Chapter 36 Vengeance and Distance
Killian’s POV
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Why am I so angry? The question claws at me as I pace outside the clubhouse, wind gnawing at my skin. The truth stings: I’m not mad at Valentina. I’m mad at myself. When she described what she did to Ramsey-her voice steady, her eyes wild with that beautiful, feral loyalty-I felt a hunger rise in me, dark and undeniable. Her vengeance electrified me. What kind of man gets turned on by the brutal details of revenge, by the vision of his woman carving justice into flesh? My cock went hard for her violence. That realization alone nearly broke me.
No one has ever gone to those lengths for me before-not even my club brothers, maybe not even Raptor, for all our shared blood and pain. Valentina’s love isn’t soft or safe; it’s a living thing with teeth,
as wild as I am inside.
Leaving the clubhouse is the only thing I can do to cool off-to get my body, and my thoughts, under control. I ride out to the hilltop where I first asked her to marry me, the memory of her “yes” still echoing in the hush of dusk. I kill the engine and sit in the silence, remembering her laughter, the wild promise in her eyes, the way she took me apart with a touch on the ride home. I let my mind wander to the memory of her hands on me, the taste of her skin, the sweet ache of her pleasure. I unzip, let my hand wrap around the hunger she’s lit inside me, and stroke away the sharp edge of want. When I come, I watch the evidence slide down my gas tank, absurdly grateful for the peace it brings. I clean up, breathe deep, and remind myself what waits for me back at the clubhouse: a woman who would kill for me. Who did.
A couple of hours later, I roll into the clubhouse. There’s a hum of voices-someone calls my name, but I barely hear it. I head straight for our room. She isn’t there. The bathroom is empty, and for the first time, the space feels cold, abandoned. I open the closet and see only my own clothes. Her vest hangs untouched. My heart lurches.
I storm back to the commons. The room goes still, all eyes fixed on my panic.
“Where’s Valentina?” I demand. Silence. Everyone stares, pity pooling in their faces.
“Killian, come to my office,” Blaise calls from behind me, voice steady but heavy.
I follow him down the hall, heart pounding. Slate is there, holding a weeping Gia on his lap. Blaise sits behind his desk, and I sink into a chair, nerves frayed to the bone.
“What’s going on?” My voice is barely more than a growl.
Blaise looks at me grimly. “Gia told us Valentina left.”
The words hit like a punch. “What?” I leap to my feet.
“Sit down,” Blaise snaps, and I do. He looks tired, older than I’ve ever seen him. “She left a couple hours ago. Said she had errands, but I knew she was lying-she had a small duffle. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. But when she didn’t come back, I asked Gia. She broke down and told me the truth. Valentina felt you hated her. When you walked out, she fell apart. She said she told you everything she’d done and you looked at her like she was a monster. She believes you only ever loved the idea of her. She couldn’t live with the thought of you moving on, so she left.”
My lungs seize. “No.” I gasp for air. “She left me?” The room closes in. I can’t breathe.
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Slate glares at me, voice thick with anger and disbelief. “Why did you leave, Killian? She completely collapsed. Screamed her grief so loud I thought the roof would come down. Raptor tried to calm her, but she was gone, just-gone.”
I shake my head, words tumbling out, broken. “When she told me what she did… the lust hit me so hard it shamed me. Who gets turned on by mutilation? I was ready to rip her clothes off, fuck her senseless, but I panicked. I didn’t want to disgust her, not after what she’d done for me.”
Slate snorts, shaking his head. “You weren’t turned on by her words, dumbss. You were turned on by what she did for you-how far she went for your sake. That’s the kind of love that makes you feel alive. It’s a fucking rush, knowing someone would spill blood to keep you safe.”
He pulls Gia closer, kissing her forehead, calming her. She looks at me, mascara streaked, eyes red and raw.
“So you don’t hate her?” she whispers.
“God, no,” I breathe. “She’s the love of my life. Do you know where she went?”
Gia wipes her eyes, voice trembling as she speaks. “No, she just texted me an hour ago with a new number. Said she needed space, needed to find our papa. But you know Valentina-if papa already let her know he’s safe, then God only knows where she is or what she’s doing. When she needs to blow off steam, it could mean anything. She might hit a gym and pummel a bag, disappear into some underground fight, let herself get whipped just to feel the pain, or-” her eyes flicker-“she could pick up a job and kill someone.”
The room chills with that confession. I feel a muscle jump in my jaw.
I stare at Gia. “You two never do missions solo.”
**
“Normally, no. We’re always together,” Gia answers, worry pulling at her features. “But she’s so shaken -I’m terrified she’ll go off alone this time.”
My mind reels. “Did you say, getting whipped for pain?”
She nods, matter-of-fact, unashamed. “Yeah. Sometimes, both Valentina and I find relief in pain. It’s our way to let it out, to remind ourselves we’re alive.”
A low, dangerous sound rumbles in my chest. Slate matches it, his fists clenched, eyes dark as thunder.
“Can you give me her number?” My voice is rough, frantic.
“Yeah, but she probably has her phone off. When Valentina needs to vanish, she shuts the world out until she’s ready to come back.” Gia rattles off the number and I punch it in, hands shaking, heart in my throat. I hit call, but it goes straight to voicemail-her silence is a fist around my ribs.
I hang up, but I can’t stop. I fire off a desperate text, my thumb pounding the screen.
Baby, it’s me. Please, call me as soon as you can. I’m not mad. I could never hate you, angel. Please come home. Let me explain. Don’t do anything stupid, Valentina. I need you. Please, please come hom
Valentina’s POV
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< Chapter 36 Vengeance and Distance
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Clutching my new phone, I waste no time-Uber app downloaded, destination set. There’s only one pla ce I need right now.
The Underground.
The ride leaves me in front of a peeling building, the neon sign flickering “XXX” in dirty pink. The stench of stale air and cigarette smoke hits me as I step inside, weaving through racks of smudged DVDs and cheap toys. I move with purpose, ignoring the looks from dead-eyed clerks, until I reach the back, where a beaded curtain rustles with secrets.
Past the curtain, a narrow stairwell drops into shadow. I descend, boots echoing on worn concrete, until I reach the far wall-a steel door, ugly and solid, scarred by time and violence. I knock three times, sharp and deliberate.
A metal slot screeches open. Cold, suspicious eyes appraise me from the other side.
“What?” The voice is a snarl, a test.
I sigh, leaning in with my old code. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I will knife you in the balls until you squeal.” The words are a signature-each assassin here has their own, and Pax knows them all.
A flicker of recognition lights those dark eyes. “Vandal, nice to see you.” The slot slams shut, locks turn, and then the door swings open.
Pax towers over me, all muscle and attitude, his skin so dark it seems to swallow the purple light from above. His grin is a flash of white, wicked and welcoming.
“Always a pleasure, Pax.” I grin back. “Is the taskmaster in?”
He leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “He’s on the main stage with Miss Hellen.”
Of course. I roll my eyes-there’s always a show before business.
Down another set of steps, I slip into the main room. Darkness reigns here, cut only by purple LEDs casting everything in surreal, bruised shadow. A haze of perfume and sweat hovers over the twenty or so battered tables, each flanked by mismatched chairs. On the stage, the spectacle begins: Miss Hellen hangs from ceiling chains, body draped in nothing but sheer stockings, blindfold, and a glossy black gag. Angry red welts cross her pale skin like morbid artwork. Behind her, the taskmaster-broad, shirtless, masked, every inch a predator-rolls his whip between gloved fingers, savoring the moment.
He snaps his wrist, and the whip sings through the air. Hellen moans, the sound raw and hungry, echoing in the low-lit chamber. Around me, a few regulars sit in silence, rapt and half-lit by the violet glow.
I sink into a corner seat, letting the shadows swallow me. When the waitress-her outfit more straps than cloth-glides over, I order something strong. The glass sweats in my palm as I wait, the pounding in my veins syncing to the rhythm of the whip.
