SWNOVELS Emperor of Rage: Chapter 6
The library is too quiet.
I can still hear the gunshots in my mind, sharp and deafening, piercing the night. My hands are trembling, and I clasp them together tightly in my lap, willing them to stay still.
I lean back in the high-backed chair, trying to focus on my breathing, reminding myself that for now, at least, I’m safe.
For now.
The dim light and the crackling fireplace in Kir’s library do little to ease the tightness in my chest. Shadows flicker along the walls, gathering in the corners, heavy and dark. I glance out the window across the room. The view is nothing like the glittering skyline of Midtown. Here, in the upper outskirts of the Bronx, everything feels distant, far removed from the chaos I just escaped.
But even miles from the party, I can still feel the weight of Mal’s gaze.
“Or is it Karen Vanderschmit. I confess, I’m a little confused.”
He knows.
He fucking knows.
My fingers twist harder around each other. He knows what I saw, and that’s more dangerous than anything else that happened tonight.
I shift in the chair, crossing my legs and tapping my foot against the floor in a futile attempt to shake off the residual adrenaline coursing through me. It doesn’t help. The memory of his voice, low and dangerous, lingers in my mind, clouding everything else.
I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing small circles into my skin, trying to dull the pounding in my skull. After the shots rang out, Kir’s men acted fast—removing me and Annika from the chaos and bringing us straight to Kir’s mansion. Isaak, Kenzo, Takeshi…and yes, Mal…chased the sniper across neighboring rooftops. But they didn’t catch him.
He threw himself off the edge of one of the buildings before they could, dying on impact.
Now that is a freaking professional.
For now, Kir’s house is where Annika and I are going to stay, for our own safety. Kir’s got a penthouse in Manhattan that he’s already told us is going to be ours to lie low in until they can assess what the threat tonight was. But that penthouse is still being secured. In the meantime, this is where we’ll be locked down.
But even here, surrounded by all Kir’s protection, I don’t feel safe.
Because of Mal.
He knows what I saw.
He knows who I am.
And now, all I can think of are Sota’s earlier words, when he was telling me how he had his own person who was “good with computers, technology, and gaining information.”
Mal.
Who knows my name.
How to dig for information someone’s trying to hide.
Good god, what else is he going to find out?
I close my eyes, willing myself to relax. But all I can see is the look in his eyes when he said my fake name. A knowing look. Like he’s been watching from the shadows all along.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts, and I open my eyes just as Annika steps into the room. She looks like hell—her usual sharp, confident demeanor dulled by the events of the night. Her long red hair is loose now, tangled and unkempt, and her eyes are wide and dazed.
She collapses onto the couch across from me, running a hand through her hair. “I can’t believe any of it,” she mutters, her voice thick. “An assassination attempt? At my engagement party?” She huffs and feigns disgust.
Sarcasm as a defense mechanism is part of who Annika is. She’s always been the strong one—the one who handles everything with cool detachment and, yes, maybe a bitter joke.
But tonight it’s different. The cracks in her armor are starting to show.
“It was almost bound to happen sooner or later,” I say quietly, leaning forward in my chair. “You’re marrying Kenzo Mori, girl. There are people who don’t want that.”
Annika scoffs, though it lacks her usual bite. “As if I want that.”
She goes silent for a long moment, staring vacantly at the floor. When she finally speaks again, her voice is softer than I’ve heard it recently.
“You know it’s not just about what I want, Frey. If I don’t marry Kenzo, there’ll be a war. The Bratva and the Yakuza will tear each other apart, and Damian…”
Her voice breaks slightly, and her eyes flicker with something unspoken, something she’s not ready to admit. For a moment, I see the cracks in her armor widen, see the vulnerability she hides so carefully. Then just as quickly, she shuts it down. Her shoulders stiffen, her expression hardens.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says firmly. “It’s been decided. I’ll marry Kenzo, and we’ll keep the peace. It’s done.”
I watch her for a moment longer, wanting to press the issue, but knowing better. Annika’s fiercely independent. Always has been. She won’t open up until she’s ready, and right now, she’s not.
I let out a soft sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Well, I guess that’s that, then.”
Annika lets out a humorless laugh, sinking further into the couch. “Yup. That’s…that.”
We sit in silence for a while, the weight of everything settling between us. I want to comfort her, to tell her that everything will be okay, but the truth is, I don’t know if that’s true. The Bratva and the Yakuza have been on the verge of war for some time now, and Annika’s marriage to Kenzo is just a Band-Aid over a gaping wound.
After a while, Annika stands, running a hand through her hair again. “Sorry, I’m shit company right now. I’m going to go to bed. I need to shut off my brain for a while.”
I nod and she leaves the room, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The door closes behind her, and I’m left in the silence once again, alone with my thoughts of him.
I’ve basically been staying in a non-stop rotation of boutique hotels since Annika and I landed in New York a few months ago. But I do have a room here at Kir’s place, and that’s where I retire to a few hours later.
It’s large and luxurious, all dark wood and expensive fabrics. But right now its elegance feels suffocating. The weight of the evening’s events presses down on me, a leaden feeling in my chest that refuses to ease.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water play over my skin. I glance down as I soap myself, smirking wryly at the lettering tattoo across my ribs, right under my left breast.
Memento Mori.
Annika’s already heard my dark jokes involving her future husband’s last name being tattooed on my skin, and that maybe the wrong female ward of Kir’s is being forced into this marriage.
But the truth is, obviously, the tattoo has nothing to do with the Mori family. Memento mori is actually Latin for “remember you must die”.
Death is inevitable.
For me, that inevitability is just a little bit more real. A little bit sooner than most people, too.
I finish rinsing off, but I stay under the water. The tension in my body starts to melt away, the heat soothing my sore muscles, but my mind is still spinning.
Because there’s something that’s clawed its way into my head, and now it won’t let go.
And by something, I mean someone.
Mal knows. He knows that I lied. He knows what I saw.
I don’t understand. He could have exposed me at any moment tonight. But he didn’t. Instead, he just…walked away. Like he’s playing some game I don’t understand.
What does he want?
The thought gnaws at me, twisting in my gut as I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I sit down in the armchair by the window, staring outside. But I barely register the view. My mind is too preoccupied with Mal and the danger he represents.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me, and I reach for it, scrolling through my notifications absently. Nothing important. Just the usual noise. But my hand hesitates, and then I swipe over to the private browser.
Heat floods my face.
Speaking of dirty secrets…
I shiver as I open the bookmarks tab.
This is a part of me nobody knows about. I suppose Annika might have her suspicions, since we’ve known each other for so long. She certainly knows other odd quirks about me, like the fact that I’m almost always wearing pure, sensual elegance underneath my gothy, dark punk attire.
Lingerie—especially the extra fancy, luxurious Dita Von Teese type—is sort of my weakness. My one “girly” indulgence. Annika obviously knows about that. But she also knows I don’t date, and I’m sure she’s picked up on the fact that in the eleven years we’ve known each other I’ve never once mentioned or even hinted at sleeping with anyone.
That’s because I haven’t.
I think that makes it a bit of a stretch to think Annika knows how deep my darker side goes.
And it goes deep.
My core tightens as I scroll down to one particular video I’ve saved.
I make sure the volume is very low as I open the link and hit play, watching the familiar scene play out.
The girl on the screen gasps as a man grabs her from behind, his hand twisting a fistful of her hair. He shoves her to the floor, pinning her down as she writhes and moans and whimpers underneath his weight. He frees his fat, swollen cock, the massive, throbbing shaft bobbing in the air right in front of her before he yanks her close by the hair. He slaps his heavy dick against her face, and I can feel wet, needy heat pool between my thighs as she obediently and submissively opens her mouth.
It’s a fantasy—one of several that I’d never in a million years admit to anyone—that I’ve played over and over in my head.
The needy craving for submission that I barely understand but can’t seem to shake. It’s something dark, something primal, and I know I should be ashamed of it.
I’ve never once played any of this out in real life. I mean, Annika knows, or at least has a pretty good idea, that I haven’t slept with anyone since she and I have known each other.
She doesn’t know that that streak extends to before we met, too.
Heat floods my face, as it usually does when I consider the ludicrous juxtaposition of my darker, deviant fantasies against my card-holding “good girl” status as a fucking virgin at twenty-six years old.
But you can’t help what you want. At least, I can’t. The things we crave and desire in the dark recesses of our psyches are rarely things we’ve chosen. They’re just…there.
And mine cannot be ignored.
I tug at the towel, pulling it away from my naked body as my mind drifts, lost in the fantasy as I watch the scene play out on my phone. My thighs spread wider, and a small gasp escapes my lips as I run my fingers up my bare thighs toward my needy pussy.
And then, I feel it.
A coldness.
A darkness.
A malevolent presence.
I freeze as my breath catches.
“Don’t stop now, little thief. Things were just getting interesting.”
I almost scream. My heart lurches in my chest as I jerk my head up, my eyes widening in shock as they peer into the darkness of my bedroom.
There, standing at the far end of the room, half-hidden in the shadows, is a figure.
Tall. Dark. Broad-shouldered.
Mal.
“Well, well,” his voice is smooth and dark, dripping with amusement. “What do we have here, and more importantly, what am I going to do with you now?”