Page 45 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Dominic

I will burn this fucking city to the ground.

I’ll torture and kill every Bratva bastard on Canadian soil until there’s so much blood soaking Toronto that the world begs Dimitri Volkov to crawl out of whatever rat hole he’s hiding in, just to stop the massacre I’m about to unleash.

I don’t give a fuck who dies, or what I destroy. The only thing I care about is getting Wren back.

And if there’s so much as a scratch on her, I’ll become the goddamn mark of Cain—returning every wound sevenfold until they’re begging me for death.

Standing in the middle of the highway, I watch as the blacked-out SUV speeds down the road. My chest feels like it’s caving in, and my heart’s beating a frantic rhythm.

The farther they take her, the farther my sanity recedes and the faster the bloodlust rises, painting everything in shades of red.

What I did to Maksim will look like child’s play when I’m finished with the men in that SUV. I’ll bleed the Bratva dry from Canada to Russia and back again, until the entire world buries their name like a curse they’re too scared to speak .

I dodge honking cars, veering to the shoulder of the road. My phone is already in my hand. Wren’s pin is speeding down the highway on my encrypted tracking app.

Breaking into a run, I head back for the trees, which is the most direct route to my parked motorcycle.

I move through the dense bush as fast as I can, ignoring the thorns that rip into my pants, and the branches that whip back and forth across my body.

I burst through the other side of the woods and keep running, heading straight for the side street I parked on.

Someone shouts as I shoulder past them, but I don’t give a fuck. Not even death can stop me from getting to Wren. I’d crawl out of the fucking grave and drag my corpse to the ends of the Earth to find her.

A trickle of relief moves through me once I reach my bike.

Popping open the storage compartment, I grab the black leather thigh holster and secure it to my body, before lifting out my gun. My jaw is clenched tight as I attach the silencer and slip the gun into place.

One hand is checking for the dagger always strapped to my back as I slide onto the seat of my bike. I lock my phone into the mount, leaving the tracking app open as I twist the key in the ignition, flip the kill switch and fire up the engine.

The moment it roars to life, I gun it off the curb and slip into traffic.

Although it’s quieter on this end of the city than it is in the heart of downtown, I still weave in and out of traffic at top speeds. The second I hit Highway 7, speed limits stop existing. I open the throttle and fly.

The road stretches on as the city disappears behind me, opening up to the dense, rocky forest that is the beginning of Northern Ontario.

My phone guides me through back roads, deeper into the woods, twisting through isolated, unmarked routes carved through rock and shadow. Wren’s signal races ahead of me, too fast to close in on.

I don’t want to catch them on the road. I need them to stop at their destination, and get a little comfortable. If I engage them in motion, there’s too much risk. They could crash, or decide to kill her, or even use her as a shield. I’m not willing to risk her getting caught in the crossfire.

With the sun plummeting toward the horizon, I’ll have just enough darkness to infiltrate wherever they’re taking her, and butcher every man standing between me and what’s mine.

When Wren’s pin finally begins to slow, turning down what looks to be a long, private driveway, adrenaline begins to course through me.

Images of her being beaten, raped, or shot point blank flash through my mind. The thought of her crying out for me to save her has me clutching the handlebars in a vice grip that makes my hands ache.

I’m twenty minutes behind, and a lot can happen in twenty minutes .

By the time I reach the road that leads to the property, the sun is nearly gone—painting the sky in a deep cobalt blue. Shadows stretch between the trees, dense and welcoming.

I slow, handling the bike with precision, keeping the engine low and smooth. Every sound is a potential alert, and every vibration matters.

I spot a maintenance road about a twenty yards away, running parallel to the main drive. I veer off, coasting down the overgrown stretch of dirt as I watch the screen of my phone to align myself perpendicular to Wren’s pin.

I stop, kill the engine, and dismount.

I move like smoke through the trees, blending with the darkness as I pocket my phone and let my eyes adjust.

Unlike Dimitri’s men, I was born for this. I’ve played a hundred games of cat and mouse in woods just like these, and my body moves in silence on autopilot.

When the cabin comes into view, I shift through the thicket until I’m crouched at the edge, surveying the area with quiet focus.

The small building is old and dilapidated. It’s either condemned, or is being used as a hidden Bratva safe house.

I count three men outside. Two by the front door, standing beneath a flickering lamp, murmuring too low for me to hear. The other is rounding the back of the structure, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke trailing behind him as he walks.

Wren is inside, with an unknown number of men. Considering the size of the SUV parked outside, it could be anywhere from one to three additional bodies .

Not that it matters. They’ll all bleed and die.

What does matter is the order.

I’ll kill the three outside quietly, methodically, so whoever’s inside doesn’t do something stupid like panic and shoot Wren.

The sound of a woman’s terrified scream breaks through the silence, coming from within the run down cabin. My heart rate skyrockets, and the need to massacre these men overwhelms me.

She’s afraid of someone that isn’t me, and that alone is enough to fill me with hatred.

The two men by the door laugh at Wren’s fear, but I ignore them. They’re dead men walking, and their time will come.

I move, unseen and unheard, as I stalk the man circling the back of the cabin. Once he’s well out of view, I emerge from the trees and close in on him.

I withdraw my dagger in one smooth, practiced motion as I slide up behind him. I follow him, step for step, until he stops in his tracks.

I exhale the breath in my lungs, then strike. One hand wraps around his face to cover his mouth, pulling his head back to expose his neck. Like an artist with a brush, my blade slashes across his throat in one beautiful, savage arc.

When I drag the blade, I drag it deep. My blood-starved dagger cleaves through flesh, muscle and cartilage; opening his carotid artery and ruining his trachea. His blood sprays, glittering black in the darkness.

His body spasms and his hand claws at mine, then drops to press at the perfect slit in his gaping throat .

He gurgles, a wet and violent sound, as blood and spit explode behind my palm.

His body grows heavy with the weight of death, his legs folding beneath him. I let him fall to his knees, then bring the pommel of my dagger down on the crown of his head with enough force to fracture his skull.

His unconscious body slumps forward, falling face-first into the dirt. Red blooms beneath him in a macabre display, soaking the soil as he suffocates and bleeds to death.

I keep moving, only to pause when I hear footsteps on the gravel from the direction I just came.

“Yuri! Finish your smoke, we need to call Dimitri.”

My attention focuses on him as he rounds the corner, his beady little eyes widening at the sight of his buddy laying dead on the ground. “What the fu—”

Before he can finish his sentence, I throw my dagger. It whistles through the air and lodges deep into his eye socket, piercing straight into the brain.

I’m already sprinting toward him as he stumbles backward, shell-shocked. His mouth is agape, his remaining eye wide and unseeing.

I reach him in seconds, and slam into him.

With one hand covering his mouth, we fall to the ground.

I drive my knee into his gut, and push the blade as deep as it will go—then twist. He’s silent and motionless in an instant, and when I pull my blade free, a rush of pleasure courses through me as his hot blood sprays across my throat and chest .

There’s no time to savor the carnage. Rising to my feet, I wipe my blade on the heavy material of my pants as I move around the side of the building and set my sights on the remaining man outside.

I position myself behind him, then tap on his shoulder. When he turns, I drive my bloodied blade up through the bottom of his jaw, straight through the soft tissue of the floor of his mouth, and up into his skull.

I smile as his eyes widen, then droop. A mist of blood sprays all over me as I remove my blade, and the man falls like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing at my feet.

I lift my hand, wiping away a chunk of clotted blood clinging to my jaw, before turning toward the house.

The closer I get to the front door, the clearer the sounds inside become. She’s scared, and she’s crying, and it reaches through the fog of violence and pleasure, wrapping around my heart like a fist.

Wren’s tears are the sweetest sin, but only when they fall for me.

Whoever is inside with her is about to die. But not before I make them bleed. One fucking drop for every tear they made her cry.