“We’ve been inseparable. How will I live without you now?” Slowly, I lower my hand to her chest as tears stream down my cheeks to drip off my jaw. “Moya sestra. Moye serdtse.”
Hovering, I move my hand up to the sheet at the end of the table. My fingers shake as I grip the hem. Pulling it back, my knuckles brush against something soft, and I register immediately it’s her silken hair. The dark blond locks she always wore long used to play gracefully against her light skin.
Suddenly desperate to see it, itching to touch it again and be reminded of how it felt against my cheek when we’d hug, I yank down the sheet.
The visual hits me in the chest. I stumble back, fall to my bottom, and scramble away, kicking with my feet. My heart races as my mind tries to process.
That’s not Lana. It can’t be her.
My breath saws in—out—in—out. Pulse pounding, I peer up at her, but dart my eyes away.
Oh God, no . . . please . . . what did they do to her?
Slowly, I crawl onto my knees and push to standing on wobbly legs. Unable to take more than a few seconds at a time, I allow my gaze to fall on the gory resemblance of my sister.
What used to be thick and beautifully arched eyebrows are replaced with deep gashes that’ve been stitched together. Her once high cheekbones are gaunt and sliced through on both sides, as if there was an attempt to remove her lower jaw completely. Peeling the sheet off her body, I see more of the same. She’s sliced up everywhere. Her chest, arms, belly, leg . . . There isn’t a single space that hasn’t been marked.
Monster. Whoever did this is evil.
What did they put her through? How many of these cuts were made before she passed out from the sheer agony of it? Did she scream for help that never came and wondered why, calling out to God for rescue?
My tears dry. Sadness is replaced by a rage I’ve never felt before—a crazed desire to return this kind of pain, to act out the vile and torturous treatment on the one responsible for inflicting this on her.
A war wages within my soul, the struggle between what is right, what is holy and honorable, and what is wrong but brings relief.
Revenge.
Vindication.
Whoever did this to her needs to pay a penalty that the law can’t deliver. He deserves to take every slice just as she did. I will ensure that happens.
For Lana, I will become the monster. Even if it costs me my very soul.
One
Present day . . .
Mason
It’s like being in the damn Twilight Zone.
The dance floor is crowded with fighters, who are big enough on their own, and watching them all crammed on the dance floor twirling their women around is a sight I wouldn’t believe if I weren’t sitting here watching it. They spin their girls under their arms, wear big goofy grins, and dip them like they’re Fred-freakin’-Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
I’m almost embarrassed for them, but there’s something about the expressions they’ve been wearing all night that assures me I’m missing something. I mean here I am at the singles’ tables, throwing back bourbon while they dance to Celine Dion or some shit as if they’re the only couples in existence.
Weddings are lame. Blake and Layla’s was better than most, only because they both insisted on a live band, and that band being Ataxia, the music fucking rocked. But the party’s winding down and a DJ took over. Judging by the mushy stares the guys are giving their girls, I’m guessing it won’t be long before they all disappear behind their individual closed doors.
I groan and throw back the last of my drink as the party song to kill all wedding receptions blares through the speakers. I swear on my grandfather’s grave, if my boys start dancing to “YMCA,” I’m out of here.
Wade drops down into an empty seat next to mine, pulling his giggling date to his lap. “Mase, man . . . you’ve been warming that chair all night.”
I don’t look at him, but I see him follow my gaze out of the corner of my eye.
Shit. I’ve been caught staring. Again.
I drop my chin and force my eyes to the bride and groom, who are locked in a slow dance even while the Village People croon their noxious song.
Wade drops a quick kiss on his date’s shoulder. “Babe, why don’t you grab your coat?” He gives her a shove off his lap before leaning into my line of sight. “Baywatch, you need to let her go. She’s happy with Cam, and I know you want her to be happy . . . right?” He lifts an eyebrow, daring me to contradict him.
Do I want Eve to be happy? Of course. Would I rather she be happy with me? Fuck yeah.
I shrug, and feeling suddenly suffocated, I pull at the neck of my dress shirt and tie only to realize they’re hanging open and loose. My throat is dry, and I force myself to swallow. “I’m happy for them, really. No hard feelings.”