| |
Kivuli divested her of the knife in her boot and the one on her thigh—hadn’t that been fun—but he didn’t tie her up before leading her inside. She’d read the man’s file, faced off with him in the alley, but being this close, feeling the menace that practically radiated off him, made her mouth go dry. She endeavored not to show it as he walked her ahead of him through the back patio doors, the chilled air kissing her skin where her pants leg had been torn open.
The lodge was a warren of rooms and passageways. The room Kivuli led her into was three stories high, open, lined with windows looking out onto the valley, like a sacrilegious church sanctuary in the middle of the Georgia woods. Especially with the men lining the walls, maybe twice the contingent she’d run into outside. And there, on a raised hearth in front of a massive fireplace, sat the devil himself, Martin Diako.
For a moment a sense of unreality made Elliot dizzy. All these years, all the things she’d imagined about this man, this monster, and here he was, in the flesh. Just a man. He was reclined on a tall, wide chair that could be called a throne without too far a stretch. His Afrikaner heritage showed—light brown hair swept back from a high forehead, and equally light brown eyes stared down at her, set in paler skin than she’d imagined. Not the gray of a security still, but the tan of a man who spent his time on indoor pleasures instead of out in the harsh African climate. No wonder he’d gambled that her mother’s unusual coloring would pass to her daughter.
He’d been right too.
Mansa had his long legs extended, utterly relaxed, smoking a cigar while wearing clothes of the finest silk and wool she’d ever seen—all he needed was a scepter and crown and he’d be set. A woman knelt to one side of his feet, a thin white shift barely covering her, a collar around her throat attached to a chain Mansa held in his fist.
The sight sent bile up the back of Elliot’s throat.
“Fuck me.” She shook her head. “I knew you were an egomaniac, but really, did you have to take ‘pirate king’ quite so literally?”
The flaring of Mansa’s nostrils was his only reaction, but it gave her a distinct kick of pleasure. She doubted anyone defied him, ever, although she had to wonder about Kivuli—he didn’t seem the type to follow blindly. But she might as well prove right off she wasn’t like anyone else; she’d never cower before this man, ever. She’d die first.
Which is totally possible, Ell.
She shrugged off her common sense and gave Mansa a smirk. The way he examined her, eyes lingering on the bare skin of her thigh, the roundness of her breasts, made that feeling of being dirty, the feeling Deacon had done his best to exorcise, surge up.
“Welcome, Daughter.”
“I am not your daughter.”
“No, you will always be number 57.” The words sent a jolt through her, one she couldn’t hide, and satisfaction sparked in his narrowed gaze. “I remembered. The minute I saw you, that hair... Nora was my favorite cherry.”
Elliot blinked, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction again. Her mother was one of the reasons she was here, and the reminder only served to strengthen her, but Mansa wouldn’t get that. He saw her as a number, a commodity, something to own and use and torture, like a helpless animal. He didn’t see her as a person—and that would be his downfall. If there was one thing Deacon had taught her, it was that emotion could make you stronger, could push you farther than any detached resolve to win, any sense of duty. Without emotion, she’d be just like Kivuli. That wasn’t how she wanted to live, not anymore. “Can we get this over with?”
Mansa shifted, his free hand settling on the head of the slave at his side. The way he stroked her hair, as if he gave a shit about the poor woman, made Elliot’s skin crawl. “Kivuli tells me you are a true warrior, a gifted fighter. I find myself intrigued by his claims, wanting to see them for myself.”
You’ll see it—up close, I promise. Her heartbeat ticked up. “You want to see me fight?”
“Ja. I want to see you fight Kivuli.”
Fuck. Not good. She looked at the enigmatic bastard standing next to her. “He must not value you much if he’s that eager to lose you.”
Kivuli didn’t react, not even the flutter of an eyelash. Mansa, however, laughed. “You think you are that good? Kivuli is my strongest warrior, but perhaps you can distract him with your...feminine wiles. Like your mother did me.” He smiled down at her, but those eyes—they weren’t amused. More like hungry. “And perhaps, if you win as you say you will, I could be convinced to use you for more than just breeding.”
There was a perverse eagerness in his words. She made sure her smile matched it. “You don’t want to use me for breeding.”
“Oh?” An arched brow. “Why not?”
Elliot stared deep into Mansa’s eyes, her father’s eyes. “Because if you do, you’ll never breed again. I’ll guarantee it.”
Kivuli shifted next to her, the movement grasping her attention. When she turned to look, she could see the tiniest hint of amusement in his expression. “She is indeed your daughter,” he told Mansa.
Mansa laughed, full and hearty. “She is, indeed.” And then the laughter stopped. “Proceed.”
Kivuli gave Mansa a slight bow, then backed away from the throne. Elliot found herself wishing she hadn’t been through a night in the ring and the confrontation with Kivuli’s men in the past two days—her body felt like shit already, and she had no doubt Kivuli would make her hurt much worse. Mansa hadn’t spelled out any limits, but he didn’t want her dead; that, at least, was to her advantage.
And looking into the inscrutable face of her opponent, she knew she’d need every advantage she could get.
Stuffing away the emotions rioting in her head, she let her body settle naturally into a fighting stance, her hands coming up. She couldn’t stop her heart from beating too damn hard against her aching ribs, but she could breathe through it. Kivuli’s gaze met hers, and he stared for the longest moment, not a flicker of emotion or intent in his eyes.
And then he attacked—or, rather, flew. One minute he was on the ground; the next he was in the air, his long leg sweeping toward her face. Elliot ducked, feeling the rush of air as his shin passed over her head. She followed with a hard elbow into the back of his knee, the impact increasing his momentum and toppling him toward the ground. He avoided her kick to the face and used a quick grab to pull her leg out from under her.
That wasn’t the last time she hit the ground either.
She had no idea how long they fought, the minutes blurring into the next kick or the next stab of pain in her ribs or the next breath of air knocked out of her lungs. The men around them circled closer, catcalling, egging them on, filling the air with shouts and bets and curses when they didn’t move out of the way fast enough. A few even attempted to grope her as she passed. That stopped the first time she broke a guard’s fingers. Kivuli actually grinned.
Then he tried to kick her teeth out. A girl just couldn’t get a break.
“I doubt Mansa wants me damaged,” she reminded him, a bit too breathlessly for her liking.
“He will do far worse damage, warrior.”
Warrior? Was she supposed to feel flattered by the...what could she even call it? Professional approbation? Yes, you’re a great fighter, but my boss is a practiced rapist, so don’t count on winning. Really? Where did men like them come up with this shit?
She thanked him with a fast whip around his back and a drive-by back fist to the base of his skull. Kivuli jerked forward just enough to minimize the impact.
Bastard.
The enforcer had seen her fight, knew she was fast and able to duck under blows and around kicks, but he didn’t know the endurance she’d forced her body to learn for years. Elliot allowed herself to lag, let him think her strength was waning—and it was, damn it, but not as much as she let on. Just how far would they take it before her father called a halt?
How far could she take it?
When she barely managed to avoid a kick to the head, she knew she was slipping too far. Time to end this.
Kivuli inched closer, seeming to sense a change in her strategy. A flurry of punches and kicks assured him of her aggression, but her true objective was the leg sweep she managed to sneak in. Kivuli grabbed her shirt before he fell, and she let him take her down with him. Even let him flip her so he could claim the upper position.
She’d spent so much time grappling with her teammates that Kivuli’s leanly muscled body felt weirdly light atop her. She managed to draw one knee to her chest before he closed the distance, and planted her heel in the crease of his hip. A hard shove of her foot forced him onto his opposite hand, his body off balance. That’s when she went for the knife at his belt.
Kivuli twisted his hip out of her reach. Still grasping, her fingers settled around a pouch attached to his belt. Elliot clamped down instinctively on the leather bag.
“No!”
But it was too late for him to stop her—the strings broke and the pouch came free in her hand. When Kivuli lunged for the bag, a panicked look in his eyes, she used his momentum to turn him completely over onto his back. Her knees clamped at his hips brought her with him.
His hard buck up almost displaced her, but that wasn’t his objective: he was frantic for the bag she held. Elliot had no more than a moment to wonder what the hell was so valuable before her free hand landed on his throat and she used the power of her feet, planted on either side of his body, to shove him backward.
Kivuli’s head hit the floor, his eyes still trained on the bag.
Elliot’s weight landed on his throat. Cartilage disintegrated beneath her palm.
As he choked, Kivuli gripped her hand, turned it, and dumped the contents of the pouch through the small hole in the top. White dust fell onto his face.
She didn’t know what it was—some kind of drug, maybe?—but the stuff had an immediate effect. Kivuli’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body jerking with convulsions. Elliot threw herself to the side, desperate to get away from whatever could cause such a reaction. The room fell silent at the sight, only the sound of slowly dwindling wheezes filling the vast space.
Kivuli, struggling for every last breath he could get. Elliot held her own, counting the seconds until the final rasp left his lips.
The rattle of a chain and scraping of boots came from near the throne. Mansa stood, his body quivering with rage. “Bring the bitch to me.”
Elliot cringed away from the burly guard who came for her, keeping up appearances, but his grip on her biceps was impossible to resist. He dragged her most of the way across the room as she scrambled to get her feet under her. When he deposited her on the stairs of the dais, in front of her father, she sank to her knees, one arm wrapped around her screaming ribs.
“And that is exactly where you belong, cunt,” Mansa taunted. “On your knees.”
Elliot kept her head down, refusing to give him what he craved: a response. Instead she focused on breathing, on replaying every one of the coming seconds over and over in her head to be sure she had it right.
“Have you nothing to say to me, Daughter?”
Not in this lifetime, asshole.
Mansa nudged her with the tip of his boot. “Perhaps, now that you’ve deprived me of my soldier, you will take his place.”
A harder nudge threw her off balance. She slapped a hand down to keep herself upright.
“Or perhaps breeding more warriors like you is the best use of my prize.” Mansa bent closer. “Are you untried, like your virgin mother was, Number 57? Do not worry; when I am finished with you, you will suck cock like a haker.”
She didn’t know what haker was, but she could guess—and she had no intention of sucking anything. She took a deep breath, holding in her response as she tightened her grip on the knife she’d slipped from Kivuli’s belt, the knife concealed against her stomach.
“Are you sure you want her that close to anything important? After that fight?” a voice asked from the back of the room.
Shock quivered through Elliot’s body. Damn it, Deacon, why did you come? He was supposed to be back at the compound, safe with his daughter, not here in a roomful of men armed and ready to kill him.
Mansa straightened above her. “Well. Deacon Walsh. Welcome.”
Footsteps traveled toward the dais from behind Elliot. “Fuck you.”
Men rushed to take him down—Elliot could hear it, but she didn’t turn to see. Her moment would arrive; it had to.
“Stop!” Mansa shouted. “Let him come.”
Deacon chuckled. “You’re not rolling out the welcome mat, are you, Mansa? ’Cause you’ve got to know I’m here to kill you.”
“Of course I am not.” Mansa shifted, and Elliot dared to glance up. A flash of light glanced off the gun in his rising hand. “I simply want a clear shot.”
It all happened at once: Mansa’s aim. Elliot surging to her feet. Deacon running behind her. The burly guard lunged, but the slave next to the throne was there first, tripping him up. Elliot watched in slow motion as her fist came up, connecting with the underside of Mansa’s arm as a shot went off. The blast reverberated in her ear, her heart, but there wasn’t time to worry about Deacon because she was tackling the pirate king to the ground, listening to the smack of skull hitting stone. Mansa looked up at her with dazed eyes.
She crouched above him, and something in her soul settled into place, as if this moment had been preordained from her birth. “I finally get it, you know.”
A frown pulled at Mansa’s lips, and Elliot realized with a shock that his mouth was shaped just like hers. “What do you finally get?”
“You. I get you.” Nausea churned in her belly. “You murdered your family, destroyed lives, used people as product...because they were weak.”
Pleasure sparked in his dark eyes. How had she not gotten those eyes? How had the darkness in him not been dominant in her genes? “And I am strong,” he said. “Only the strongest survive.”
“True.” Maybe his genes were dominant, just not on the outside. “I guess you passed on one trait after all.”
“And what is that, Daughter?”
“I’m definitely not weak.”
All the anger she carried, all the pain and terror and grief of the last twenty-four years coalesced in her as she lifted the hand that held Kivuli’s knife. She didn’t aim for his throat or his chest, though. No, she wanted him to feel it, to hurt, to realize his life was draining from his body before he finally died.
She aimed for his groin.
The strike hit true. Kivuli hunched forward, mouth gaping, his hands automatically covering the wound as she pulled the knife away. Blood poured through his fingers.
She smiled into his incredulous eyes.
“I told you you’d never breed again, didn’t I?”
This time she made it a gut strike. Mansa grunted, eyes sliding closed.
Elliot brought her face down until her mouth was at his ear. “That was for my mother, you son of a bitch. I hope you rot in hell.”
One more strike, this one merciful: the jugular.
The room behind her was filled with the noise of men fighting, shouting, sounds of pain and anger and fear and triumph. Elliot knelt beside Mansa’s throne, watching the life flow from his body, his blood hot and sticky on her hands, and felt a strange void slowly swallow her. The man who’d fathered her was dead. Deacon and Sydney were safe. Her mother had been avenged; all of Mansa’s victims had been avenged.
She’d finally accomplished her life’s objective. Mission complete. So why did it suddenly feel like it wasn’t enough?
Leaning back on her haunches, she stared down at her bloody hands and couldn’t hold back the hot tears rushing to her eyes, the whispered words escaping her shattered soul.
“I love you, Mama.”