Beastly Passions (5 page)

“Taras?” Nirav ventured again.

Physically jerking, he picked up the glass tumbler he’d practically filled to the brim with something strong and Russian made. The burn going down cooled some of his ire, only enough to keep him from scaring the small man away…for now.

He turned to find the Asian tiger lingering in his doorway, shoulders squared, his wife and son still hovering about down the hall. How nice, they’d remained to tease Taras into a triple homicide. Perhaps taking Asha their lifeless corpses in typical tiger offering would ease some of her utter loathing of him. Taras considered it for all of a minute before shutting the thought down. She’d been so angry about Igor. Murdering her immediate family didn’t seem the best way to gain her favor.

“Was there something you were in need of?” Taras queried finally. “Something not provided tonight?”

“No, no,” Nirav waved his hands and walked further into a study that he hadn’t received an invitation to enter. “Everything has been…quite pleasant. And we’ve greatly appreciated your hospitality. We surely consider you a part of our family now.”

Taras gave the older man a narrow smile. “Please…don’t.”

Nirav didn’t stop to examine those words. He walked closer, shooting a glance over his shoulder. “You must understand how grateful we are. Your choosing to marry Asha despite all of her…differences came as a mild surprise to the rest of us but I suppose I can see the benefit in doing so.”

Stopping mid-sip, Taras swallowed and rolled the tumbler between his palms. “Oh?” He stared down at the floor, feeling his gaze bleed into something far less humane. “Differences?”

“Well, yes,” Nirav went on. “You’re clearly very protective of her because you understand the temperamental nature of the females. Felines in particular. If she feels affronted then she is less likely to share information, opinions, thoughts,” the other tiger waved a hand dismissively. “What she didn’t receive in femininity, she gained in intelligence.” He picked up a paperweight on the desk, flexing his fingers about it as he snorted. “The girl is a steel trap of history. Alliances. Rivalries. Businesses. She is good at all of this. Except for knowing her place. Inevitably she will test the waters with you. Of this I am sure. But I have the utmost faith that you will remind her. This is why you were the best pick.” Replacing the paperweight, he turned to Taras, taking an abrupt step back when he noticed how close Taras had quietly moved to stand behind him. A breath fanned out of Nirav in a startled noise and it was like banging a stick against Taras’ cage.

With his free hand, Taras wrapped his palm about the back of the man’s head and pulled him in, fully aware that he was now staring at him through his beast’s eyes. “Speak again and I will snap your neck,” he softly warned before Nirav could say anything else. “You will stand here and nod with enthusiasm at every word.” Taras squeezed for emphasis. “Understood?”

Nirav nodded.

“Good boy,” Taras praised before saying, “I think you are confused about things, Shankur. I think you believe us to be friends now. But in that assumption, you are wrong. I do not befriend swine. I gut them.” He tipped his glass towards his father-in-law. “And then I listen to squeals. It sounds like music, the squeals. It is a sweet, comforting song. One that I have come to appreciate. Do not motivate me to play this tune tonight. The
girl—
as you call her—has endured enough for today. We would like to rest. I cannot rest if I am having another body removed. I cannot rest if I have to oversee the cleaning of my carpet. So I will kindly ask you to turn around and leave our home. Leave and do not return unless you hear my—or Asha’s—voice personally requesting that you do so.” He turned the man toward the door and shoved. In a mocking singsong tone, Taras jeered, “Off you go, little pig.”

Nirav stumbled forward, the smell of fear and rage cloaking him as he went. That was always the difficulty with being weak—anger came but it was never released because self-preservation won each battle. Taras watched him go dispassionately.

Skin him.

Quiet.

The monster inside silenced and he suddenly realized how incredibly lonely that stillness was with nothing to fill it. The lights glinted off the band on his hand, reminding him that he
did
have something to fill it. But she was unwilling to do so. Yes, Asha was a bittersweet pill indeed.

***

“The boy
lacks the proper respect for those around him.”

Grigoriy Verochka watched his newly acquired in-law pull up short as he briskly walked from what was essentially the den of a large, wild animal. Sweat dotted the Asian tiger’s forehead and upper lip, tempting Grigoriy’s lips into a smile. If nothing else, his bastard of a child had learned to master the art of intimidation. No matter how disappointing he was in other aspects of his insipid personality, he’d garnered and honed that gift at a fairly young age. It was the eyes. They were often times vacant, off putting. And when he
did
choose to express through those stoic features he’d inherited from several generations of Verochka tigers, it never failed to be anything other than terrifying.

He resented that. He resented everything about his only son. Including his ability to even make Grigoriy, himself, cautious about every move he made in Taras’ presence. He’d created him and all he had to show for it was midrange wealth and enough respect in their community to keep him seated at the table with others of his kind. Grigoriy didn’t simply desire to sit at the table anymore. He wanted to
own
it. And Taras was standing in his way as defiant as ever. He’d betrayed Grigoriy and his ideals years ago. Had pushed him into stepping down without so much as the common courtesy of a dominance battle because as far as he’d been concerned, Grigoriy wasn’t worth the energy. He’d simply waved him and anyone who wanted to follow him off like gnats because he’d held the majority vote. It hadn’t been forgotten. It would
never
be forgotten. It was just recently he’d concluded how to finally shove the bastard into the biggest grave of trouble in finances and reputation that he could dig, but it couldn’t be done without help. He’d foolishly thought he’d had an ally in Igor who had always hated his cousin despite having been raised alongside him. Unfortunately, greed had taken the trust cultivated between uncle and nephew and Grigoriy had to do what Grigoriy had always done best, use his attack dog.

Although, he was forced to admit to himself that he’d expected his boy had gone soft and would deal with Igor’s thievery and insult a little less…savagely. He’d underestimated him. He’d underestimated his loyalty to familial obligations. Sure, Grigoriy had wanted the stupid whelp gone but that hadn’t necessarily meant death; perhaps banishment or the strip of his status among the pride just to teach him where his place was. Instead he was now being thrown into an unmarked pit, leaving Grigoriy without the comfort of anyone else brave enough to try and usurp his son. Now he would have to rebuild and adjust to carry out his plans.

Nirav cleared imaginary lint from his lapel and licked his dry lips. “He’s passionate about order.”

Grigoriy snorted. “He is sanctimonious son of a bitch who would not have hesitated to slit you open from throat to belly if you were not his new bride’s father.”

There was nothing aside from surety behind the words. Taras was mean. He was cold. He was calculating. But he could reason. Once upon a time, Grigoriy had thought those things would lead them to an incomparable glory. How wrong he’d been. All the boy desired to do was tinker about with circuit boards and the like, pissing away any chance of being more,
doing
more. It was infuriating. And no one had balls enough among them to rise against him. No one would demand that he do more with their name aside from stamp it across future endeavors and products. Except for Grigoriy.
He
would be the savior of their pride.
He
would be the one to usher them into the start of a new millennia. One where cats who were once disregarded and seen as nothing but trash from the gutter could be given the reverence they deserved. He wouldn’t be quiet anymore.

The sound of Nirav’s breath shortened and the other man lifted his chin in a poor show of bravado. “I don’t feel the need to worry about such things.”

“You should,” Grigoriy insisted, glancing at Nirav’s nearby wife and son as they hovered in the foyer. “For them. For yourself. You should always remain concerned because he,”—lifting a hand, he gestured to the closed door—“will not hesitate to remind you of your presumed place. He will put heel to neck and grind down until there is nothing but dust. My son is not to be underestimated, Shankur. The only reason I am alive to tell you any of this is because I have him on tight leash. But my hand grows tired and I am not the man I used to be.”

“And what would you have me do?” Nirav whispered fiercely, his eyes darting around them. “I have already agreed to your terms. I have given you everything you wanted from me.”

“Which was mutually beneficial so do not stand before me with your arms spread as though you are Christ,” Grigoriy snapped. “We both know you cannot leave the altar of your bank accounts long enough to join the martyrdom of your girl.”

Nirav sucked in a deep breath and shook his head. “Is it one heel on my neck, Verochka, or two?”

He stopped momentarily, considering his next words. It wouldn’t do him any good to make the man feel insecure in their arrangement. Not when he would need him for just a tad longer. “I only mean to continue the growth and advancement of
both
our prides,” he retorted, reaching out to place his hands on Nirav’s shoulders. “And to do this, we have to combine resources. We have to focus on the same goal.”

His in-law regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Which is?”

Grigoriy
did
allow himself to smile now when he answered, “The fall of my son.”

Four

The
tears hadn’t manifested on the arduous plane ride. They had not come during the process of choosing a venue or dresses. Not once did her eyes moisten among the throngs of guests and the bass of music. She felt nothing through the reception. And later, when Asha had been left to experience the frigid air of her own room, Taras’ mocking words echoing behind in his departure, there was naught but numbness. Yet today, a simple thing, a silly thing, had been her undoing—breakfast.

 
Upon opening her eyes after a night of staring at every star within her sight until she finally drifted off, she’d awoken to unfamiliar surroundings at the sound of her husband puttering about in their shared bathroom. It had been an unholy hour so she hadn’t gotten up, choosing to document each movement as she listened to him go from sink to shower and back again, undoubtedly preparing for his day of intimidation—his choice of career. A stretch of time passed before she’d gone under the wave of sleep once again, only to have a light knock bring her out. After she’d answered, she’d been informed that breakfast would be served at promptly 10 a.m. and that her spouse requested that she share it with him.

Spite told her to stay in her bed, to leave him to eat by himself. However, a prompt rumble of her stomach convinced her that she’d rather be downstairs for food. Asha had perked herself up, flitted through her morning routine with products that she didn’t normally use, donned clothing, and went to sit across from a man whom she loathed.

“This is what I offer. Luxury. Stability. This is all I give. All I am capable of. Do not think to look for more, wife. You will be disappointed.”

Oh of that she’d had no doubt.

She’d barely offered Taras a nod of acknowledgement as she was led to a private patio overlooking his property, shrouded in seasonal flowers.

“I trust you’ve slept well,” he’d announced, returning his attention to his paper.

Rankled at his assumption and dismissal, she sat stiffly and stared out past his shoulder.

“Feels cooler out now that you’re here, wife,” the smug bastard had then murmured. “Is it safe to conclude that you are simply here for meal and not company?”

“Yes,” Asha had answered, watching birds whisk around overhead.

They said nothing else, but she felt those eyes occasionally seek her face. Her posture never changed. At least not until breakfast was actually served. A silver dome was sat before her and the lid lifted. For several seconds she mutely stared on in confusion.

“Took a bit of doing, but I was able to find out what it is you enjoy each morning,” Taras had suddenly said.

Asha could only swallow as she’d stared down at the plate of warm spicy MarGoan sausage over white rice with a sunny side up egg gently laid over the top. Adjacent to the plate rested a fruit salad consisting of mango, banana, chikoo and papaya. It was a meal that she’d eaten nearly every day at a small café just a few blocks away from her apartment. A hole in the wall that not many paid attention to. But she’d enjoyed the peace of the place, the simplicity. She spent her mornings there watching the city life begin to spark as vendors prepared for their day and children marched on to school or their own work. It had been such a quiet joy. One that she would have no more. And as she’d gazed at the food, it was only a reminder, another dagger.

Without thinking, she’d taken the lid and slammed it over the plate, rattling the table. That was when Taras had looked up and for the first time since the night before, she’d given him eye contact.