Preg-Not

Part 6

He tipped back the last of the vodka. It was hot and acidic, but it made him focus on the ache in his throat rather than his chest. Any distraction from the broken thing in his chest was a welcome one.

As he waited for the car that would take him to his new life, he stared at his passport.

If he had the money, he would have changed his name for Raelynn. It would've made him feel more American; more compatible with her. Choosing something like Jake or Sebastian would've completed their circus show. She was the circus master, and he was the elephant balancing on a ball to impress the crowd.

A big, wide, strong bastard. A pet that Raelynn trained well. A fool.

He tripped over some bottles on his way to the bathroom. He had to wash off the scent of failure, the dried blood off his knuckles, the taste of Raelynn from when they kissed many days ago.

The alcohol may have brought a soothing new burn to his chest, but it hadn't been able to bleach her from his mouth. He still tasted her strawberry lipstick, still felt her sassy tongue losing the battle against his.

He slammed his fists onto the tiles, making his bruised fists ache and a crack appear on the wall.

Raelynn.

He should find her. He should rip America apart until he found her and made her pay.

But he couldn't, because the sweet poison that snake injected into him could drug Satan himself.

There was a knock at the door. His ride to Russia had arrived.

He toweled off and went through his nearly empty closet. Everything in there was casual– T-shirts and flannels he wore to work. When he came across the matching Christmas sweater Raelynn got him, he tore it off the hanger and tossed it at the floor.

Shoved into the back of his closet was a single button-down shirt he used for rare occasions like date nights. He never liked wearing it. It reminded him of the past; suited men and beautiful women discussing business as they sipped on fine alcohol.

He pulled the shirt on. It was a little tight since it was years old, but at least his slacks fit well. He tied his scuffed dress shoes, ran a bruised hand through his hair, and stared at the broken mirror. Since the shirt was white, his tattoos were stark against it.

There was no need to hide them. Russia would welcome the skin that told more than his dead eyes, the knuckles thirsted for blood although they bled, the rage that was cooking in his gut.

He picked up his gun. It was disturbing how natural it felt in his hand, although it had been years since he was taught how to shoot.

He couldn't take it to the airport, but he had to discard of it somewhere safe. Shoving it into his waistband, he walked to the living room and looked over the sea of despair.

Glass, plastic, wood, memories.

He pocketed Raelynn's letter. It would serve as the fuel that would keep him burning forever.

Then, he opened the door.

"Maksim," his uncle Sebastian greeted. His hair was still grey, one tooth still golden, face still wrinkled from the laughs and scowls of life.

He was surprised his father sent Sebastian and not a goon.

"You have gotten..."

Angrier.

"Bigger. You have been eating well, I see."

It amused Maksim that he pretended like his father didn't keep tabs on him for seven years.