by Zaires, Anna
Sex, especially with a Russian killer, is the last thing I need.
Another wave of dizziness hits me, and I almost welcome it this time. My arousal fizzles out, replaced by the faint nausea that often accompanies these episodes of extreme weakness. Dragging in a breath, I focus on staying upright and not dropping the tray I’m carrying. I can’t afford to give in to the urge to rest, to act in any way that would sharpen the Russians’ suspicions. I have to look like an ordinary waitress doing her job, nothing more.
The dizziness passes after a few moments, and I continue with my shift, resisting the temptation to look at the men’s table and see if the dangerous stranger is still watching me.
An hour later, I finally allow myself another glance.
The two men are gone, and a group of girls is sitting there instead, laughing and flipping their long hair over their slim shoulders. They’re as harmless as can be, and the knot of tension inside me eases slightly.
Maybe the Russians believed my innocent act, and I’ll never see them again.
It should be a relief—and it is—but there’s an illogical disappointment mixed in, too. As inappropriate as my attraction to the dangerous stranger was, it was the first time in years I felt something, and feeling anything is better than feeling nothing.
Oh, well. He and his companion are gone, and it’s for the best.
Now I can focus on my work without the temptation of staring at him.
As the night wears on, I continue with my shift, battling waves of dizziness and growing exhaustion, and by the time the last patrons leave, I’m on the verge of collapse.
“Here, let me.” Ella grabs the dirty glasses out of my unsteady hands, and I let her have them.
If I drop them, it’s more work for everyone.
Finally, everything is done, and I’m still somehow upright. With the last drops of my strength, I trudge over to the back room, throw on my puffy winter jacket, and stumble out into the freezing alley outside, my mind hazy from exhaustion.
I’m so tired I almost forget about the two Russians, and by the time I hear the footsteps, it’s too late.
They’re upon me.
2
Yan
I grab the girl while Ilya keeps an eye on the bar exit, making sure no one sees me drag my captive into an even smaller alley on the side of the bar. Despite the bulky jacket swaddling her petite frame, she’s incredibly light, as if her very bones are made of air. Keeping one hand over her mouth, I half-carry, half-drag her with my free arm—an easy feat, as she puts up hardly any struggle.
A frightened kitten would’ve been harder to restrain.
The place we’re staying at is only a couple of blocks from here, so we head directly there, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen by the one or two drunk tourists still stumbling around the dimly lit streets. It’s risky, snatching her like this—as fugitives, we don’t want to draw any attention—but the alternative was to follow her home, and who knows what or who might’ve been there.
She might’ve had a boyfriend waiting in her bed.
An unfamiliar feeling stirs in me at the thought, something dark and ugly. I don’t understand it, any more than I fully comprehend why I’m doing this. The threat posed by the girl is minimal. Even if she overheard us and understood what we were talking about, it doesn’t matter, as we’re supposed to leave Budapest tomorrow. In the worst case, we would’ve had to forego sleep and accelerate our departure to avoid the authorities.
But no. Instead of sensibly forgetting about the girl, I told Ilya we have to keep her with us until tomorrow morning, in case she decided to blab about what she’d heard, and my brother agreed readily… probably for the same reason I couldn’t stop watching the girl for two hours straight.
Because she’s the hottest little thing we’ve come across.
At first, I didn’t think so, seeing only a pale, skinny chick dressed like a punk-rock wannabe in her oversized sweater, ripped black jeans, and ugly boots. But the more I watched her, the more I found myself unable to look away. I’ve always preferred long hair on women, but her platinum-blond strands—shorter than mine and styled in spikes on top of her shapely head—emphasized the delicate prettiness of her elfin features in a way that a more feminine cut wouldn’t have, drawing attention to her thickly lashed blue eyes and soft, pouty lips. And what I initially thought was a shapeless, boyish figure turned out to be all subtle curves and tantalizing hints of muscle, as if she’d once been a dancer or a gymnast. Even the excessive piercings in her left ear and the small tattoo on the side of her graceful neck grew on me, morphing from off-putting to sexy once I realized the grungy decorations only highlighted the creaminess of her translucent skin. What captivated me the most, though, was the way she moved around the bar, with a quiet confidence and fluid deliberateness that belied her supposed clumsiness earlier, when she’d emerged from her hiding spot behind the column with the beer spilled all over her tray.
I wondered briefly if she’d spied on us on purpose, but concluded it was unlikely. If she’d had any idea who we are, the bar would’ve been swarming with Interpol. Still, her sudden appearance made Ilya and me uneasy enough to pay attention to her, and the longer we watched her, the more we both wanted her.
I could see the same lust I was feeling painted across my brother’s face.
Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me. For whatever reason, Ilya and I are often drawn to the same women, and as neither of us is the jealous type, we don’t mind sharing with each other—and on occasion, indulging the woman’s fantasy of a ménage à trois with twins.
We don’t look that much alike, but we are genetically identical.
This time, though, the idea of my brother coming anywhere near this girl makes me want to break his steroid-thickened jaw. I know what he’s thinking—that once we have her at our place, we’ll calm her down and do our best to seduce her together. But he’s wrong. He’s not touching her tonight.
The pretty waitress is mine and mine alone.
I like the way she feels against me, all small and helpless as I lift her higher and carry her up the crumbling stairs to our second-floor apartment. Her scent, something sweet like honeysuckle and fresh like lemon, teases my nostrils, and my cock hardens as dark anticipation floods my veins. I’ve always enjoyed tall women, finding them to be a better match in bed, but something about this girl’s petiteness appeals to me on a deeply primitive level.
I can do anything I want to her, and the things I want to do are dark and twisted, as wrong as kidnapping her in the first place.
“You can set her down now,” Ilya says, stepping through the door behind me and turning the lock. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Reluctantly, I release her, and she immediately stumbles back, putting as much distance between us as the narrow hallway in this shitty apartment allows. She’s clearly terrified, her blue eyes wide and her body shaking as she presses her back against the wall. Yet there’s a peculiar gleam in her gaze too, something that doesn’t seem to fit the situation.
Something almost like curiosity.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Ilya says to her in Hungarian. “You don’t need to be afraid, malyshka. We brought you here because we want to talk.”
I remain silent, letting him do all the reassuring. He’s better at it—not that we make a practice of kidnapping the women we’re attracted to.
She’s the first one, in fact.
Her gaze flits between us, and I see the exact moment she decides Ilya is more trustworthy—a conclusion nearly everyone reaches, despite my brother’s intimidating bulk and all those tattoos. Somehow, people can sense that about us.
They can tell which of us retained his humanity.
“I don’t understand,” she tells Ilya, her voice panicked. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
Her words, her posture, her tone—all of it screams of the kind of fear any woman would feel when stolen off the street by two strangers, yet I’m still p
icking up that peculiar vibe from her. Curiosity isn’t quite the word for it, though.
Excitement, maybe?
Intrigued, I step closer, and she shrinks back—a proper reaction. But I still don’t buy it. There’s something almost… calculated about it, as if she’s making herself act afraid.
I take another step forward, until I’m looming over her small frame. Placing my palm on the wall next to her head, I lean in, effectively trapping her with my body. “What’s your name?” With the other hand, I gently nudge up her chin—which is quivering with appropriate drama, as if she’s about to cry.
“M-mina.” The word comes out on a breathless, fearful stutter, and I can feel my brother tense behind me. He doesn’t like this; we’re supposed to be calming her, not terrifying her out of her wits.
He clearly doesn’t see what I see.
He thinks the girl is ordinary.
Ignoring him, I focus on the pretty mystery before me. “Okay, Mina,” I murmur, stroking the delicate line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, even softer than I imagined, making me wonder how it’ll feel farther down, underneath that puffy jacket and big sweater. “Here’s what’s going to happen tonight. Are you listening to me?”
A terrified blink and a small, jerky nod. Such a good actress. Too bad I’ve always had a sixth sense for what lies under the surface, and with this girl, fear is not it.
Not all of it, at least.
“We’re going to spend the night here, the three of us,” I continue, watching her closely as I drop my hand to her shoulder, squeezing it lightly through her jacket. The tattoo on the left side of her neck is a hummingbird, I realize—small but rendered in exquisite detail. “We’ve got a few beers and snacks in the fridge, some music on our phones. A little house party to celebrate the end of your shift. What do you say? How does that sound?”
Tears fill her big blue eyes. “Please. I just want to go home. I’m… I’m really, really tired.”
I frown. The tears are also part of the act, I’m sure, but this close up, I can see the thick layer of makeup under her eyes, meant to hide the dark shadows imprinted on her creamy skin. She’s not lying about the tired part; if anything, she looks like she hasn’t slept in days.
Fuck. I was really looking forward to having her. I’m pretty sure at least part of what I’m sensing from her is attraction, the same kind of dark, potent pull I’m feeling toward her. If she’s this tired, though, she might not be up for a hookup, and I don’t force women.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me back before I can say anything. “If you’re tired, you can sleep on the couch here,” my brother says, all but shoving me aside to stand in front of her. “We just need you to stay until the morning, okay?”
I barely resist the urge to shove him back, the way I would’ve when we were children. Back then, we’d fight all the time, with bloody noses and split lips as our constant companions. These days, however, our arguments rarely get physical, as with our skill set, things could quickly turn deadly.
We deal violence to others, not each other.
Still, my hand curls into a fist at my side as Mina asks tremulously, “But why? What do you want from me?”
Fucking Ilya. I want her looking up at me with those fake-scared eyes, not him.
“You might’ve heard some things you weren’t supposed to,” my brother answers with all the subtlety of a wild elephant. “So we just want to keep an eye on you until we leave town.”
“Oh.” Her eyes grow round. “But I didn’t… I don’t speak Russian.”
“Is that right?” I don’t bother to mask the skepticism in my tone as her gaze swings toward me. “Not even enough to recognize a few words? Or a name?”
Specifically, the name Ilya carelessly mentioned, that of our team leader, Peter Sokolov—who’s on every Most Wanted list worldwide.
She blinks up at us, the very picture of innocence. “What name?”
My brother glances at me, uncertain, and I give a minute shake of my head. He’s not a good judge of whether someone’s lying, and he knows it, which is why in situations like this, I always take charge.
“Let’s kill her right now,” I say to him in Russian, watching the girl as I speak. “We can dump her body in the river before sunrise.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I’m not fooled.
She understood exactly what I said.
Ilya’s jaw tightens, and he turns to the girl. “How about we talk about this over a couple of beers?” he says in Hungarian, his tone gentle. “We’re really not going to hurt you, I promise.”
She hesitates, her gaze darting from my brother to me and back. Finally, she gives an uncertain nod. “Okay, I—I guess. But could I have water or tea instead, please? I’m too tired to have alcohol.”
“One tea coming up,” I say with a mocking salute and head into the kitchen. My cooking is shit, but boiling water is within my capabilities.
Maybe if I get some caffeine into her system, she won’t fall asleep before I can coax her into my bed.
3
Mina
“So, how long have you worked at the bar?” the guy with the skull tattoos—the seemingly kinder one—asks when I remove my winter jacket and we sit down in the living room. With its Soviet-style orange wallpaper and brown drapes, this place looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the eighties, but the ratty couch we’re sitting on is surprisingly comfortable. Maybe I will take him up on his offer to sleep here. That is, if they don’t kill me and dump my body in the river before sunrise.
I think my captor was just testing my language skills with that proposal, but I can’t be sure.
“Mina?” the man prompts, and I realize I zoned out instead of answering his question. Now that some of the adrenaline is fading, the extreme exhaustion is back, muddling my thoughts and slowing my reactions. I want nothing more than to stretch out on this couch and fall asleep, but I might not wake up if I do.
The Russians might decide that what I heard merits killing me rather than just keeping me captive overnight.
“I’ve worked there for a few months,” I answer, my voice shaking. It’s easy to sound terrified, because I am.
I’m with two men who may want to kill me, and I’m in no state to defend myself.
The only thing that gives me hope is that they haven’t already done so. They could’ve easily murdered me in the alley; they didn’t need to bring me here for that. Of course, there’s another possibility, one that every woman must consider.
They might be planning to rape me before killing me, in which case bringing me here makes perfect sense.
The thought makes my stomach churn, the old memories threatening to crowd in, but underneath the fear and disgust is something darker, infinitely more fucked up. The brief sizzle of arousal I’d experienced at the bar was nothing compared to how it had felt when the dangerous stranger caged me against the wall, caressing my face with that cruel gentleness. My body—the weak, ruined body I’ve spent the past year hating—had come to life with such force, it was as if fireworks had ignited under my skin, liquifying my core and burning away my inhibitions.
Was he able to sense it?
Did he know how badly I wanted him to keep touching me?
I think he did. And more than that, I think he wanted to. His eyes—a hard, gem-like green—had watched me with the dark intensity of a predator, taking in every twitch of my lashes, every hitch of my breath. If we’d been alone, he might’ve kissed me… or killed me on the spot.
It’s hard to tell with him.
“Do you like it? Working at the bar, I mean?” the tattooed man asks, bringing my attention back to him. Now he is easy to read. There’s unmistakable male interest in the way he looks at me, an obvious gleam in his green eyes.
Wait a sec. Green eyes?
“Are you two brothers?” I blurt out, then silently curse myself. I’m so tired I’m not thinking straight. The last thing I need is for these two to imagine I’m gathering infor
mation on them, or—
“We are.” A smile lights up his broad face, softening his harsh features. “Twins, in fact.”
Shit. I did not need to know that. The next thing I know, he’ll be telling me his—
“I’m Ilya, by the way,” he says, extending one big paw toward me. “And my brother’s name is Yan.”
Oh, fuck. I’m so screwed. They are going to kill me. “Nice to meet you,” I say weakly, shaking his hand on autopilot. My grip is as limp as my voice, but that’s okay. I’m playing a damsel in distress, and the more convincing I am, the better.
Too bad the act is mostly real these days.
Ilya squeezes my hand gingerly, as if afraid of inadvertently crushing my bones, and hope nibbles at me. He wouldn’t be so careful with me if they were planning to brutally rape and kill me, would he?
As if reading my thoughts, he gives me another smile, an even kinder one this time, and says gruffly, “I’m sorry about my brother. He’s used to seeing enemies around every corner. You will walk away from this unharmed, I promise you, malyshka. We need to keep you overnight as a precaution, that’s all.”
Strangely, I believe him. Or at least I believe that he intends me no harm. The jury is still out on his brother—who chooses that exact moment to walk in, carrying a cup of tea in one hand and two beers in the other.
My breath catches in my throat as he—Yan—sets the drinks on the coffee table in front of us and sits down between me and Ilya, unapologetically wedging himself into the too-small space. Instinctively, I scoot to the side, as far as the couch allows, but that’s only about six centimeters, and my leg ends up pressed against his, the heat of his body burning me even through the layers of our clothing.
He’s shed the suede winter jacket he was wearing earlier, and is now dressed like he was at the bar, in the stylish dress pants and button-up shirt. Except his sleeves are rolled up, exposing muscular forearms lightly dusted with dark hair.
