by Zaires, Anna
No meaningless words are said when he unzips his fly and takes out his cock. I open my legs and allow the touch of his hands to chase away the shivers of my body and the chill of my heart. He stretches out over me, supporting his weight on a hand next to my head. He fists the other around the root of his cock and aligns it with my opening. I sigh when he sinks into me, embracing the feelings he offers. The rocking of his hips makes me forget. I go with the ebb and flow, surrendering my fear. The shivering stops as my back scrapes over the rough wood of the bench and my arms pull at the ropes. I give over to the gentle pace of this strange, soft coupling, knowing everything from here on is out of my control.
He doesn’t kiss me again. He watches me as he touches my clit and brings me closer to the edge. He’s kind after all, this ruthless killer, giving me pleasure as a distraction. My need climbs. My back arches. In that split second before everything unravels, panic hits. Claustrophobia strangles me. I toss in my constraints, frantic with helplessness. I need to hold on to him.
“Shh.” He kisses my lips. “I’ve got you.”
I desperately need to hold on to something, so I cling to his gaze. He lets me. He doesn’t close his eyes or hide his pleasure. He gives it to me truthfully. He shows me the rawness that reflects in my body.
True to his word, he’s there for me when my body bows and the climax tears me apart. I turn warm inside. He fills me up with his release, pumping as if he’s set on making me take every drop. I’m drowning in his heat, his smell, and the angry undercurrent that’s always present between us, especially during his release. I’m high on endorphins, floating in a euphoric space. Vaguely, I’m aware of him taking something from his pocket and pushing it against my neck. The sharp prick of a needle registers too late.
My vision swims, and I start to drift away. Straining my neck, I force my head up and desperately try to claw my way through the haze. I try to hold on to that ice-green stare with all my might, but it slips out of my reach.
His words are soft, spoken in Russian. “Let go, Minochka.”
The beautiful sound of his mother tongue strokes over my senses, as does the term of endearment.
Poisonous words.
Poison seems fitting.
He catches my head when my neck fails to support the weight.
He’s still inside me when I drag in a final, laborious breath. The last word I speak when I blow out that breath is his name.
Part III
14
Mina
The nightmare is horrendous. I’m back in the car with my parents, seconds before we take the bend in the road. I ask for a cookie. My mother smiles back at me. Her hair is loose and soft around her face. My father takes her hand. She tells me I have to wait a little bit longer. We’ll have dinner soon. My body jerks forward as my father slams on the brakes. The man taps on his window with a gun, his lips pulled back over his gums in a grin.
I scream and scream.
“Mina!”
Shaking. Somebody shakes the car with me still inside. My brain sloshes in my skull. My head hurts. Mommy. Daddy. Their eyes are open, but they’re not replying. “No!”
More shaking. “Mina.” A hard voice, speaking in Russian. “Wake up.”
That voice. The rough timbre is familiar. There’s a memory of strong hands cradling my head, a gentle voice urging me to let go. I want to heed it, to sink back into the darkness where dreams don’t exist, but the shaking won’t let me. A warning pierces through the daze, and that too won’t let me go.
Yan.
It’s like a knife jabbed into my chest.
Gasping, I jerk into a sitting position.
“Easy.” The strong hands from my memory push me down.
My back hits a soft surface. I blink, battling to focus. The light makes the pain in my head worse.
“Drink this.”
A hand folds under my nape and lifts my head. My gaze collides with an ice-green one. Yan stares at me soberly.
He slips a pill onto my tongue and brings a bottle of water to my lips. “For the headache.”
I’m alive. “You didn’t kill me,” I mutter, battling to make sense of anything.
“I gave you a sedative.”
“But the dinner…”
He arches a brow, waiting for me to finish.
“The fancy crockery, the wine,” I continue hoarsely, “it was a last meal.”
“You needed to stock up on energy for the long trip.”
I lick my dry lips. “How long have I been out for?”
He checks his watch. “Twenty hours.”
I look around in panic. The room is small but modern. The white walls are adorned with framed photographs. They’re black-and-white landscapes. “Where am I?”
“Prague.”
I try to sit up again. “What?”
He prevents me. “You’re at my place. Keep still. The sedative was strong. It needs to work itself out of your system.”
“Ah.” Ilya’s bulky frame appears in the door. “You’re awake.”
Yan tenses. “Barely. Give her a moment.”
Ilya’s expression turns sour, but he leaves.
Yan puts the water on the nightstand. “You should drink as much as you can. Your body needs fluids. It’ll help with the pain. Much of the headache is due to dehydration.”
“You didn’t kill me,” I say again, posing the phrase as a question.
He smiles, but it’s not friendly.
Immense relief flows through me, and then the anger hits. “You let me believe you were going to kill me.”
He gives me a strange look. “I’d never kill you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you get?”
“Why am I here?”
“Rest for now,” he says tersely. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
He pats my hand that lies on top of the covers. “Get your strength back.” His voice drops an octave. “You’re going to need it.”
“Wait,” I say when he turns for the door, but he leaves and closes it behind him.
Rigid, I prick up my ears for the turn of a key. Nothing. He didn’t lock me in.
I take better stock of my surroundings. I’m lying in a big bed. The pillow smells of him, Yan. That deliciously airy, sensual scent. The sheets are silky and the blanket soft. High-thread Egyptian cotton. From the weight of the comforter resting on top of the blanket, it’s the goose feather variety. He has luxurious taste.
Sitting up, I lift the covers and peek underneath. I’m still wearing Yan’s shirt and nothing else. I throw the heavy comforter aside and swing my legs from the bed. The hardwood floor is warm. Under-floor heating. It seems like an excessive luxury. It’s only late summer.
I pad to the window and push away the curtain. We’re on the third floor. The ornate bars in front of the window prevent me from climbing through. The street below is quiet, and the building on the opposite side looks similar to this one. It’s a white block with square windows. They all have differently colored curtains.
Apartments. It’s a residential area.
I go back to inspecting the room. There’s a dresser and a closet. I feel the drawers. They’re locked. A door off to the side gives access to a bathroom. Like the room, it’s small, but the accessories are fancy. The shower is fitted with a high-tech nozzle. I shut the door, turn the lock, and open the tap. While the water runs warm, I pull off the shirt. It’s smelly. Wrinkling my nose, I dump it in the laundry basket.
Getting under the spray of water is like heaven. I make quick work of cleaning myself, using the forest-scented shower gel and shampoo. Grabbing a towel from the rack, I wrap it around my body. The fabric is warm. It must be a heating rack. I don’t need a brush for my short hair. My fingers work well enough.
I regard my face in the mirror. There are faint bruises in shades of yellow. They’ll be gone in a couple of days. My lip is healing well, too.
A new toot
hbrush still in its plastic wrapping lies on the basin. I use it to brush my teeth and look around for clothes, but there’s nothing.
The pill must be kicking in. The headache is almost gone and I feel more like a human being than I’ve felt during the past four days. It gives me hope. I’m alive. I have another shot at escaping.
Tiptoeing to the closed door, I put my ear against it. Male voices come from the other side, talking in Russian.
“We need to lure Dimitrov out of his fortress and away from his guards,” Yan says. “The order was clear. No other casualties.”
Ilya’s louder voice booms through the space. “Why can’t we just pop him in public?”
“The risks are too high,” a voice I don’t recognize says. “He’s always surrounded by his bodyguards.”
Ilya again. “What about when he’s at the casinos?”
“Same,” Yan replies. “We’ll never get a clear shot.”
“I say we use the fact that he’s an art collector,” the unfamiliar voice says. “We can fake an invitation to an event.”
“He’s too clever,” Yan says. “His personal buyers will check the authenticity of any event. Besides, his art dealings are shady. They mostly happen secretly behind closed doors.”
If they’re talking about who I think, they’re referring to Casmir Dimitrov, a powerful Balkan crime group leader who runs a chain of casinos as a guise for drug smuggling. He also collects stolen art. These criminals open businesses in the Czech Republic to gain residency, and then use the well-developed road and air infrastructure to transport their drugs. If Yan and his friends are planning a hit on Casmir, they’ve got a hell of a job on their hands. The man is the best-guarded criminal in Prague.
“Shouldn’t your waitress be up by now?” the stranger asks.
I lean away from the door as a chair scrapes over the floor.
Before one of them can come looking for me and discover me eavesdropping, I grip the handle and open the door. Barging in on them looks less suspicious.
Ilya and a man who looks vaguely familiar sit at a table in the corner of an open-plan kitchen-lounge. Yan is on his feet. The men pause at my entrance, three sets of eyes trailing over me.
“Well, hello, little waitress,” the stranger says. “Right on time.” There’s nothing friendly about his dark eyes. If anything, they’re malicious. His thick black beard is neatly trimmed, and his shoulder-length hair is tied into a ponytail. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, and is sporting a Glock and some impressive knives in his gun and knife holsters.
Another dangerous man. Handsome, in a vicious sort of way, but very dangerous.
Yan clenches his jaw. “Go back to the room, Mina.”
“I don’t have clothes to wear,” I say in Russian.
Yan narrows his eyes. “Which part of go to the room didn’t you understand? Do you need me to say it in Hungarian?”
The stranger chuckles.
Yan turns on him. “Something funny, Anton?”
“No.” Anton lifts his hands. “Nothing.”
Yan’s voice is icy. “Good.”
Of course. That’s where I recognize him from. Anton Rezov is part of their team. One of the Delta Force men was disguised to look like him.
“Are you hungry?” Ilya asks me.
“Get in there.” Yan points at the door behind me. “Now. We’ll sort out the food when you’re dressed.” His tone takes on a challenge. “Or must I carry you?”
Anton whistles through his teeth. “Territorial much?”
Before my entry can cause a fight, I go back to the room and shut the door. Clutching the towel at my chest, I sit down on the bed. It doesn’t take long for Yan to come find me.
The door bangs in the frame as he shuts it. “You don’t walk around naked in front of the men again. Understood?”
His outburst unsettles me. I give a nervous nod.
He grabs my wrist and pulls me up. “Come.”
The towel drops to the bed. I reach for it, but we’re already at the door. “Wait.”
He looks back at me, his gaze heating as he drags it over my naked body. “You’ll do like this.”
“What? I thought you said—”
“The others are out.”
“Out?”
“Picking up provisions.”
He opens the door and pulls me through it. I’m overly conscious of my unclad body, something new to me. Why does he have this effect on me?
Pushing me down on one of the chairs by the table, he orders, “Stay.”
I don’t move. Instead, I watch with a pounding heart as he takes a container from the fridge and dumps it in the microwave. Then he fills a glass with milk and puts it down in front of me. When the microwave pings, he serves the food onto a plate and hands it to me with a fork.
“Eat.” He stands over me, watching.
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s the aftereffect of the drugs. You need to eat. Must I feed you?”
At that, I bring the fork to my lips. It’s shepherd’s pie, the commercial kind.
He makes me finish everything on the plate and drink all the milk before he asks, “How’s your head?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” He puts the dirty dishes in the sink and takes my hand. “Come. It’s time we have that chat about why you’re here.”
My throat goes dry.
He leads me to the bedroom where he takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the dresser. Grabbing a T-shirt from a drawer, he throws it at me. I catch it in mid-air. It’s big. It must be his. I pull it hastily over my head.
He comes to stand in front of me, his much taller frame intimidating as his green eyes glint at me coolly. “You were right. I was supposed to kill you.”
The news is cold coffee, as Hanna likes to say, but it still rattles me. “But you didn’t.”
“No.” His lazy smile is filled with familiar frost. “I didn’t. What does that mean?”
That my life is his. This is how it works in our world. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Whatever I please.”
“I’ll only be a burden, a mouth to feed, a prisoner you’ll constantly have to prevent from escaping.”
His eyes tighten. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I’m only stating the facts.”
His cool smile returns. “You won’t be a burden. Far from it. I can think of many ways to make you useful. And you won’t escape.”
There’s more to the last declaration. My stomach tight, I wait for him to continue.
“While you were out cold,” he says, “I planted a tracker in you.”
The strength leaves my legs. I sink down onto the edge of the bed. Lifting my arms, I inspect them for cuts.
“It’s at the back of your neck,” he says, studying me with his frosty eyes.
I lift my fingers to my nape. Sure as hell, there’s a small scab. The bump under my skin is merely the size of a rice grain. It doesn’t hurt. That’s why I didn’t notice it when I took my shower.
“Should you ever be foolish enough to run, you won’t get far,” he says, “but I advise you not to test me.”
“All of this because I framed you?” I ask, breathless with disbelief.
A part of me knows otherwise. Already back in Budapest, before he knew who I was, he was planning this. The fact that he’s capable of taking and keeping a person for no reason other than wanting to says a lot about this man I hardly know.
“What about Sokolov?” I ask when he doesn’t reply. “What if he finds out you didn’t kill me?”
“How do you know he wanted you dead?”
“I overheard you talking outside the shed.”
“As long as you stay out of Sokolov’s way, it won’t be a problem. He’s busy enough picking up the pieces of his life.”
I don’t ask about that. The less I know, the better.
The front door opens to a duo of laughter. Ilya and Anton step through the frame, carrying shoppin
g bags. They fall silent when they spot us inside the bedroom. Anton stares at me narrowly as he dumps the bags on the kitchen counter and starts unpacking groceries.
Ilya comes into the bedroom with a boutique bag. Smiling, he hands it to me. “I hope it’s your size. I think it’ll fit.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. Walking around in Yan’s T-shirt makes me feel vulnerable, especially around Anton.
When Ilya leaves, Anton is still glaring at me.
Yan’s order is brusque. “Get dressed.”
Slipping into the bathroom, I pull on the clothes. The underwear is pink lace. The brand-name jeans and T-shirt are a little too big, but the socks and sneakers fit.
I step out to find the bedroom door still open. Anton is sitting on the couch, watching television and eating peanuts. Ilya is playing solitaire at the table, and Yan is working on his laptop. Uncertainly, I hover in the frame. How is this supposed to work? What am I supposed to do? Hide in the bedroom?
Anton throws a peanut in the air and catches it with his mouth. “Why don’t you get us each a beer instead of standing there?”
Yan lifts a glacial gaze over his laptop. “Get it yourself. She’s not your servant.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be a waitress?” Anton asks with his mouth full.
The accusation is silent. I get it. In their eyes, I betrayed them.
Walking to the fridge, I pull it open and take out a beer. When I pass the table on the way to the couch, Yan grabs my wrist. His grip is painful. He says nothing, but he takes the beer from my hand, pops the can, takes a sip, and puts it down next to him. Then he goes back to work.
Anton snickers. “She may as well fix dinner. What else is she going to do?”
“Enough.” Yan’s tone is even.
“He’s right, you know.” I cross my arms. “What am I going to do?”
This time, Yan doesn’t stop me when I go through the cupboards and take out ingredients from the fridge. I’d rather keep busy than sit around doing nothing and going out of my mind. I chop up onions and carrots for a goulash, peel the potatoes, and fry the meat. This is easy for me. Hanna is old school. She believes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and she insisted on teaching me to cook. She still hopes I’ll find a man and settle down.
