by Zaires, Anna
“What?” she cries out, pushing on my chest. “What about my clothes and furniture?”
I press on her back to prevent her from rising. I like her where she is. “Don’t fret. I put everything in storage.”
“You can’t do that!”
I pin her with a look. “I can do whatever I want.” My words aren’t warm, and the message even less so. I pull her face to the crook of my neck. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we contact your friends.”
Her sigh is exaggerated, rebellious. I grin.
I should shower and change the sheets, but I can’t make myself leave the bed. Not when I’m holding her like this. It gives me a feeling of warmth, of something I’ve never had. She must be tired, because seconds later, her soft, even breaths fill the room.
* * *
Her stirring sometime in the middle of the night jostles me awake. She’s a restless sleeper. I know that from our first night together. I turn us on our sides and drag her body against mine. It settled her that night in Budapest, but not tonight. Her muscles tense. She mumbles something, then repeats it.
“No.”
I shake her gently. “Mina.”
“No!”
“Mina, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
Her lashes lift. I watch her face in the moonlight. There’s terror in her eyes.
“Nightmare?” I know all about those.
She rolls onto her back and throws an arm over her forehead. “Sorry I woke you.”
“Was it the same one as this morning?”
Dropping her arm to her side, she stares at the ceiling. “What does it matter?”
“Tell me about it.”
Her gaze meets mine. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
She tries to turn away, but I catch her waist. “Tell me.”
“Why? What do you care?”
“It helps.”
She scoffs. “Does it help you?”
I don’t give her an answer she already knows. “Maybe talking will make it better for you.”
She smiles sadly. For a moment, her eyes soften as she cups my cheek, but then she pulls away.
I’m not letting this go. Once, yes. But having the same nightmare twice? I want to know what this is about. Mina is no angel. She’s not unfamiliar with sights and deeds that would make grown men spill their guts. Whatever the dream is about, it’s bad.
“Don’t make me drag it out of you,” I say.
She sighs. “A car hijacking. There. Happy?”
I push up on an elbow. “When did it happen?”
“A long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“Six.”
And it still haunts her? “Who was driving?”
“My father.” She swallows. “Both my parents were in the car.”
“What happened?”
“Two armed men forced us to get out.”
I rub her arm. I didn’t think I had compassion left in me, but my heart clenches because I know even before I ask, “Were you injured?”
“Not me. They shot my parents.”
Fuck. Just like that, she switches off, her expression going blank. I grip her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“As I said, it was a long time ago.” She turns on her side and folds her hands under the pillow.
I spoon her from behind and throw an arm around her waist, holding her close until she falls asleep again. Me, I’m battling to wrap my mind around the information she shared. I try to picture a six-year-old Mina with a tiny body and big blue eyes standing next to the corpses of her parents.
Other than Ilya, I don’t have family—unless you count the abusive uncle who raised us until we turned fifteen. The only feeling I had for that alcoholic pig was hatred. My mother was a village girl who died in childbirth. My father is unknown. It’s hard for me to imagine what it must feel like to lose your parents. All I know is it would rip me apart if anything were to happen to Ilya, even if he can sometimes be an ass. Physically speaking, my brother is a little bigger and stronger, but I was the one who took responsibility for us. I took care of him like he was my younger brother, not my twin. I wanted to save him from the horrors I couldn’t save myself from.
Looking at the sleeping form of the small woman who fits perfectly in the curve of my body, I make a mental note to find out more about her past. No, not more. Everything. I want to know all of it.
With that resolution, I finally fall asleep.
* * *
It’s early when I wake. I try not to disturb Mina, but her eyes open when I stir. She stretches and flinches.
My body heats at the recollection of why her muscles are sore. I want to do that to her again. And again. But I restrain myself. I can at least give her until tonight to recover. Besides, I have a hit to focus on. I shouldn’t be spending hours in bed, behaving like a sex addict.
I sit up. “Can I get you something? A painkiller?”
“I just need a shower.”
She throws off the covers and swings her legs over the bed. I lean back against the headboard, intent on enjoying the show, but when she gets up and flashes me with a view of her ass, I still, the heat in my veins turning cold.
Her beautiful, pale skin is marred with bruises. On her sides, her ass, her thighs. Everywhere I fucking touched her. Self-directed anger combusts in my chest. I hate those marks on her. I hate spoiling her flawless skin. I hate knowing I hurt her like that.
She looks at me from over her shoulder. “What?”
Her gaze follows mine, slipping down to her ass and legs. Her face turns paper white, her delicate skin even more translucent than normal.
“Mina.” I grate out the words. “I didn’t realize I was so rough.”
She plasters on a smile. “It’s nothing.”
I jump from the bed, walking to her with long strides. “It’s not.” Gripping her shoulders, I turn her to face me. “I want you to tell me if I hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
She pulls away. “It’ll fade.”
When she tries to escape to the bathroom, I go after her. I don’t know who’s more upset, her or me. She has more reason, that’s for sure.
I can’t stop beating myself up as I get into the shower with her and take the shampoo from her hand. I wash her tiny scalp, so small I can crack it like a nut. So fragile, and I ruined her.
I try to make it up to her by being extra gentle as I wash her. To smooth over my error by kissing her gently while massaging her shoulders under the running water. I’ve never taken responsibility for a woman before, and I’m already fucking it up.
She dresses while I shave. After, I take her to the kitchen for breakfast.
Anton is drinking coffee by the counter. Ilya is sitting at the table with a stack of toast in front of him.
Seeing us, my brother jumps up and pulls out a chair. “Sit here, Mina.”
I didn’t like that she ate like a servant in the kitchen last night, so I overlook Ilya’s eagerness to make her comfortable.
“Want some toast?” he asks. “Here. I’ll butter it.”
I grab a piece from his plate and take a bite on my way to the kitchen. “It’s cold. I’ll make fresh ones.”
Mina smiles at Ilya. “You’re sweet.”
“Sweet?” He tries to make a mean face, but the idiot is grinning like a cartoon cat.
“Like a teddy bear,” she says.
Anton snort-laughs.
“I like teddy bears,” Ilya throws back over his shoulder at Anton.
I pop bread in the toaster and pour two cups of coffee.
“We’ve got a site for the meeting with Dimitrov in mind,” Anton says.
I drop a cube of sugar in each cup. “Where?”
“Hotel Paris,” he says. “It’s one of Natasha Petrova’s favorite hangouts. She often dines at the Sarah Bernhardt restaurant.” He grins. “And what’s more appropriate than setting up a meeting to sell a
stolen masterpiece in the Gustave Klimt suite?”
I rub a hand over my chin. “Security will be top notch.”
Anton nods. “Ilya and I want to go check it out this morning.”
“If the government puts pressure on the hotel manager to play along, security shouldn’t be a problem,” Ilya says. “We’ll only have to worry about Dimitrov’s guards.”
“We better be sure we can trust the manager.” Many high-end professionals here are in cahoots with the crime groups. “I’ll get our hackers on the case to see what background information they can find. Meet us in the bar before lunch. I’d like to get a feel for the place.”
“Thanks,” Mina says when I hand her a warm slice of toast and a cup of coffee.
By the time Mina and I are done eating, Anton and Ilya are on their way.
“Need anything from town, Mina?” Ilya asks. “I didn’t get too many clothes. I wasn’t sure about the size.”
“No, thanks,” I say flatly. “We’ll shop on the way.”
Ilya grabs his jacket from the chair back and stomps after Anton. When the door closes, Mina gets up and starts clearing the table. I study her closely. She’s been quiet. The marks on her body bother her. She says otherwise, but the frown on her pretty forehead hasn’t smoothed out since she saw the bruises.
“Come here,” I say.
She walks to my chair like an obedient girl.
I hand her the phone that the guys who delivered her to us had taken off her. I made sure it’s charged and not bugged. “Call your friends.” When she unlocks the screen, I grab her hand. “On speakerphone.”
She calls and explains what she needs. We negotiate a price, and all is set. The disguises guy, a man called Simon, agrees to meet us at his shop before noon.
Pocketing her phone, I offer her a hand. “I’ll take you on a tour of the apartment.” Or rather, the small part she hasn’t seen yet. She’s going to live here now, after all.
I show her the room and en-suite bathroom Ilya and Anton are sharing. The space isn’t big, but it’s ample by Prague’s standards.
“I’m sure you have enough money to afford a mansion,” she says when the quick tour is over.
“I’m sure you do, too.”
She avoids my eyes. “What’s the point? I’m not home—wasn’t home—very often.”
“Neither am I.”
She’s hiding something. My well-developed sixth sense is never wrong.
On the way downstairs, I text our hackers and instruct them to get information on Mina Belan, a.k.a. Mink.
We get into a car Anton rented for the duration of our stay in Prague and drive to a boutique that stocks the kind of clothing Mina fancies, at least from what I’ve seen at the bar. Sure enough, she goes straight for the ripped jeans and badass T-shirts. While she’s trying on a pair of combat boots, I flip through a rack of dresses. I take out a crocheted one. It’s nude-pink. Cute.
I throw it in her lap. “Go try that on.”
She stills in the middle of pulling off one of the boots, and looks at the heap of fabric in her lap before gaping at me. “Are you kidding?”
I raise a brow. Do I ever? Arms crossed, I wait.
Sparks detonate in her eyes. My little assassin doesn’t like to be told what to do, or what to wear, for that matter. I grin at her, which only makes the anger in her pretty eyes burn hotter.
She grabs the dress and checks the label. “It’ll fit.”
“If you say so.”
The shop assistant comes over. “Can I help you with anything?”
I motion at the dress in Mina’s hand. “We need shoes to go with that.”
“Of course,” the lady says. “Size?”
“Thirty-six,” Mina answers, her spitfire eyes still trained on me.
“What about a bag to round off the outfit?” the woman asks.
“Sure,” I say.
When the woman walks away, Mina says bitingly, “That’s not Petrova’s style.”
Leaning over her, I place my hands on either side of her body, caging her in on the pouf. I bring my lips to her ear, over the delicate shell with the multiple piercings that are simultaneously rebellious and hot, strangely feminine. “This isn’t about a disguise.” I rub my lips over her skin. “Far from it.”
She leans so far back to escape my touch her abdominal muscles must be straining. “No? What is it about?”
I give her a slow smile. “Me.”
A woman clears her throat. I straighten. The shop assistant stands there with a pair of nude-pink heels and a matching bag.
“How about these shoes, ma’am? Would you like to try them on?”
“No,” Mina says like a defiant child.
“It’s her size,” I remark dryly, taking the items from the woman to go pay.
Armed with five shopping bags, we get into the rental and drive to the address Mina gives me. Simon operates from an antique store in the old town. He seems legit. I had him checked out.
When we arrive, he puts a closed sign on the door and guides us to the back of the shop. Unlocking another door, he takes us into a vault room. I keep a hand on the gun in the back of my waistband under my jacket. The guy is eighty years old, but you never know. Mina hates me enough to set a trap. Caged beings never stop fighting for freedom. I can never let my guard down around her.
The old man shows me to a sofa. While he and Mina go through an arsenal of disguises, pulling items off shelves, I check my email for a message from our hackers, and keep one eye on Mina and Simon as I scan through the information.
Mina was born in the Czech Republic. Shortly after, her parents moved to Budapest, Hungary, where her grandmother is originally from. The grandmother, Hanna, raised her after her parents’ murder. Even as a child, Mina showed exceptional endurance, excellent sports skills, and an aptitude for languages, along with above-average intelligence. Psychological reports state a lack of empathy. The speculated reason is the trauma from the murders. Treatment was interrupted after a few years of unsuccessful results. The diagnosis is incomplete. The Hungarian Special Forces recruited her in her final year of school.
I lower the phone to stare at her, this beautiful, strange, gifted girl with the complex history. Of course the Special Forces snapped her up. She makes the perfect soldier. And paired with that body and face, an even better spy. Who wouldn’t fall for her in a wink? I realized how dangerous she was, but I haven’t appreciated the full force of it until now. Yet there’s something vulnerable about her too, something that awakens my protective side. I can’t put my finger on it. I only know that it makes me want to lock her up in a glass cage in a very high tower, out of reach of everyone but me.
My stomach tightens when I think about how she may have used her skills in the line of duty. Not the fighting kind of skills, but the pretty little flower between her legs, the perfectly rounded breasts.
But no. Since we captured her, she hasn’t used her body to manipulate me. When we fuck, it’s raw. Pure. That kind of honesty can’t be faked.
Irrational jealousy somewhat abated, I return my attention to the report. She stayed with the Special Forces for six years and took up a job as a waitress when she resigned at the age of twenty-four. For the past five years, she’s been working on and off at several bars in Budapest. The part-time bar gigs obviously offered flexibility, as well as a means of staying legal. During that time, she made frequent trips abroad, claiming vacationing on her visas as the reason for the visits. There’s nothing that links Mina to Mink. She’s been careful.
With regards to Mink, our hackers couldn’t dig up much. Her name came up here and there, mostly in outsourced government assassinations, but there’s nothing concrete. Her jobs must’ve been strictly by word of mouth.
“I’m ready,” my little assassin says.
I look up, studying her with new admiration. What she accomplished isn’t easy. No one understands what it takes better than I do. Not for the first time, I wish things could’ve been different between
us. The logical part of me knows loyalty doesn’t exist for our kind—we’re ruled by money—but the unreasonable part of me doesn’t care. It only cares that I meant little enough for her to frame me.
Sometimes, things just are what they are.
I get to my feet. “Let’s go.”
Taking the heavy case from her, I lock it in the trunk and drive us to the Hotel Paris. On the outside, the building looks like a Bohemian castle, but it only dates back to 1904.
We walk inside like we own the place. When in Rome and all that. That’s how you attract the least attention. The foyer shows the appropriate amount of luxury. I count the ceiling cameras and number of security personnel on the floor. Then I check the emergency exit and staff entrance while Mina takes what will appear to be tourist photos with my phone.
Approaching the concierge, I query the availability of the Gustave Klimt suite without asking for the price, and tip the guy. Not so outrageously as to be remembered. Just enough to sink away in the sea of the norm in his memory. Then we make our way to the bar.
We sit down at a table in the back, and I order two beers while we wait for Ilya and Anton. I use the time to send further instructions to our hackers, asking for whereabouts of Natasha Petrova, as well as her future schedule. She’s a social butterfly. It should be fairly easy to pin her down at any given time.
Mina sits quietly next to me. She hasn’t touched her beer. It’s a warm day, nice weather outside. Yet despite the sunshine, she looks pale.
I drag my beer closer. “Not thirsty?” Taking a sip, I study her carefully over the rim of my glass.
She looks at me quickly, as if she’s forgotten about my presence. No, she’ll never forget why she’s here or who she’s with. She was somewhere else, somewhere deep in her mind.
She forces a smile. “Just tired.”
The tension in my chest gives a fraction at the reasonable explanation. “It’s the drugs.” They should’ve been out of her system by now, but she’s tiny. The effect will last longer.
I order a smorgasbord and push it toward her when it arrives. At my insistence, she nibbles unenthusiastically on a tiny lox sandwich.
Just before one, Anton and Ilya walk in. They join us at our table and order beers. By the time they’ve filled me in on their observations, they’ve cleaned the plate I ordered, so I get the bar lunch next. Mina has to eat.
