hiding us from the world.
Zoya threw the hat to the floor and said, “It’s not cold enough to wear that. And there is no need to hide your face.”
“They’ll stare,” I replied, feeling pathetic for even caring.
Zoya’s face softened and she whispered, “Then let them stare.”
Zoya’s fingers squeezed mine and she opened the door. I pulled up the collar as high as it would go and stepped out into the daylight.
The bright winter sun was blinding. I wanted to lift my face and feel its warmth. But when I scanned the area I could see the Kostavas’ Georgian people who lived around us beginning to stare. Their heir was making her first appearance.
I kept my head down when Zoya pressed against my side, lifting my arm to wrap around her shoulders. I pulled her close. With her shorter height, she fit perfectly.
Zoya’s warm breath ghosted over my skin, and she whispered, “They are staring at me more than you. Most of my people, they have not seen me since I was five.”
I nodded my head, but I saw the looks the people were giving us as we walked on. The Georgians were opening the doors of their houses, running out on the street to kiss Zoya’s hand, and greeted her with, “K’alishvili.” Happiness at her survival showed on their faces.
Then they looked at me and the blood drained from their cheeks. I tried to pull my arm away from Zoya’s shoulders as she smiled and greeted her people in return. But Zoya gripped my hand tightly, forcing me to stand beside her. Forcing her people to see that I was hers. Introducing me as her male.
My heart swelled knowing she wanted me this much. I would never understand it, but I would never refuse it, either.
The farther we walked toward the beach and the pier, the more the Georgians came out to see her. I watched in awe as the people kissed her hand or waved at her from afar. She was a printsessa. They were overwhelmed that she had survived, and Zoya thanked her people for their love and support.
Children came out with their mothers, Zoya stopping to stroke their faces. I watched, starving for breath, seeing Zoya with the babies. An image sprang into my mind—Zoya holding our child in her arms. A peace drifted through my body at the thought.
As we continued our walk, I stored the image at the back of my mind, not wanting to lose the happiness I felt when I pictured it.
We had crossed the road that led to the pier when a little girl called out, “K’alishvili!” The little girl shouted again and ran across the road holding a red flower in her hand.
She stopped before us and held her flower up for Zoya to take. Zoya smiled at the little dark-haired girl and bent down to take the flower. “Thank you,” Zoya said, and the little girl nodded her head shyly.
Then the little girl looked up at me and her mouth dropped open. I tucked my head farther into my collar to not scare her anymore just as the little girl asked Zoya, “Is he a monster, K’alishvili?”
My stomach fell and I saw Zoya tense. “No, baby,” Zoya replied softly. “He’s a warrior, big and strong. He has fought his whole life and sometimes got hurt. That’s why he wears scars. They show how brave he has been.” Zoya glanced up to me. My muscles tensed at the look of pure love written on her face, at the words coming from her mouth.
Turning back to the little girl, she said, “Valentin has moved to this area with me so he can protect us all and keep us safe. You see how big and strong he is?” The little girl nodded, her brown eyes wide. “Well, that’s so he can fight off the bad people.”
“Like the scary monsters that live under my bed? Those bad people?”
Zoya laughed and nodded her head. “Yes, just like those. And Valentin always wins, because he has a pure heart.”
The little girl looked up at me again, but this time in awe, this time seeing someone else other than a monster.
All because of my Zoya.
The little girl gave me a huge smile, then turned round and ran across the road to her waiting mother.
As Zoya stood, she threaded her hand in mine, and silently led us down the pier. The old wood of the floorboards creaked under my weight. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore grew louder. We reached the end of the pier and gazed out to sea.
I closed my eyes, feeling Zoya’s hand in mine. As soon as I was met with darkness, images of my sister infiltrated my mind. The dread that always accompanied them took hold. I slowly breathed in the salty air, pushing the dread aside. We were going to get her back. She just had to hold on a while longer. And she would. Inessa was strong.
Opening my eyes, I looked down at Zoya, who was staring out to sea. Inessa was strong, just like my little Georgian kotyonok.
As if feeling my stare, Zoya glanced up at me and smiled. My heart almost cracked. When her hand tightened in mine, I looked at her hand and remembered savoring that moment in the chamber, convinced that I would never be able to hold her hand again.
“What are you thinking about?” Zoya enquired.
Pulling her into my chest, I pushed back her long windblown hair from her face and said, “You.” I lifted our joined hands. “Us, like this. Out here. Free.”
Zoya laid her head on my chest, and I held her close. “Those people…” I trailed off and shook my head. “The way they treat you. You are their printsessa.”
“No,” she argued, but I shook my head in disagreement. She was. She was beautiful, she was loved, and best of all, she was mine.
Zoya lifted her head. With those huge dark eyes, she stared up at me with nothing but love. Reaching up her hands, she pulled back the collar of my coat and smiled. “That’s better. Now I can see you.”
Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to her lips and tilted my head toward the sun. The warm rays immediately heated my face. I smiled.
Here I was, my hand in Zoya’s, sun on my face, and free.
I was happy.
I never imagined I could be happy. But it was Zoya. It was all Zoya. My kotyonok, the thief of my heart, my little Georgian.
Here I was, the monster that she saved.
The one she searched the dark woods for.
The one she believed deserved to be loved.
About the Author
Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of
England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.
After graduating from Newcastle University, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies for seven years.
Tillie has now settled in Calgary, Canada, where she is finally able to sit down, write (without the threat of her husband being transferred), throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.
Tillie writes Romantic comedy, Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels and happily shares her love of alpha-male leading men (mostly with muscles and tattoos) and strong female characters with her readers.
When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than strutting her sparkly stuff on a dance floor (preferably to Lady Gaga), watching films (preferably anything with Tom Hardy or Will Ferrell—for very different reasons!), listening to music or spending time with friends and family.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
RAVAGE. Copyright © 2016 by Tillie Cole. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-08630-3 (e-book)
Our books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
[email protected] First Edition: August 2016
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue: Valentin
About the Author
Copyright
Tillie Cole, Ravage
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