Blood of My Monster (Monster Trilogy #1 ) by Rina Kent

Still, I stare into his frightening icy eyes, even as I feel frozen in place with no way out.

Yes, his eyes are frightening, but there’s nothing scarier than my fate if I’m kicked out of the military.

And, most importantly, everyone else’s fate.

“I might not have the power now, but I want it.” I speak in a harsh tone, unable to control the emotions flooding through me. “I will work hard for it. I will be the most disciplined soldier you have if you just give me a chance.”

“Give you a chance.” It’s not a question this time. A mere repetition of facts. “There are more competent soldiers than you. Why should I pick you?”

“I don’t have the answer to that, sir, but I do know that I never give up.”

He raises a brow, again looking at me in that funny way I can’t put my finger on.

“Prove yourself first,” he says with ease, as if the method is a given.

Confusion must be written all over my face as I ask, “How do I do that?”

“Now, that’s the part you have to figure out yourself.” He pushes back and gives me another stern glance. “Let’s see if you have it in you to take a man’s place, Lipovsky.”

And then he spins around and leaves.

My brow furrows at his last words. He didn’t say another man’s place. He said a man’s place.

I wonder why he phrased it that way.

Anyway, that’s not important now that I finally have a chance to regain control over my life after the massacre that took away my everything.





3





KIRILL





Cold sweat covers my skin as I sit on the hard surface of the military bed.

Deafening silence surrounds me, and I jump up, my feet making no sound on the floor.

The images from the nightmare redden my vision and play in slow motion in the dark corners of my subconscious.

Everyone and everything I cut from my life have been slowly returning to my immediate presence. Not in person, but as ghosts and shadows.

I stare down at the cuts and marks slithering over my skin, serving as a constant reminder of what happened before I got here.

The reason I escaped it all.

It’s also the reason I have this fucked-up need to return and rule it all. Every last bit of it.

No one can control me if I’m the leader. No one can deny or order me to do anything. In fact, it’ll be the other way around.

But that’s neither for here nor for now.

I throw on some pants and a T-shirt, then slip out of the room and into the empty training camp. The soldiers were granted a night out, so they all fucked off to get drunk and get some pussy while they could. Including my own men, who usually follow me like wannabe shadows.

All the better. The empty darkness gives me the needed space that allows me to run and push myself to my physical limits. It’s a sure way to recharge and erase the gory events from the nightmare earlier.

Or more like a memory.

Despite the bright moonlight in the middle of the sky, it’s freezing. The cold air hits me deeper in my bones with every passing minute, but I’ve always found solace in the freezing weather.

Something about harsh natural circumstances allows me to blend with them and see myself as part of the ecosystem.

I’m an entity of destruction with no qualms about stomping on everything in my path.

My choices are unlimited, and everything I do will be labeled as a natural disaster.

I didn’t choose to be this way, but it happened, and instead of fighting it, I embraced it. Fully.

Without any questioning.

Either that or I would’ve been collateral damage in a bigger and more dangerous game.

A groaning sound reaches me from the other end of the track, and I stop.

It comes again as a low “Ugh” in a very familiar voice.

I follow it discreetly, without making a noise. The night serves as my camouflage and the silence is my cover.

Sure enough, when I reach the source of the noise, I find a dark figure doing push-ups against the soil.

Only, it’s not all dark.

The arms that peek through the T-shirt are pasty-white in the night, and his face is red with exertion.

His movements are disoriented, uncoordinated, and his limbs shake uncontrollably.

“109, 110, 111, 112…” With each whispered number, he grows weaker, his rhythm, breathing, and impatience all spiking up until he’s a myriad of turbulent energy.

I lean against a pillar, legs and arms crossed. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

Lipovsky lifts his head to look at me, then stumbles and falls sideways, his frail muscles finally giving up on him.

For a second, he observes me from his position on the ground as if I’m some twisted form of salvation that got thrown in his path.

He did it a week ago, too, when he asked—begged—me to take him as part of my team with his nonexistent skills.

That was a bold move. And he’s an insolent little fucker, considering the way he’s staring at me without a hint of a salute.

This guy either has a death wish, or he simply shouldn’t be in the military—as I previously tried to convince him.

It could be because of my stare or, although it’s a very slim chance, that he realized his insolence because he finally stands with great difficulty and salutes. “Captain.”

He looks rough at best in unflattering cargo pants and an oversized T-shirt that’s soaked in sweat at the front and the back.