Page 9 of Always Been Mine (Always #2)

Dmitry entered the whorehouse.

The madam had cheated Zorin out of his cut, and his boss had lost patience.

He passed the rooms where drugged-up teenage girls were held; his mouth curled in disgust. None of his kills were innocent; today wouldn’t be any different—a righteous kill.

He could have made this quick, but Dmitry wanted to exact revenge for the young women who might never recover from their horrific fate.

The madam writhed underneath him.

In the throes of her climax, his other hand circled her neck.

And squeezed.

His face came closer. She started struggling, her eyes dilating in fear.

“It may be too late to save those girls,” Dmitry snarled softly, “but you will never, ever harm another innocent again.” His fingers tightened. “Feel their pain, their fear.”

She choked for a while.

Before he snapped her neck.

The whiskey did nothing to drown the pain. Each time Gabe remembered Beatrice’s words was like being stabbed by a dagger to the chest. Repeatedly. It was a physical pain and a constant lump in his throat. He hoped hard liquor would wash it away, but it didn’t.

The prospects of rekindling their relationship were bleak.

The situation had turned ugly.

If Gabe were honest with himself, he didn’t think he was ready to be with her, for he had no idea who the fuck he was.

The old him wouldn’t have let Beatrice walk out of that room after firing those words.

He would have hauled her over his shoulder, dumped her on the bed, and fucked her into submission.

As Dmitry Yerzov? He’d probably shackle her to a bed and keep her on the brink of orgasm before he fucked her. In the ass.

He tipped his whiskey back and signaled the bartender for another one and took in the packed establishment on a Saturday night.

He had contemplated camping out at Beatrice’s condo, but the sting of rejection was still too fresh and there was only so much a man’s pride could handle.

Because if she rejected him so soon again, Gabe didn’t know what he might do.

Fuck. Was this how she felt when he had left her?

How could they come back from all this ugliness they were inflicting on each other?

His brain was telling him to let her go, but that muscle he called his heart was screaming at him to beg her to take him back. His loins were a different matter. They craved her, as well as wanted him to fuck her out of his system. He looked around at the meat market before him.

Maybe if he could bring himself to fuck someone else, he could move on from her. She obviously didn’t want him back. Why the fuck was he trying so hard?

Gabe shook his head. What the fuck, Sullivan? Tucking tail and running already?

The alcohol not only made him a limp dick, but stupid as well .

As if the fates were taunting him further, a redhead squeezed in next to him.

“Buy me a drink, sugar?”

Gabe glanced at the woman briefly before nodding at the bartender to give her a drink on his tab.

“Thanks,” the redhead gushed when her prissy concoction was served. She pressed her breasts against Gabe’s arm. His cock stirred. Not a whiskey dick after all.

“I’ve been watching you,” the redhead said. “Looked like you could use some company.”

Gabe didn’t say anything, just simply took a sip of his whiskey. He should just order the whole damn bottle.

“Not much of a talker?” This time her hand went on his thigh and started inching up, destination unmistakable.

Gabe didn’t stop her. He glanced at her, taking in her red hair.

She was attractive enough, a bit too much makeup for his taste.

His eyes rested on her mouth, which tipped up in a knowing smile. “I can show you a good time, sugar.”

Gabe chuckled as he returned his attention to his drink. “Not here for that, hon.”

The woman’s giggle grated on his nerves. What the fuck was he doing? Why was he allowing this woman to fondle him?

Her breath fanned his ear. “I think I can change your mind.”

She finished the last of her drink and jerked her head in the direction of the back exit, coyly walking away.

Gabe stared at the remainder of his whiskey for a beat. He slugged it back and pushed away from the bar. He left a couple of bills to cover their drinks and followed the redhead.

Sunday early morning was a relatively quiet drive up the Beltway. Gabe guided his SUV toward Chevy Chase, Maryland. He felt like shit. His head was pounding, and the sunlight was too bright even while wearing his sunglasses. He deserved this hangover from hell.

He nearly wrecked what he had tried for months to accomplish—being the man who Beatrice deserved. In a pathetic attempt to erase her cruel rejection and to soothe his shredded ego, he contemplated letting another woman suck him off.

In the back alley of the bar, the redhead pushed him against the wall, reminiscent of how Beatrice came on to him the night before. When the woman tried to kiss him, Gabe buried his fingers in her hair, and that was when it hit him.

Rough, wiry hair.

Not Beatrice.

The madness stopped instantly. He was jolted out of his drunken stupor, his erection deflated, and he walked away with no small amount of self-recrimination.

He was spiraling between his past and present.

He couldn’t find his purpose. He quit his job to be with the only person who could anchor him, who could prevent the darkness from sweeping him away, but she didn’t want him. Hated him in fact.

Angel of Death.

“You won’t feel a thing. I’ll be quick.”

Gabe shook the images away and spotted the exit for Chevy Chase.

He really shouldn’t be doing this, but he needed a reminder that even when he was at his vilest, he had a shred of humanity left.

He pulled into a relatively affluent neighborhood and parked a couple of cars up from a Tudor-framed house.

He waited, sipping from a thermos of hot coffee he had brought with him.

Two hours later, a boy of about fifteen emerged. He was bundled up in a hoodie and an overlay jacket, wearing jeans and sneakers. He was dribbling a basketball on his way to the side of the house. There was a ring fixed at the center of a two-car garage .

The boy started playing hoops.

Gabe watched.

“Here’s your coffee, hon.”

The barista handed Beatrice her order. It was good to leave the condo this morning because she had remained holed up in her unit all day Saturday after her disastrous encounter with Gabe.

Something wasn’t sitting right with her.

She should be feeling the sweet triumph of revenge, not this unsettling guilt for what she had done.

She ran a couple of miles this morning to clear her head, trying to remove the unsavory taste of how she left Gabe so callously.

He did the same to her, why couldn’t she pay him back in kind?

Damn it, why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

He was forcing her to become the biggest bitch in history.

The stricken look on his face right before she turned away almost made her reconsider.

If he wasn’t all hard-ass male perfection, that would have been a kicked-puppy look.

Why did he have to remind her of how good he was with his cock?

He filled her perfectly, stretching her between the point of pleasure and pain, and hammering out her orgasms effortlessly.

Nowhere near serene and still as conflicted as ever, Beatrice walked into the lobby of her condominium. An anxious concierge rushed toward her.

“Ms. Porter!”

“What’s going on?” she asked, baffled.

“There are two detectives here to see you.”

Detectives? That was when Beatrice noticed the two trench-coat clad guys rise from the lobby couches. Not missing a beat, she nonchalantly walked to the concierge desk to pick up a newspaper and tucked it under her arm before she faced the approaching detectives .

“Detectives Moore and Smithers of the Metropolitan Police Department.” Both detectives flashed their badges.

“To what do I owe this visit?”

“Can we talk somewhere private, Ms. Porter?”

The penetrating look on Detective Moore’s face indicated that the matter was grave. She tried to wrack her brain on what could be wrong?

A knot of anxiety formed in her gut.

She nodded to the elevators to take them to her condo.

Beatrice set her keycard and coffee on the foyer table, turned and folded her arms in front of her. “What’s this all about?”

“Where were you between three and seven a.m. yesterday morning?”

Oh, my God, did something happen to Gabe?

“Did something happen to Gabriel Sullivan?” she blurted out, panic in her voice.

Both detectives frowned; one of them started writing on his notepad.

“Well?” When she heard herself shriek, Beatrice forced herself to calm down. But the silence of the two detectives was making it extremely difficult.

“Were you with this Gabriel Sullivan?”

Warning bells and self-preservation trilled in Beatrice’s consciousness. “Do I need a lawyer? If you don’t tell me what this is all about, I’m not saying anything else.”

“Eric Stone was found dead last night. Time of death initially puts it around the early hours of Saturday morning.”

Beatrice felt the room spin. Shocked at Eric’s death, relieved that Gabe was okay, it was too much. She forced her unsteady legs to walk across the foyer toward her living room and sat on the couch. The detectives followed but remained standing .

“How?”

“We can’t disclose the circumstances for now,” Detective Smithers said. “So, were you with this Gabriel Sullivan?”

“I was drunk; I’m not sure of the time frame.”

“Do you have his contact information?”

“No.”

“Really? That’s—”

“He was a one-night stand.” She had the resources to track him down, but linking Gabe to Eric was not a good idea given the two had an altercation a few days ago. The detectives might eventually find out. She didn’t even want to dwell on her reasons for wanting to protect Gabe.

“Oh.” Detective Smithers smirked.