Lies of My Monster (Monster Trilogy #2) by Rina Kent

A few minutes later, Viktor’s voice disappears. Then so does Kirill’s.

But I know he didn’t leave. I can feel his presence in the room and even sense a hint of his warmth through the walls.

Him being alone gives me the opening I’ve been waiting for, but now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to move.

I remain in place for what seems like forever, forcing my limbs to step forward but unable to move. After a few moments, I finally clutch the handle of the balcony door, inhale deeply, then slide it open.

The sound is heightened in the silence, and I pause for the time it takes me to fit myself in the opening.

Then I slip inside soundlessly and freeze when a gun clicks at my temple.

Shit.

I underestimated Kirill. Since he was injured, I thought maybe his reflexes would be slower, but the weapon pointed at me proves that those thoughts are a far cry from reality.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Slowly, I start to turn to face the owner of the cold question, but he pushes the gun against the temple.

“You don’t need to change your position to answer.”

“Can’t I at least look at you?” I hate how my voice sounds so emotional and weak.

Even if he’s harsh and indifferent. Even if he’s holding a gun to my head right now.

“No,” comes his closed-off reply.

Still, I turn.

“I said. No.”

“And I want to look at you.” I lift my chin. “So if you’re going to shoot, do it.”

The more I continue turning, the faster my heart beats. I know he won’t shoot me. If he wanted to kill me, he would’ve done that when he woke up. He wouldn’t have chosen to torture me by depriving me of him.

Sure enough, the moment I fully face him, he’s lowered the gun to his side.

I’m rooted to the spot as if struck by lightning due to being able to look at him closely. All of him.

Although he’s wearing casual sweatpants and a black T-shirt, neither can conceal the masculine perfection of his physique. He’s lost some weight due to the injury, but his build has retained its charismatic edge.

Tattoos in the form of skulls, roses, and a human heart swirl along the visible parts of his forearms and biceps, but they don’t look hauntingly black now.

The color has returned to his face, and his lips are no longer pale and chapped. His hair that’s usually styled currently falls over his forehead and brows. He’s also grown a thicker stubble that complements his cut jawline.

But something else leaves me gasping for air.

It’s his eyes.

They’re…different.

While not as lifeless as when I last saw them when he woke up in the hospital in Russia, they’re also not those intense eyes that caused my stomach to drop whenever they fixated on me.

My stomach is dropping now, but it’s due to knots of dread and anxiety building up. Because these eyes? They’re cold and apathetic. Almost like…a stranger’s.

And that hurts worse than a gunshot wound. I realize now that while I’ve been missing him like crazy and going out of my mind worried about him, he probably hasn’t even thought about me.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks with that lethal voice again.

I motion my chin at him. “I wanted to see you.”

“You saw me. Leave.” He starts to walk to the bathroom, but I jump in front of him, arms open wide.

“That’s all?”

His expression remains the same, except for a smidge of annoyance. “Should there be something else? A ceremony in your honor, perhaps?”

“Kirill…please.”

“It’s Boss or Sir. You have zero rights to call me by my first name.”

My spine jerks upright, and I have trouble swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I know you must have a lot of questions about what happened in Russia, and while I can’t answer all of them, I promise to answer as many as I can. You have my word, I would never—”

“I have no questions for you. I got my answers in the form of two bullets.”

His calmly spoken words trigger the claustrophobic sensation I had when he was shot on that hill. My chest constricts, and it feels as if I’m falling down a spiral, unable to put on the brakes. That’s when I realize I’ve been shaking my head. “That’s not…I swear I didn’t know. I wouldn’t…have gone there if I’d known. I’m sorry that you were shot because of me. I have no clue what I can do to make you believe me, but I’m willing to do anything.”

His eyes taper to a frightening blue—a color that I’ve never seen in them before. For a moment, I think he’ll shoot me with the gun in his hand, after all.

Maybe he’s figured out that keeping me alive has no meaning and it’d be better if he finishes me off.

But instead of doing that, he speaks with deceptive calm. “What’s the name of the man who was beside you? I’m not interested in the mercenaries. I want the identity of the man who shot me.”

My lips part, and I stand there unblinking. How did he figure out the men were mercenaries when everyone’s face was covered? But then again, Uncle Albert was the only one who shot at him with the sole purpose of killing him. So he must know that he’s the one with a vendetta against him.

Sometimes, Kirill’s intuition really frightens the hell out of me. I often wonder just how much he knows and how much he doesn’t.