Bullet ✔️

Chapter 36

The gray steel felt heavy and cold in my hands. Damian put the gun in them the second we walked by his gun locker on our way out, putting his own matte black Glock in his pants. I'd learned that was what his was, but I had no idea what I was holding as we walked into the warehouse.

I recognized it instantly. I was here the night of our first date. He brought me here to show the worst of his world—then he cut off a guy's finger without hesitation and kissed me against the wall after. For whatever reason, my lower abdomen started to twirl in anticipation, starting a fire at the apex of my thighs as if my body wanted that wickedness as foreplay again.

The door opened, and I pushed the thought aside as we walked through the once-empty warehouse now filled with crates and people I'd seen before. Strac's. They glanced our way, but my eyes were set on the door I knew hid one of Orlov's trusted men. My feet sped up, carrying me faster towards the door, but Damian tugged on my hand as I reached for the handle on the door. I felt his breath on my ear as he whispered, "I like this side of you, sweetheart. You're almost as wicked as I am."

I turned to meet his gaze, mimicking the smirk I'd seen on him so often, as I repeated his own word back to him. "Almost."

He grinned, showing that menace to me before he opened the door and both of us walked into the room where Kurt stood in a corner, his arms crossed over his chest, James leaned over a table, his fist full of dark, dirty hair, and then the man I came to see with his face against the steel table, being held down. It was a wonder he could breathe. James let go of him and stepped back, gesturing for me that he was all mine. "Do your worst, Belle," he said, before I turned my head to see him standing with Damian against the wall.

The man looked up at me, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Carefully, I placed both palms on the table, my gun clanking against it as my eyes roamed over the swollen, soon-to-be black eye that either James or Kurt had given him. I didn't particularly care who.

"Please, miss, I—"

"Spare me," I cut in, tilting my head to one side as I assessed the man. He could give me answers, or he could not. I needed to go about it the best way possible—but I had no experience. I snapped my fingers at my side, towards the wall with the door—towards the chair I spotted when I walked in. Damian's wicked grin gleamed in my peripheral vision as he placed the chair gently behind me, and went back to James.

I sat down, leaning my chin on one hand as the other slowly  spun the gun around and around on the table. The man just stared at me, as if he was trying to figure out what I'd do, what I'd say. In truth, I didn't even know myself, until I asked, "What's your name?"

His light brown eyes gleamed with alarm, making my smile grow a little along with the rising satisfaction in my chest. "Pete—people call me Pete," he said, his eyes still firmly on me.

"Pete," I repeated, clicking my tongue. My hand grasped the gun, my index finger sliding along the side of it, away from the trigger—for now. Anger was already rising inside me as I said, "Your boss murdered my father."

I watched as Pete's eyes went from me to Damian, and he straightened up. "Oh." As if he realized who I was, he cleared his throat, and said, "Sorry for your loss."

My hand with the gun waved him off, signaling I didn't want his sympathy. I never wanted anyone's sympathy. Least of all his. My finger slid dangerously close to the trigger, and even though I should've flinched, I didn't. Two-three weeks ago, I would've. But now...I didn't care. I just wanted answers.

With my voice smooth as butter, I asked, "Do you know where he's hiding?" Quick, easy, right to the point.

I had no idea what I'd do if he didn't know—or if he wouldn't tell me. I could play dumb, or slutty, or bad. I could pull my sweater down, show off some of my full cleavage. I could try flirting, or waving with the gun more towards him. Maybe fire a bullet to the floor, as if I didn't know how to handle a gun, as if my boyfriend hadn't taught me to use it over the months we'd been together. Maybe then he'd piss his pants and tell me whatever I wanted to keep me from aiming at his face.