Raze & Reap (23 page)

Serge sat in silence, and I knew he didn't believe me. I didn't care, because I knew the truth, and it was up to me to save Raze. It was up to me to make him realize his feet had found their way home.

“Just take me to the gym, Serge. And please wait because I need you to drive us to Brighton Beach later on.”

Serge went to argue, but I turned my head and leaned against the window, ending the discussion.

*   *   *

I entered the gym and headed to Raze's training room. The whole place was mostly in darkness, but for a single light hanging from the ceiling. Raze sat against the far wall, his head hanging low and his torso covered with black and red. His legs were stretched out in front of him. I'd never seen someone who'd just won a match look so defeated.

“Raze?” I said in panic and rushed over to him.

Dropping to my knees, I grabbed a nearby towel and pressed it against a long fresh tally mark on his torso, twice as long, twice as deep, and twice as aggressive as his other kill tattoos.

“Raze, what have you done?” I asked and tried to look into his lowered eyes. He didn't speak, didn't even flinch when I applied pressure to his sliced torso. He sat gripping a broken pen and bloodied razor blade in his hands.

As I checked the rest of his ripped and scarred body, I noticed a huge stitched-up slash on his arm and stitches along the bottom of his throat.

I remembered the exact moment in the match when he'd gotten them—the moment I thought he was going to be taken from me. Having that happen only made me more desperate to teach him about who he was. He was to fight Alik tomorrow night, the two of them having progressed to the final, and tomorrow night, I would be losing one of the only two men that had ever meant something to me. But I knew who I wanted, who I'd only ever wanted, and right now, he was lying down on this hard floor like his world had just been torn apart.

Luka needed to come back to me. Finally, after all these years in captivity, he needed to be freed. He needed to know he was loved.

“Raze, please look at me,” I ordered in a gentle voice, fighting back tears, and Raze slowly lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red and he had the most haunting, devastating expression on his face. My heart lurched at the sight. I reached out and laid my hand on his cheek.

“Lyubov moya, what's all this? Was it the fight tonight? Was it because you were hurt? Because it was a close match?”

I caught Raze's hand lift from his side, and the razor blade fell to the floor. His rough, bloodied palm laid on the back of mine still on his cheek, and I froze.

“I killed my only friend,” Raze rasped out, and his fingers wrapped around mine. His grip was so tight … so telling of his internal emotional turmoil.

My breathing caught in my throat and my thoughts immediately went to Rodion. Did he remember? Did he remember that night? Was he talking of my brother? Had he remembered his past?

My hand began to shake with the gravity of what this could mean.

“What friend? What are you talking about, lyubov moya?” I asked, trying to keep the quivering nerves from my voice.

Raze's gaze took on a blank stare, and he replied, “362.”

I blinked at his answer and immediately thought back to our conversation last night. “362? From the Gulag?”

Raze nodded slowly and his hold on my hand tightened. “Goliath…”

Suddenly, everything made sense. It wasn't Rodion's death he was remembering; it was the man tonight, the Georgian Goliath. “The man you killed tonight was—”

“My friend.”

My bottom lip trembled upon seeing this strong, untamed, and harsh man reduced to a hulking body of muscle filled with nothing but guilt and remorse.

“Raze … I'm so sorry,” I soothed.

“He was recaptured when we escaped, by the Georgian mob. He told me if he'd won tonight, they were granting him his freedom. And once free, he could get his revenge on the people that sent him to the Gulag. After all those years surviving, teaching
me
how to survive … He was innocent. He deserved that revenge, but…”

Raze's eyelids fluttered, and I leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, and to the back of his hand fixed upon mine. “But what?”

“But so am I…” he whispered, and my blood cooled to ice in my veins.

“You are what?” I pushed.

His eyes widened as something in his mind clearly hit home and his torso tensed as though in shock. “I'm innocent,” he whispered, clearly unable to speak louder. “Kisa … I'm innocent. I didn't do what I was imprisoned for. I didn't do what I was accused of.” Raze's hand now fully encompassed mine, and he looked down at our clasped fingers. “You're shaking, Kisa-Anna. Why are you shaking?”

A sob escaped my throat and I released my hold on the towel to plant it over my mouth. The tears of relief poured from my eyes. He hadn't done it. Luka hadn't killed my brother. He was innocent. I always knew he was innocent.

“Kisa? I don't understand why you're crying.” Raze's head tilted to the side and I dived to his chest, breathing in the heady scent that was all him, not caring if my clothes became soiled by blood and ink.

Raze's strong and comforting arms wrapped around my back and he kept me close. “
Shh
, solnyshko,” he whispered, and my crying stopped and I lifted my head and stared into his eyes.

“Solnyshko?” I questioned, and Raze looked up in thought before glancing back down at me.

“It means ‘little sun,'” Raze said matter-of-fact. “In Russian, I think.” Then his forehead creased and his eyebrows pulled down as if he didn't understand why he knew that piece of information.

“You called me ‘my love,'” he suddenly said, watching me, studying me like I was a problem he was trying to solve. I nodded and fought to keep my bottom lip from quivering. “
Lyubov moya
,” he said, repeating the words slowly, sounding out each syllable before his eyes widened. “It means ‘my love' in Russian. You called me ‘your love.'”

“I did … lyubov moya” I replied and pulled out of his embrace. I caught his stuttered, shocked inhale, but just let him sit thinking of my old term of endearment for him.

Quickly wiping my eyes, I then ran my finger around his new tattoo. “Why is this so much longer than the rest? So much more pronounced than the others? You've really damaged your skin.”

“Because 362's death was honorable where the others weren't. He died proudly. He died like a fighter should.” Raze ran his fingertips over his scar and added, “He died before gaining his revenge. He was cheated out of retribution on those that wronged him. But he never gave up until the end. His recognition on my skin needs to stand out because he, as a fighter and a friend, stood out in my life.”

My heart shredded hearing him speak, and I realized no matter how far I delved into my imagination, into my worst nightmare, I would never fully understand what he went through in the Gulag. He was a child. A child forced to be a killer, and amongst that hell, he'd found someone to care for … and he'd just been forced to kill his friend in cold blood.

Sorrow made me feel sick to my stomach. I couldn't help but be grateful that 362 was dead and I still had my Raze.

“I thought … I thought for a moment he was going to kill you…” I trailed off, my voice catching in my throat at the thought of losing my soul mate twice in my life. No heart could sustain that.

“He was winning,” Raze confessed.

I gasped, and Raze leaned forward and ran his fingertips down my neck. “But then I saw Durov forcing you to watch me die and it fueled me. Gave me the strength to fight back and overpower my friend.” Raze's gaze dropped to my lips, and he murmured, “I have to protect you, Kisa-Anna. I believe I was made to protect you.” His face screwed up like he was trying really hard to remember something, and he added, “I had to protect you from Durov …
again.
”

My heartbeat drowned out the noise of the air conditioner whirring in the main gym. “
Again?
” I questioned, and his eyes crinkled with confusion.

“Yes. I think … I think I've protected you from him before…” Taking my hand, Raze pulled me forward, searching my face up close, and asked, “Have I? Have I protected you from him before?”

I nodded, nerves stealing my voice.

Raze swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and he croaked out, “Did I…? Did I know you before?”

Stifling a threatening sob with the back of my hand, I cried, “Yes. Yes, you did. You knew me very well.”

Raze's bare muscled chest began to rise and fall and lines framed his scrunched-up eyes. He was trying to remember, but by his held breath and frustrated exhales, I knew he couldn't. Something was blocking him, preventing him from fully embracing who he was before.

Releasing myself from Raze's hold, I reached into my purse and pulled out the old silver frame of two young children smiling for the camera and handed it to Raze, who looked down curiously at the picture.

He was like a caveman seeing the world's treasures for the first time, unsure what to make of the strange world he had been suddenly thrust into.

I watched his face with fascination as his brown eyes studied the children. He pulled the frame closer to his eyes and scrutinized the snapshot while my heart fluttered as fast as a hummingbird's wings.

His thumb ran across the girl's face and he looked up, watching my face with the same intense attention.

“I've seen this girl in my dreams.”

“Yes,” I whispered, and he lowered his eyes again and reared back his head.

“And this boy too. I know him too.”

“Yes,” was all I could say in response, praying to God he gave Raze the gift of memory. That he remembered who both of those children were, and when he did, he still wanted me … and in some deep, hidden part of him, realized he loved me just as much as I'd always loved him.

“This girl…” Raze said and lowered the picture frame and crawled toward me, his sculpted shoulders rolling at the movement, his packed abs flexing. Once before me, Raze pointed at my eyes, his head tilting to the side. His mouth hovered just before mine and his warm, enticing breath made me close my eyes.

“No!” he ordered, and my eyes snapped open on a gasp. Raze brought the frame forward and placed it next to my face. A knowing expression washed over his sharp, assessing handsome features. “You … you are the girl in this picture.”

I felt tears trickling down my cheeks and I nodded, unable to speak, and he sat back, staring at me as though he were seeing me for the first time. “You're the girl from my dreams…”

“Yes, Raze, yes,” I answered excitedly.

He exhaled a long breath like he'd just run a marathon, and he slumped back against the wall again, clutching the frame to his chest, just staring at me.

I held his gaze, willing him to remember more, but when a single tear ran down his stubbled cheek, it took everything I had not to fall apart.

I lurched forward and threw myself into his arms. “Lyubov moya! Please … no,” I whispered and wrapped my arms around his neck and straddled his hips, feeling his heart thundering in his chest against mine. “It's okay. We'll get you to remember who you are. You'll remember everything in time. I promise.”

His body shook and his nose tucked into the crook between my shoulder and neck, and he hugged me back, so tight it was a struggle to breathe.

We were silent, quietly sitting and comforting one another, when he asked, “Am I … am I this boy in the picture? The one holding you?”

I stilled and so very slowly pulled back to face him. Raze's eyes had darkened, glittering with questions, and when our gazes collided, I replied, “Yes. I think you
are
the boy in that picture. At first I didn't know, but now I'm sure. It's
you
…”

Raze didn't show any reaction, but his hand abruptly cupped my cheek and his head tilted to the side. We stayed that way for minutes and minutes, until his lips parted and a rush of breath poured through, and he whispered, “My Kisa-Anna … my solnyshko … God put a piece of your blue eyes in mine so we would always know we matched…”

Like a dam breaking, relieved excitement washed through me like a river amidst a hurricane, and I sobbed and cried, “Luka … my Luka…” before pressing my lips against this man's, tasting the essence of the boy I had been created and destined to love. Loving the lost man I now held in my arms.

Raze froze against my mouth, and I broke away to see his eyes shining, looking lost. “
Luka?
” he questioned, only for his eyes to widen, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Luka … I was called Luka … My name was Luka?”

“Yes.” I smiled and peppered kisses all over his face.

His hands clenched the thick strands of my brown hair. “Kisa-Anna,
my
Kisa-Anna,” he kept murmuring over and over, and I was sure I would never tire of my name pouring from his perfect full lips.

“Yes! Yes, Luka. I'm yours! I was made for you.”

We stayed clutched in each other's arms for what could have been an age, when I eventually pulled back, gave him a long sweet kiss, and said, “Would you come somewhere with me? I want to take you somewhere … somewhere special.”

Raze tilted his head to the side but, without question, replied, “Anywhere. I … trust you.”

He trusted me …

Rising to my feet, I took Raze's hand, led him into the bathroom and, wetting a rag, cleaned the area around his new tattoo and laid gauze over his new scars.

Raze slipped on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. I couldn't help but smile when I realized it was that same gray hooded sweatshirt that I had first seen him in, and I held out my hand.

Raze lifted the hood over his head—I assumed it was instinctive for him to hide as we were going outside—and came forward and cautiously took my outstretched hand. I wrapped my fingers in his and squeezed.