When I push through the back door, Popov slung over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry, Wren runs in from the main room. “Oh, thank God,” she whispers, but then her eyes widen at the unconscious man on my back. “Popov?”
“Yep. Just be thankful West found track suits for these two.” I head down the stairs to the basement, and Semyon scampers off the thin mattress and into the corner of the room.
“Wh-who…is that?” he asks.
Fixing him with a hard stare, I arch a brow. “The key to getting your sister back. Assuming you don’t screw things up.”
Semyon raises his still bound hands. “I no make trouble. I know truth now. Zion zhertva for us.”
“Zhertva?” Letting Popov slide to the mattress, I step back and brush off my hands. West lays Popov’s lover down next to him and checks their pulses.
“He…uh…”
“Sacrifice,” Inara supplies as she joins us. “He knows Zion didn’t abandon him.”
She snaps pictures of Popov and his lover, then snags the duffel West packed with the man’s wallet, phone, and laptop and heads back up the stairs where Wren’s waiting, wringing her hands. “Come on, hacker-genius,” Inara says as she hoists the computer. “Time to get to work.”
40
Wren
The sun seeps around the drapes by the time Inara and I finish going through Popov’s computer. The man’s a brute—intimidating his competition, making them disappear on occasion, paying off government officials—and every new thing we learn adds to Ryker’s tension. He’s been surprisingly hands-off since he got back, with the exception of pulling me into our little bedroom for a kiss that rocked me down to my toes.
Now, he sits up against the wall, his eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Is he okay?” I whisper to Inara.
She nods and draws me into the kitchen where she starts another pot of coffee. “You saw us before the men left for Popov’s, yeah?”
I rinse four mugs while she leans against the counter. “Your rituals? Yes.”
“This is one of Ry’s. I don’t know exactly what he does, but I think he’s recounting memories. It’s his way of staying motivated during downtime when he can’t sleep.”
“I’m surprised you don’t read lips.” Drying one of the mugs, I reach for another.
“I do. Just not Ry’s.” Inara’s sad smile dims her gray eyes. “Our first missions, I caught a few words. Never tried again. The man went through…God. I can’t imagine.”
“He’s never told you?”
She snorts. “No. He’s changed, Wren. More than I thought possible. You found something in him I think he believed was dead.”
I drop my voice to a whisper as I grab the last mug. “What?”
“Trust. Hope. Peace? Any or all of the above? He’s…not the same man who left Seattle. I sure hope you’re sticking around.” The coffee pot sputters, and smoothly, not spilling a drop, Inara shifts one of the mugs in place of the pot to catch the precious nectar.
“I…don’t want to lose him.” My mind hasn’t stopped racing since Ryker told me he loved me. How can we make this work when he lives in Seattle and I live in Boston? I can do my job from anywhere. But…I don’t know if Dax would let me. Not with how he and Ryker feel about one another.
I can’t take Ryker away from Seattle. Not when he’s finally accepted Inara and West as family.
“You won’t. Pretty sure he’s head over heels for you,” Inara says as she gathers two mugs and starts back for the main room. “Now…about that secure video connection you talked about?” She checks her watch. “Royce should be headed to bed in a few minutes. I miss him.”
After I create the encrypted video channel and show both Inara and West how to use it, Ryker and I disappear into our bedroom to give them some privacy.
Our bedroom.
There’s nothing in this empty space but sleeping bags, our luggage, a few candles, and an open medical kit along one wall. It could be any room in any house. Belong to anyone or no one. But…over the past two days, it’s become ours.
“Does it hurt?” I ask as I brush my knuckles along his jaw.
“A little.” He doesn’t shy away from my touch, and I run my hands down his thick, corded arms. So much pain. But…something’s changed. His body no longer vibrates with tension every time he breathes. A piece of him has…settled, even here.
“The first thing I noticed about you were your eyes,” I say as I trace the scar below his left lid. “The colors. The way you seemed to see right through me.”
At my smile, his gaze turns sad. Almost wistful.
“I can’t. See through you. Fuck, Wren, every time I look at you, I want to know what you’re thinking. Because I can’t…tell.” His voice roughens, and he looks down at my hand splayed against his chest.
“You only think you can’t tell. Try.” Levering up on my toes, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss. He tastes like coffee. Like strength and safety and a hint of toothpaste. And as I tease my tongue against the seam of his lips, I inhale his unique scent, stealing his breath as my own.
Ryker slides his hands under my ass and lifts me so I can wrap my legs around his waist. I can feel his heart thud against me, and he turns so he can press my back against the wall.
“What do I want, Ry?” I gasp, our lips so close, they’re still touching. “What do I need that only you can give?”
He sets me gently on my feet and smooths a hand over my hair. “You want to know me.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “All of you.”
Ryker steps back and strips off his shirt. His pants fall to the floor next, then his briefs, and he’s naked in front of me. Despite the number of times we’ve been intimate in the past week, we’ve mostly been fused together. Or shrouded in darkness. I’ve seen glimpses of him. Of his massive chest, his eight-pack, his well-muscled thighs. His impressive, and already erect, cock.
Now, the soft glow from the candles illuminates his scars. The way one shoulder is a little lower than the other. He flexes his fingers, and a knuckle pops. The toes of his right foot are misshapen, and a thick scar runs down the outside of his ankle.
Fifty-four. Fifty-four bones.
I meet his multi-hued gaze, intensity turning his eyes a deep blend of blue and hazel. “You’re the most beautiful, impressive man I’ve ever seen.”
“We should get your eyes checked.”
“Do you think I care about this?” Taking three steps forward, I trace one of the thicker, uglier scars along his ribs. “Or this?” My lips press to a rough, almost sandpaper like patch of skin along his collar bone. “You rebuilt yourself. Took the shattered pieces and put them back together. I want to know you. Yes. But I also want you to see yourself for who you are.”
“Who am I?” Ryker asks, his voice so faint, I have to strain to hear it. Years of sadness and pain etch lines around his mouth, wrinkle his brow.
“You’re one of only two Green Berets who survived Hell. You’re a righter of wrongs. A leader. A protector. A good man. Someone who will sacrifice anything—everything—for those he cares about, but who doesn’t feel like he’s worthy of a single person caring about him.”
With every word, the tidal wave of emotions churning in his eyes consumes more of him, until he grabs me in a fierce embrace and crushes me to his chest.
“I’m not…I don’t deserve—”
I dig my fingers into his sides to shut him up. “And you’re the man I love.”
Several seconds pass, and I’m not sure he’s even breathing. I peer up at him, and tears glisten on his stubbly cheeks.
“Ry?” I’m too short and held too securely to kiss the drops away, so I tighten my arms around him and feather my lips over his heart. “Talk to me, Ry.”
He draws in a deep, shuddering breath before whispering in my ear. “You know me, Wren. You’re…the only one.”
Fingers sink into my hair, and then his mouth is on mine, claiming, taking, until I pull hi
m down with me. My sweatshirt lands across the room, and Ryker’s rough palm skims over my breast. “Did you mean it?” He meets my gaze, skating his thumb in a circle around my aching nipple. “What you said? Did you mean it?”
Arching my back, I afford him better access, and he scores his teeth over the other taut peak. “Yes.”
“Say it again.”
He holds himself over me, pinning me between his strong arms, promising—without words—to be the man I need. The man I want. The man I can’t live without.
My lips curve. “I love you, Ryker McCabe. All of you.”
41
Ryker
The coffee’s gone. Probably for the best, since I think West is vibrating. Semyon sits on the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. If all goes well, we’ll go directly from Kolya’s mansion to the airfield and be on a transport plane back to the States by sunrise.
A part of me will miss this place. Not Russia. Not being this close to the man who almost destroyed my beautiful bird. My salvation. My love. But something changed in this house. In the room we packed up an hour ago. And I don’t know what we’re going to do once we land in Boston.
The day disappeared in a sea of slow, languid kisses, soft hands exploring every inch of me, and whispered “I love yous.”
Now, Wren and I stand side-by-side, packing up what we’ll need for the mission. “I wish you’d—no. Never mind. I don’t.” Shoving an extra clip into my bag with more force than necessary, I take back my words. I don’t want her to stay here. I don’t want her out of my sight.
Wren stops and stares at me, laughter in her pale green eyes. “Wait, we’re not going to fight? Are you sure? Make-up sex is usually pretty hot.”
“We can fight later. I’ll pull your hair and you can steal the last MRE on the plane. The good one with the steak and potatoes.”
“Ryker McCabe. Did you just…make a joke?” Inara asks as she emerges from the bathroom clutching her chest. “Zip me up, Wren?”
The black satin number clings to her curves, a sleeveless pantsuit of sorts, with wide legs that should allow her to move freely. To run. To fight.
“Cracker Jacks,” Wren says, her eyes wide. “You look…like a movie star.”
“Holy shit.” With a whistle from the corner of the room, West fastens his cufflinks. He’s already dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie, and Inara spent the last hour with waterproof eyeliner copying Popov’s neck tattoos onto his skin. “No one in the room’s going to be looking at me.”
“Let’s hope not.” Inara glances over her shoulder at him, concern drawing her brows together. “You say more than a few words, and we’re blown.”
With a snort, West checks his pistol and tucks it into his holster. “Whose plan is this?”
“Yours,” she grumbles. “Now where are those damn earrings?”
As the two give each other shit, I head down to the basement to check on our “guests.”
Popov and his wife, Katerina, sit on the mattress, hands bound behind their backs and secured to the cold water pipes running along the wall. I kneel down to check the zip ties, then offer them each a drink from a bottle fitted with a plastic straw. “As soon as we’re done at the mansion, I’ll send someone for you.”
“Bastard American,” Popov growls. “You expect me to give up? To stay here until we die?”
“I expect you to sit quietly while my team and I do your dirty work for you—and get a little payback of our own. If you do, my tech goddess will make sure Kolya’s holdings find their way into your bank account. How much does he owe you?”
“Two hundred million rubles.”
I stare into his steely blue eyes. For all his reputation—and his bravado—he broke in under five minutes when West threatened to cut his fingers off one at a time. He’s never bought a woman in his life. His only purpose at tonight’s auction was to deliver Kolya a message. Pay up or lose everything.
“You’ll have it by morning. Along with an extra seven hundred thousand rubles from me. For the shitty accommodations.”
Shock plays over his features, and his wife turns to him, questioning. He translates, as her English is barely passable, and she cocks her head. “Ty yemu doveryayesh'?”
Popov studies me. He’s not much older than I am, but his skin shows the years in a way that tells me he’s seen his share of death. “Yes. I trust him. Men like us…we understand each other.”
I nod. “In six hours, this will be over. And you and I will never see one another again.”
“Watch your back, big man. Kolya is spider. And he will catch you in his web if you are not careful.”
Semyon curls in the back seat of the SUV with strict instructions to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Wren hunches over her laptop, her fingers flying over the keys. We’re six blocks from Kolya’s mansion, but it’s a straight shot into the square if we need to get to Inara and West quickly.
Inara’s necklace and West’s tie clip both sport small, embedded cameras, and on the tablet mounted to the console, we can see everything they see, split screen.
The driver we hired for a ridiculous sum of money opens the back door of the town car. West gets out first, then turns and offers Inara his hand. She says something to the man in Russian, then leans in to whisper in West’s ear. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. And then I remember it’s his wedding day. Or…should have been.
“Andrian Popov,” West says, his Russian accent passable after an hour of Inara’s coaching. “And Natalya Volkova.” A large, burly man swipes a metal detector up and down over both of them, but a month ago, Cam and Royce built us a short-range signal jammer small enough to fit in an evening bag, and our comms go quiet for a moment until the security guard waves the two of them inside, and Inara deactivates the little device.
The next few minutes pass in a flurry of Russian—Inara making what I hope is convincing small talk with several of Kolya’s staff. Suited servers move through a grand ballroom with silver platters of canapés, and Inara never stops scanning the crowd until West snags two glasses of champagne from a passing girl who can’t be much older than eighteen. They toast, and Inara leans closer.
“Kolya’s in the far corner of the room. Two men by the stage wearing over-the-ear-comms units and packing. The auction is supposed to start in half an hour,” she says quietly.
“Time to see if Popov was telling the truth.” West clears his throat and straightens. “Kolya’s headed right for us.”
At my side, Wren stifles a small sound as Kolya approaches West and Inara.
I reach over and cover her hand with mine. Her fingers are icicles under my palm. “Relax, sweetheart. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
The hitch in her breath worries me, but I have to keep my focus. If I don’t, all my reassurances might fly out the window.
“Nikolay Yegorovich,” West says with a nod, his voice rough and stilted.
“Kolya. Please. May I call you Andrian?” Kolya holds out his hand, and Inara quickly intercepts him.
“Comrade Popov does not like to be touched, Kolya.” Inara’s sharp, authoritative tone demands respect, and she squeezes his hand hard enough Kolya’s eyes widen. “I am his trusted advisor—and bodyguard, Natalya.”
Here we go. He either buys this, or the entire operation is FUBAR.
Kolya’s gaze roves up and down Inara’s body, and I want to drive an ice pick into his pale blue eyes. To her credit, Inara doesn’t look away, a serene smile on her face visible through West’s tie camera.
“Natalya. You are not Russian.”
“I am Russian.” Pulling her shoulders back, she adopts an offended tone. “My grandmother immigrated from Iran when she was twelve. I am as Russian as my employer. Or you.” Slipping into Russian effortlessly, she delivers what I can only assume is an expletive-laced verbal beat down, because Kolya steps back and bows his head.
“My apologies, Natalya. Please, may I offer you something stronger than Champagne?”<
br />
“Comrade Popov will take a scotch. Neat. I, however, am working. Will the auction begin soon?”
“In thirty minutes. The women are available ahead of the auction if Comrade Popov would like a private viewing.”
“Da. Spasibo.”
After a suited staff member delivers three fingers of scotch, Kolya—and two of his goons—accompany West and Inara up a set of stairs to the second floor. He slips into Russian, and Inara laughs, West following a split second later. With Cam’s help, Inara and Wren wrote a program to feed the English translation into West’s ear and display it on screen.
“Your employer is a lucky man, Natalya. To have a trusted advisor so beautiful and so well-spoken. I am afraid the women I have to offer today are nowhere near as cultured. They are, however, obedient. And will never be missed.”
“If they were otherwise, Kolya, we would not be interested in them,” Inara says. “My employer has earned his reputation through careful dealings with only the right people. If we suspected any of these women could be traced to him—or you—we would walk away immediately.”
An odd expression flits across Kolya’s face, and my internal radar pings. Something’s off. I tap my ear piece. “Watch your six. He’s up to something.”
Wren’s brows furrow, and in the back seat, Semyon leans forward as Kolya enters a long passcode to unlock the door.
A single woman kneels on the floor, her head bowed. Her red dress clings to a too-thin frame, and Semyon cries, “Elena!”
Inara turns and glares at Kolya. “You said there would be women. Is this all you have to offer?”
“No, no. But this one…she is special. I believe she is perfect for Comrade Popov. I wanted him to have a few moments with her before the auction. Alone.”
Inara leans in to whisper in West’s ear in Pashto. “You’re supposed to fuck her. Put on a show and get her and the girls out. I’ll distract Kolya.”
On His Six Page 23
