Bare on top, my chest heaved at the severity of my breathing. I tried to calm down … to think of my life now, away from all the gulag shit, but it wasn’t any fucking use.

Walking to the wall, I slammed my palms against the cold hard stone and closed my eyes, just trying to fucking breathe. But this room made me feel like the old me. I felt like him, Raze. I felt like the death-match fighter 818. I felt like the Georgian gulag’s bringer of death. Luka fucking Tolstoi was a stranger to me. The knyaz of the New York Russian Bratva was a total fucking stranger.

The same feelings of how to kill, how to position my bladed knuckle-dusters just right to cause the most pain, circled my mind … and I fucking embraced it. It was familiar … it felt like … me.

Suddenly, a hand gripped my shoulder. Sensing the familiarity of a gulag guard attack, years of being a “fuck thing,” a punching bag for those abusive pricks taking me back to that lost kid I used to be, I turned and gripped the fucker’s neck under my hand, smashing him back against the wall. A red mist fogging my eyes, I gritted my teeth and lifted the asshole off the floor.

No one would hurt me again … ever. I was stronger now, tougher. I was a built and conditioned fucking stone-cold killer.

Fingernails raked at my skin; wheezing breath filled my ears. But my hands squeezed tighter, the familiar feel of draining a life pumping me the fuck up.

The flailing cunt in my hands began to go weak and I tightened my grip, almost snapping his neck. This fucker would die. He wouldn’t get to rape me no more. Wouldn’t get to push me in that cage and kill another innocent kid. I was an innocent kid, too. This fucker would die. This fucker would die slowly, painfully, under my hands. They wouldn’t touch me anymore. They wouldn’t push me in that fucking ring anymore—

“Luka!”

Too focused on the kill, on the rush that came with feeling a pulse slow to a stuttered stop in a neck, I didn’t hear the door open behind me. My mind was a damn slide show of images, fucked-up images of my kills; kids begging for their lives, guards pointing their guns in my face if I didn’t finish those kids off. Pain, torture, rape, blood, so much fucking blood—

“Luka, stop!” A distant yet familiar voice broke through into my stormy mind. I shook my head.

“Luka, put him down.” The voice was soothing. I knew that voice. That voice made my heart slow down. It calmed me … who … what…?

“Luka, lyubov moya. Come back to me. I’m here. Come back. Fight the memories. Fight them, just, come back.”

Ki … Kisa … my Kisa…? My eyes snapped shut at the soothing voice and new memories flashed through my mind … a boy and girl on a beach … kissing … making love … blue eyes … brown eyes … one soul … love lost … love found … a wedding … love … so much love …

Kisa.

Gasping, my eyes flew open, the free hand at my side shook and my skin was drenched with sweat. My other arm was elevated high, and when I followed the length of that arm, it was gripping a neck in an iron vise … the neck of a man, a man my head told me I knew.

Confused at what had happened, I stepped back, my hand releasing its grip on the man and he fell to the ground, wheezing, gasping, fighting for breath.

I staggered back farther until my back slammed against the opposite wall. Feet moved beside me, but I couldn’t look up. I was frozen on the floor, my knees tucking into my stomach and my head falling into my hands.

“Viktor? Viktor? Are you okay?” The female voice from before made me look up, and there she was, my Kisa, my solnyshko, bending down, running her hands over the man’s—

My stomach fell.

Viktor. Viktor, my trainer, the man who helped me to defeat Alik Durov.

Feeling as though the gulag tattoo across my chest, the bold and broad 818, was on fire, I watched Viktor’s eyes close and Kisa call to the byki for help.

Two of the Pakhan’s men ran in, and I watched them as if they were moving in slow motion. Kisa stepped back as they helped Viktor to his feet. The byki dragged him out in seconds and I felt a pain as sharp as a dagger’s strike slice through my stomach.

My fists clenched as I realized what I’d done. I’d almost killed Viktor.

The door softly clicked shut and I heard the locks turning, two iron bolts being slid in place to keep me inside.

Quiet footsteps came toward me and the soothing scent of sweet flowers washed over my body and filled my nose.

Solnyshko.

Gentle fingers suddenly ran over my hand. I flinched and dragged them away as I fought back my instinct to kill, to hurt, to maim, to slaughter.

“Luka, look at me,” Kisa ordered, but I kept my head low.

“Luka,” Kisa repeated in a sterner voice, “look up.”

Gritting my teeth, I looked up and my gaze found a set of perfect blue eyes.

Kisa. My wife.

Head tilted to the side, Kisa’s eyes filled with tears and she reached out her hand to touch my face. “Luka—”

“No!” I snarled. I sank back farther against the wall, swatting away her hand. “Don’t touch me! I don’t want to hurt you.”

Kisa reared back. I knew she was staring at me. I could feel her gaze burning through my skin. We sat in silence for what seemed like an age, my fists still taut, my blood still boiling with rage. Then, suddenly, Kisa stood, my muscles bracing for her to leave, my heart beating fast again at the thought of her leaving me alone.

But she didn’t walk away. She didn’t head for the door. She didn’t leave. She stayed silent, only a rustling of material to be heard.

I didn’t look up. Instead I focused on trying to calm the rage erupting from inside. But then a hand took mine and my palm met hot flesh.

Whipping up my head, I found Kisa kneeling beside me, the top of her sleeveless long black dress pulled down to her waist, her perfect tits on show. Her hand held mine over her bare breast and I tore my gaze away from the sight—the sight that was fucking destroying me—to meet her eyes. They were filled with a mixture of steely determination and love, fucking filled with nothing but love.

She bulldozed through all the barriers I had.

Taking control, Kisa squeezed my hand tighter around her tit, my cock hardening at the feel of my woman under my palm. Shifting her legs, Kisa released her hold on my hand, her eyes telling me not to move it from her tit, and lifted up her dress from the bottom.

My breathing quickened as her lace panties came into view, and then I fucking lost all anger when she untied the lace bows at the side, the panties falling to the floor.

I was struck mute as my wife—my fucking beautiful wife—straddled my thighs, her bare pussy dragging down my stomach.

My hand on her warm breast tightened as my solid dick pushed against my pants. Kisa’s breathing hitched as her clit ran down my torso and her mouth lowered to my ear. “I love you, baby. I have you. You’re okay. I’m here.…”

My eyelids shut at the relief her words brought, and just like that, I was calmed.

“Kisa…,” I whispered in response, my words clogging my throat.

Kisa pressed a finger over my lips. “Shh, lyubov moya, just … just … love me,” she said almost silently. “Let me love you with everything I have. Let me make you feel safe, with me. Be my Luka, the boy whose soul matches mine.”

And she did. I made love to her on the locker room floor, and she brought me back to myself. She chased away the demons and pain.

As we both fought for breath in the aftermath, I reached up, never moving my gaze from hers, and said, “I’m … I’m sorry.”

Kisa’s face softened. “Never be sorry. You’re my husband, my heart, my soul.”

The reality of what had just happened began to hit home and I shut my eyes in embarrassment. Kisa must have felt me tense as she tensed, too. Inhaling a shaky breath, she whispered, “I love you so much, Luka. Do you know that?”