Page 2 of Axel (Belles & Bratva Beasts #2)

CHAPTER ONE

AXEL

You know the saying, "The Devil takes care of his own."

Oh, I take care of her.

I own her.

I stalk her.

I have two hours until Ruby goes on her morning run … and I follow. Every morning, I wake with my heart pounding to see her as she races by. Then, I pace myself two blocks behind her, far enough so she has no idea I’m chasing her, but close enough that I get wafts of her lilac perfume.

Chasing Ruby calms me. It’s what I need.

She’s what I need.

Not this.

This annoys me.

If I want to chase Ruby this morning, I’ll have to forgo sleep. It’s four a.m., and murdering this asshole is really fucking with my stalking routine.

Donald Ashcroft squirms in the chair I’ve tied him to, fighting the rope I’ve used to restrain him. It’ll eventually break with his force, but not before I burn him alive .

“So tell me, is it just helpless old women you abuse?” I lift the metal spout to a paper can of salt, and his eyes widen with fear. “Or when we empty your loaded bank accounts, will we find more than four victims?”

His protest is muffled by the saline-soaked bandana I’ve stuffed over his busted lips. I punched him in the mouth so many times I lost count. I just wanted him to taste the saying about salt in a wound.

Getting creative with our punishment is part of the thrill. If not, justice gets quite boring.

“What was that, you say?” I hold a finger to my ear. “You have a little dick, so you compensate with violence? You’re one of those men?”

“Frrrrgh ohhh.” His curse is hysterically muffled.

Yes, I hear the irony. But there’s nothing little about me, and this isn’t violence. This is vengeance.

“I get it. It’s hard to talk when your tongue is two inches thick.”

I teeter the can of salt over his bleeding bare feet that I bound to the front legs of the chair. I twisted them, exposing the damage I inflicted. It’s a trick of the trade I learned in the most excruciating way.

If you want to trap someone? Mutilate their feet. It makes escape virtually impossible.

“But at least you’ll die with something of a decent size on you.” I wink, pouring a stream of white granules over his bloodstained soles.

His howls are swallowed by the cotton in his mouth, and for a moment, empathy whips through me. Memories, too.

But fuck that.

This man has stolen thousands from four elderly women, the tenants in this dilapidated double duplex north of town.

He’s trapped them in leases they can’t afford to break.

He’s stolen their checkbooks and committed elder fraud and abuse.

Then, he beat Ms. Patel, my client, when she threatened to call the police.

I wanted to murder him that day, but I’m not an impulsive man.

It took a week for my brothers and me to plan our justice. Not like we don’t have enough shit going on with catching a ruthless sex trafficker, too, but I insisted on this side gig.

While Ashcroft writhes in pain, I turn and set cans of cooking spray into a rusty microwave in the crumbling kitchen. Then, I turn on a gas burner to the old stove. Conditions like these are illegal to rent. But since when does justice find the poor? The most vulnerable?

Since us.

Since me and my brothers.

We found the elderly tenants new homes. Safe and affordable ones, while this one will look like it perished in a kitchen fire, along with its slumlord.

Do I worry that Ashcroft’s pain is oddly satisfying? That his blood is my balm?

Maybe it’s in my blood. Maybe I’m just like my father, who kidnapped, raped, imprisoned, and forced my mother to marry him at fourteen? Did I learn his brutal Bratva tactics and torture by watching? Or does it lurk in my DNA?

Men like Ashcroft aren’t worth my time considering it.

I just press the buttons on the microwave and have three minutes to escape before this shithole explodes.

“This is for Ms. Greene, Ms. Craig, Ms. Eagle, and Ms. Patel.” I turn back, smirking at his frantic eyes. “Now you know better than to fuck with women. Karma is a bitch,” I open the side door, calling over my shoulder, “and I’m her son.”

The door closes behind me as I tug my baseball hat down for any watching eyes, but still, I smile. Concern. Guilt. Remorse. Nope. I don’t feel them.

No one is awake at this hour. We made sure there were no cameras on houses or nearby doors. There’s nothing to worry about or regret.

With quick strides, I’m sliding into the dark sedan waiting for me at the curb. “Drive,” I tell Sire, my oldest brother.

“Wait for it.” He looks through the passenger windshield. “We don’t leave until we see the hellfire.”

He’s right, so I turn and admire the spectacle, too. A sudden flash of light accompanies the explosion so percussive I feel it in my chest. The lethal fireworks fill me with relief—like it’s July 4th, the day we were freed from our evil father.

“Go,” I command.

I need to get home and change before I chase Ruby through the streets of Charleston. And then? I get to torture her all day at work.

I swear that woman lives in my mind. She owns my dreams, and lately, she’s invaded my heart.

She’s so feisty; I think I’m fucked.

I think I’m in love.

But before Sire can pull away, a light furry flash under the decrepit front porch catches my eye as flames shoot from the structure’s roof.

“Stop!” I shout.

Sire slams on the brakes before I swing the door open.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, stomping back to the scene of my crime.

Crouching down, I find her crouched like me, hiding under the porch, her fur golden like a little lion.

When I reach for her, surprisingly, she doesn’t fight.

She lets me pick her up. Great. “You’re going to be a fucking pain in my ass, aren’t you? ”

Carefully, I lift the cat with my leather-gloved hands, feeling her swollen nipples and bloated belly. “Of course, you’re going to be a mom,” I growl, cradling her. “Let me guess: six baby boys.”

But she just stares up at me with big green eyes.

“Shut up,” I softly hiss. “Yeah, I get it. Karma found me, too.”

Why am I talking to this cat like she understands? Don’t ask. I’m too annoyed. This wasn’t part of my plan.

“Now go,” I huff at Sire as I slide into the passenger seat, bracing myself for nervous claws to puncture my jeans the minute we start driving.

“Got a new pussy?” He’s amused. It crinkles the tattoos on his face.

“No,” I slam the door, “you do.”

“Why not.” He shrugs. “Wren would love a pet.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Not yet.” He smirks, driving toward the interstate. “But once she’s initiated, I’ll breed her in no time.”

I roll my eyes at Sire’s kink. Then again, I have mine, too. “I mean the cat, not your queen.”

“Even better,” Sire replies. “Wren would love kittens until we have kids.”

“Are you sure she’s ready for us?” I worry. Wren is our youngest queen. She’s only twenty.

“You were there.” He checks the speedometer. We don’t speed. We don’t get caught. “She passed her test with so many orgasms, I thought we broke my little angel. But she gets what she wants, and she always wants more.”

The memory stirs my cock.

Wren took most of my brothers for her test to be our queen. She wanted us. She moaned, begging for us. She’ll do the same when she’s initiated as Sire’s queen, and I know it arouses my brothers, too .

Yes, it’s a taboo tradition, but our queens love it, and we love them. We’ll die protecting them.

I won’t stop until we, the seven kings, my brothers, find our seven queens. Until each queen has a first king—her husband—and a second king, should the first king die while protecting her.

It’s how we escaped my father, Ruslan Kholodov, the head of the Russian Bratva. He forced my mother to take him and then a second king. For years, she endured my father’s abuse and bore him six sons while she fell in love with her second king.

It was her second king, Maksim, who got us out. In my heart, Maksim was my father, and he died protecting us. So, in his honor, and in my mother’s honor, too, we continue the tradition.

We may have escaped the Bratva. We may be hiding in plain sight in the last place my father would think to look for us—in America. In a genteel, Southern tourist town by the sea. We may take risks using the skills we learned from him to seek vengeance for others.

But still.

We live looking over our shoulders.

We live like a clock is ticking down.

Any day, we can be found.

So, it’s my mandate: I want all kings, all of my brothers, to claim their queens. That includes Nash. He’s my best friend. He’s the seventh king. He’s not blood, but he’s like our brother, so I insist he claim his queen, too. No matter how forbidden she may be to him.

I want nieces, nephews, and children of my own. I want my mother surrounded by her grandchildren. I want her pain not to have been in vain. She survived for us, so now we fight for her.

We’re loyal to her and each other .

Only once did I betray my brothers. In the worst way, and it haunts me. But I did it for a queen. I’ll do anything for our queens, and I paid the price for my betrayal. I lost my first queen.

So now?

I hunt my next one. I hunt Ruby.

One day, I’ll make her my queen.

And if she fights me on it?

Even better.

Sire turns down a narrow street in the French Quarter as dawn crawls up the sky. It’s still dark. Gas lamps flicker, illuminating the dewy cobblestones. Expensive cars choke the curbs cracked by hundred-year-old oak roots, feeding the verdant canopy above.

This is an old town of shadows, secrets, sinners, and saints; I should know.

“Tomorrow night…” Sire stops in front of my gold-spiked iron gate. “Wren wants the kings again. We can’t treat her like a doll. She wants us for her initiation.”

Mindlessly, I take off my glove and pet the cat. “Oh, I’m aware of her demands. Wren called me.”

“But is Nash ready?” Sire asks. “He’s Wren’s second king, and he’d better make it official. I want us bonded. I want her protected and?—”

“Don’t give him shit.” The cat purrs at my touch. “You know why he holds back.”