Carnal Urges (Queens & Monsters Book 2)

The warehouse is near the docks. It’s cold, dank, and smells like rancid seawater and rotting wood. But it’s not close to any other buildings, which makes it a convenient spot for interrogations.

Screams get lost here. Blood washes easily off the cement, into the sewer, and out to sea.

“Hullo, Stavros.”

He’s tied to a metal chair with a black cloth hood over his head. Normally, I’d have him on his knees—freezing-cold cement is hell on the knees—but he was already like this when I got here.

The hooded head lifts. A voice with a slight Russian accent says, “Who’s there?”

“Sloane’s new best friend.”

After a short pause, he curses viciously in Russian.

Amused, I turn to Spider, standing beside me. “I bet he thinks I don’t understand his language.”

Spider chuckles. “I bet he thinks a lot of things that aren’t true. Stupid people are like that.”

“What have you done with her? If you’ve hurt her, I’ll fucking kill you!”

His angry shouts echo off the walls. He struggles against his bindings. His breathing is rough and fast.

“Relax. She’s still in one piece. But keep it up, and I’ll bring you one of her fingers for every time you shout at me.”

Streaming through the hood, his breath sends white clouds into the frigid air. His voice lower but still shaking with fury, he says, “You’ll regret this.”

I’m intrigued. From Sloane’s description of him as boring, I was expecting less energy. “Why? Is your master, Kazimir, coming to rescue you? You’re not high up enough on the totem pole, boyo.”

“I’m talking about kidnapping my woman.”

Hearing him call her that sets my teeth on edge. “Your woman? You seem to be operating under the misconception that she gives a shite about you.”

Or that she could belong to anyone. No man could ever really own her. Like all unbroken spirits, she can’t be claimed.

Stavros is undeterred by my sarcasm. “You have no idea how she feels about me.”

“I know she thinks you’re as interesting as curdled milk.”

“She wouldn’t tell you the truth!”

“She might. Under pressure.”

The insinuation that I’ve tortured her for information doesn’t faze him. He shakes his head vehemently.

“You don’t know her. Sloane’s not like other people. She won’t give anything she doesn’t want to give, no matter what it costs.”

I’m starting to get aggravated by his confidence. Could she have lied to me about her feelings for him?

“Everyone has a breaking point. You, for instance. How many fingers of yours will I have to remove before you tell me everything I want to know about your boss?”

His reply is instant. “None. I’ll tell you anything. I’ll tell you everything about him that I know.”

Spider is astonished. “This is the loyalty you show your king?”

“I don’t care about him. I only care that you don’t harm Sloane. If you let her go, I’ll do whatever you ask. I’ll spy on him if you want me to.”

Disgusted, Spider spits on the cement. “Unfuckingbelievable. For a woman.”

I turn and give him a cold stare. In Gaelic, I say tightly, “That’s a mighty high horse you rode in on. Have you already forgotten how easily the same woman tested your loyalty, Homer?”

He freezes. A look of guilt comes into his eyes.

“Take off his hood. And get me a chair.”

I turn back to Stavros and watch as Spider pulls the hood from his head. Stavros sees me standing in front of him and gives me a quick once-over.

I’m satisfied to see him swallow in fear.

Spider places a chair in front of me and stands back. I turn the chair around, straddle it, and sit facing Stavros with my forearms resting on top, my hands dangling loosely over the edges.

Then I tell Spider to leave us alone.

When the echo of his footsteps have faded, I say to Stavros, “You’re in love with her.”

The question catches him off guard. I can tell he’s trying to guess what angle I’m playing. He debates with himself for a moment, then says simply, “Yes.”

“So much so that you’d betray Kazimir without a thought.”

“Yes.”

Interesting. “How long were the two of you together?”

He’s starting to look confused. Maybe he expected I’d be slicing off body parts by now, not engaging in polite conversation.

“Three months.”

That’s all? When I raise my brows, he says defensively, “Fourteen weeks, to be exact. And two days.”

Jesus. I’m sure if I asked him how many hours and minutes, he’d know.

He blurts, “Tell me if she’s all right.”

Holding his gaze, I say quietly, “You’re in no position to be making demands.”

“Please. I have to know. It’s killing me. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

His dark eyes plead with me. I experience a strong urge to gouge them out. Instead of doing that, I say, “She’s fine.”

His exhalation is huge and relieved. He says a prayer of thanks to the Virgin Mary in Russian. Now I’d like to pour gasoline over this kid and light him on fire.

My ego decides it’s time to fuck with me and reminds me that Stavros isn’t a kid. He’s a man, full-grown. And, like Sloane, at least a decade younger than I am. He’s young, strong, good-looking, and madly in love with my captive.

Maybe her perfume is laced with oxytocin. It would explain a lot.

“What is it you love so much about her?”

“Everything.”

“Name one thing.”

He’s even more confused by my challenging tone. If I’m being honest, it’s confusing me, too.

“Is this some kind of game?”

“Indulge me.”

After a moment of closely inspecting my expression, his changes to one of horror. His voice comes out choked. “You have feelings for her.”

I scoff. “Aye. Many feelings. Annoyance. Aggravation. Exasperation. I could go on.”

When he only keeps staring at me with that look of dismay, I decide to prod him a little. “I admit, her tits are bloody amazing. And that arse…well. You know.”

My smile suggests I’ve seen quite a lot of her perfect arse. Suggests that I’ve taken it. As I knew it would, the idea drives him insane.

“Fuck you!”

“No, thanks. Back to Sloane.”

He seethes for a while, debating whether to scream more obscenities at me or obey.

“I won’t talk to you about her.”

I remove my gun from my waistband, lean forward, and shove it against his kneecap. “How about now?”

He’s sweating. The veins in his neck stand out. He licks his lips nervously, takes a breath, then shakes his head.

His courage surprises me. Deeply. After twenty years in the syndicate, I’m rarely surprised. “You’d give up your boss for nothing, but you won’t talk to me about a woman you’re not even with anymore?”

“Not for nothing. For her. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He’s so frightened, he’s almost shitting himself. But he’s also defiant. Willing to get his kneecap blown off to defend her honor.

Goddammit. I refuse to like this kid.

I lean closer and shove the gun into his crotch. He emits a small cry of terror.

“Let’s try this again. What is it you love so much about her?”

He spends a few moments hyperventilating and convulsively swallowing the excess saliva in his mouth. I give him some leeway to pull himself together and wait calmly until he manages to speak.

“S-she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Fuck. I was hoping he’s say something shallow about her body so I could shoot his dick off. I say drily, “She agrees with you. What else?”

“She isn’t afraid of anything. She’s thoughtful and kind. And funny. You don’t expect a girl so hot to be funny, but she is.”

“But irritating, though, right? Didn’t she irritate you something brutal?”

He looks appalled by the suggestion. “No. She’s not irritating. She’s a goddess.”

I’m beginning to see why Sloane got bored of him. His earnestness is tiresome. This kid is as dry as unbuttered toast. She’s so far above his head, they’re not even in the same atmosphere.

I shove the gun back into my waistband and consider him.

Apparently, he thinks I’m plotting his murder. He turns a shade paler and starts to shake.

“I’m not going to kill you, Stavros.”

“You’re not?”

“No. It would be too depressing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because life hasn’t sucked all the joy out of you yet.” I stand and start to pace in front of the chair. “But I can’t let you go, either. Not only did you have the extremely stupid idea to try to shoot your way into my building with your pathetic rescue attempt, you also shot two of my men at La Cantina in Tahoe.”

“I’ve never shot anyone.”

I stop short and look at him.

“I haven’t. Unless you count fish.”

“So those two men killed themselves?”

“No. Alexei shot the two who came to our table. Kazimir shot the other two.”

I already knew about Kazimir. But the intel I have is that Stavros was the shooter at the table. Then again, he and his dead friend Alexei look very much alike. Tall, slim, dark-haired, the same tattoos on their knuckles. Almost like brothers.

He says, “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. It’s the truth. I actually hate guns. I’m more of a computer nerd.”

“Let me get this straight. You’ve never shot anyone before, but you decided it would be a brilliant idea to come to Boston to try to rescue a woman you dated for a few months from a man who has shot people before. Many of them. For far less stupid things.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice.”

“The heart leads where it will.”

“What is that supposed to mean? You’re her puppet?”

He smiles wistfully. “No. I’m just in love. It doesn’t matter if I live or die, as long as I’m near her.”

I glare at him. “Are you trying to get killed here? You have a death wish, is that it?”

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”

I growl, “Don’t get snippy with me, boyo. I can shoot plenty of things off your body and still keep you alive.”

A sudden vivid image of him on top of Sloane, thrusting between her spread thighs as she moans and arches beneath him, sucks the breath out of my lungs. In its place comes poison.

The poison of pure jealousy.

He sees the look on my face and swallows again.

I return to my pacing. Back and forth I go, thinking. Stavros sits silently, watching me with trepidation.

Like Sloane, he’s not at all what I expected. He’s not a hardened killer. He’s not loyal to anything but romantic notions of true love. He’s young and idealistic, brave and intelligent, and—if I’m honest with myself—is probably a better person than I am.

A person who’d make a good father.

I turn to him and demand, “So you want to marry her?”

He blinks in surprise. “I don’t understand—”

“Answer the bloody question.”

“All right. Yes, I want to marry her.”

“And children? You want those with her, too?”

His eyes shining with emotion, he says roughly, “As many as she’d agree to, yes. I’ve always wanted to be a father. And she’d make a wonderful mother. I’d give it all up if she asked me to. The life. The money. Anything. The only thing that matters to me is her.”

Fuck. This isn’t how I wanted this interrogation to go.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhale hard, and close my eyes. When I open them, Stavros is staring at me like he’s been washed overboard in a raging storm, and I’m the lifejacket someone’s about to throw him.

Which I am.

Trying not to sound as depressed as I feel, I say, “All right, boyo. It’s your lucky day. Let’s make a deal.”