Lost Causes

Pasha Ivanov sat in the room's single chair with his hands clasped in front of him. Rain lashed at the window, drawing his attention as he waited for the woman with the damaged face to return. His face was filled with craggy contours, scars marring the imperfect skin. He bore the weight of his position as one of Petrov's bodyguards with pride. He didn't fear the woman, and when she had arrived at his hotel room tonight, he hadn't thought to say no to her advances. He'd still believed that she rested firmly in Petrov's pocket. It wasn't until she'd coaxed him into this chair naked, and cuffed his hands behind his back that he began to suspect that perhaps something was amiss.

He didn't flinch, or glance at the door when it openend and she stepped inside. With a cold smirk she looked at him. "Are you ready to talk now, darling?"

She murmured the words sweetly, but he knew now that there was venom running through her veins. His chin lifted, defiant as he let his eyes move to hers. He was tense, she could read every rigid line of his muscled body. Looking at him there, naked but still impressive, made her sigh. She wanted someone to want her again. She needed to feel that power.

"I will not speak," he muttered stoically.

Distant thunder rumbled as though protesting his words. Silence crackled between them, and then she stalked towards him. Folding her arms across the low cut sweater just made the vee between her breasts deeper. Her thumb caressed the textured grip of the hunting knife. The serrated blade winked in the light as she slipped it from the sheath on her hip. "I could cut you," she whispered, that manic gleam in her eyes, "I could, and nobody would even care. They'd just think you were getting the fuck of your life." The anger vibrated in every word. She could cut his throat now, watch his life gurgle away. Maybe it would release that anger. Maybe it would give her some closure.

"I want to know where he is," she snarled contemptuously, "tell me where in the hell Spiral has gone. He's not in that shitty place in New Orleans. He's not fighting for Petrov. Where has he gone?" She leaned in closer, running her fingertips over his well-worn features. Maybe in another lifetime she would have been attracted to him. She'd always gone for the men who looked like they'd actually lived, instead of those baby face pretty boys who looked like they were still nursing on momma's tits at the age of thirty.

You should kill him. That voice whispered in her ears, just a subtle susurration of an impulse. Trouble was, she really, really wanted to. Fuck someone. Kill someone. It was all the same these days. The urge to do something unspeakable was always there, humming under her skin like an electric current.

She realized she was smiling, grinning so hard her teeth ground together, and her cheeks burned with fire. She straddled his lap, kissing his lips. Her tongue plunged into his mouth, the metal ball of her tongue ring clicking against his teeth. At first he protested, and then she ground down against his lap. She wore nothing under that thigh length sweater. Her skin was warm. Her flesh firm and toned.

Pasha groaned, straining against the cuffs, torn between actually wanting to be inside this sadistic woman, and wanting to escape this room. "You want me to let you go?" She smiled sweetly, pulling back from the kiss, her lips reddened from the pressure. "Do you want to touch me?" She made a sound close to a purr, low in her throat as she licked his earlobe. "We can go all night long, sweetie. You just have to tell me what Petrov won't."

One small movement of his head became a nod. "Da," he muttered.

Giggling softly, Kitty reached behind his back and released the cuffs. The chains dropped to the floor. Pasha surged to his feet, spilling her to the floor. His eyes were wide as he staggered back, overturning the heavy chair. His cock was hard, pointing at her almost accusingly. He stared into her face, blinking furiously, and that was when she realized that he'd been crying. His mouth trembled as he turned to her, firming as his fists clenched. His shoulders drew up as though he expected a fight. She laughed, the sound growing in volume as she reached out. Her fingers closed over that warm, rigid member, stroking it slowly. "I've been lonely. So very lonely." She said it with a pout, a little moue of her lips before she shifted to her knees, bringing her lips to the head. Her tongue flicked against it, making him shudder.

The weakest link. She wondered if Petrov let his goons get any, with that whorehouse and the human trafficking he was running back in Russia? Maybe it was better for them to be undersexed and overpaid. Probably made them more loyal. "Where is Spiral?" She whispered, her lips sliding over the shaft as she took him full into her mouth.

His shivered in ecstasy and when he spoke, his voice was a pleasant baritone, filled with excitement. "He has gone. We do not know where, but Mr. Petrov has released him from his obligations within The Circuit."

He did WHAT?!

Nobody got out that easily. All of them had their lives and souls mortgaged to the hilt here and that fucking Danish freak had managed to just waltz right out the door, Scot-free? What kind of bullshit was that?

She couldn't control the surge of anger or the impulse that went with it. Her jaw clamped shut, teeth digging in hard at the base of the Russian's cock. Blood welled in her mouth, thick and salty. Arms pinwheeling, Pasha fell back, screaming as he struck out wildly, catching her on the cheekbone. Her head snapped to the side, his blood spraying from her mouth. Still howling, he clutched at his mangled jewels and then froze as the cold steel pressed against his forehead. "You have three minutes to give me a reason not to waste you, right here. Andddddddddd.... go!"

Pasha fell back on the mattress, eyes wide in his ashen face. He said nothing. His throat worked as he swallowed the dry scream.

Kitty smirked coldly, keeping the gun pointed at his chest. "Two and a half."

"Kaitlynn," the Russian found his voice, managing to say her name with a sort of plea.

"That's not my name." She spat. It was a flippant answer, but it was better than what she wanted to do- or say. She folded her arms, fingernails digging into the palm of her left hand. Where the fuck was Spiral? None of this mattered if she couldn't put a bullet in that sadistic fuck's brain. It had to end with Spiral and Jackson dead. Then she could create her own future without any reminders of the past.

Was this all part of Spiral's head games? Had he truly left? Was he tracking her now, silently laughing while she put her pain on display? What if he walked in right now and saw her menacing this sorry excuse for a lackey? Would he be proud? What would he do?

"I'm waiting," she reminded him, her voice sharp and brittle as cracked glass. She didn't sound very human at all. She sounded as if she'd already slipped off into the deep end and was barely staying afloat.

The Russian opened his mouth just as her gun went off with a whisper of air. Blood spatter misted across her face, and the hired muscle fell back against the mattress, missing most of the back of his head. "Shit," she giggled, dropping the gun to the floor, "no patience at all these days. Sorry, sweets."