by Zaires, Anna
He shakes his head. “Cookies weren’t thick on the ground where I came from. If I’d ever eaten a Mink, I would’ve remembered.”
I fold my arms around his waist, giving him comfort, because all kids deserve cookies.
“What happened after you started walking?” he asks.
“I walked for hours, I think. A car eventually came past. The driver pulled over. She was a kind lady, on her way to visit her family. She gave me a lift to the nearest police station. They contacted my grandmother.”
He brushes a thumb over my side. “When did you get the tattoo?”
“The minute I turned eighteen. It’s my own version of a memorial stone.”
“That’s nice. I’m sure they would’ve approved.” He lifts his hand to my neck and traces the tattoo there. “What about the hummingbird?”
It’s hard not to stiffen and give myself away. “It symbolizes life.”
And what good does it do me now? I got it after my first treatment of chemotherapy as a small token of victory, a symbol of my fight to live. For the majority of that first year after being diagnosed, I hated my body for its defect, for failing me when I ate healthily, worked out religiously, and needed my dangerous job like I needed air and food. And it wasn’t only because of the money. The adrenaline of the missions made me feel alive. It was the only thing reminding me I still have a heart.
Until Yan. Now he reminds me of that, too. In so many other ways.
“I like it,” he says.
“You do?”
He traces the piercings in my ear with a finger. “Everything.”
“Why?” A part of me wants him to admit to liking more than just what he sees on the surface.
“You know why.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m sure you’re aware of the effect you have on men.”
This time, I’m not quick enough to hide the rigidity that sets into my muscles. Yan isn’t a fool, and he’s exceptionally clever at reading people. Especially me, it seems.
He grips my chin, his perceptive gaze narrowing. “After Budapest, how many men did you sleep with?”
He means after we fucked like animals in his bed. I give him the truth. “None.”
His gaze sharpens further, a tinge of possessive darkness bleeding into the magnificent green depths of his eyes. “And before Budapest?”
That’s a truth I’m not prepared to share. I pull away, but he holds tight.
“Answer me, Mina.”
“I had a few flings after school. None of them were ever serious.”
“That’s not what I asked. Before me, when was the last time?”
I bite my lip. “I can’t remember.”
“I think you can.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
His hard features are thoughtful as he considers me. “Was it before or after you left the military?”
I know him well enough to know he’s not going to let it go. “Before,” I admit softly.
His hold is tight, his question unrelenting. “Why?”
“After the incident, I couldn’t let a man touch me.”
“Why me, then?”
“Why you what?” I ask, stalling.
“Why did you sleep with me? Was it a diversion to escape? Or did you think I’d kill you otherwise?”
Ilya’s accusation comes back to me. He said I slept with Yan because I believed it was fuck him or die. Now Yan wants to know if I only had sex with him to save my own skin. It’s tempting to lie to protect myself, but what we shared is too big to let him believe this.
“I slept with you because I wanted to,” I admit. “I thought my body was dead for all men, but you broke that spell. You made me come alive.”
Satisfaction and pure male possession darken his eyes. In a wink, he turns into the predator who stalks me. I’m pressed down and pinned underneath him before I can drag in a breath.
“I told you we were two of a kind,” he says against my lips. “I haven’t fucked another woman since you either, and your hands definitely make my body come alive.”
To prove it, he grinds his erection against me, letting me feel my effect on him. And this time, my skin heats in response, my breathing picking up as my body—the one he’d brought back to life in Budapest—comes awake with a rush, the earlier malaise disappearing.
“I want you,” he says huskily. “Still tired?”
“No.” And spreading my legs, I wrap them around his hips, allowing him to touch me, to make me feel all the beauty and pain of being alive.
* * *
When morning comes, I’m woken with a tender kiss on my shoulder. “Time to get up.”
I snuggle deeper under the covers as Yan gets out of bed. What’s the point? I have nowhere to be, nothing to do. I’ll just stay here until mid-morning, or noon, or evening.
“Ilya is making pancakes,” Yan says.
“I’m not hungry.”
I pull the sheet over my head, only to shriek when the warm comforter is suddenly jerked from my body and a rush of cool air contracts my skin.
“What the—?”
Yan throws a T-shirt and a pair of shorts at me. “Get up.”
I grab the pieces of clothing grudgingly. “What’s your problem?”
“We’re going jogging.”
“What?”
“You need to get out, to exercise. That’s why you’re so grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re depressed.”
“I’m not depressed!”
He regards me with his hands propped on his hips, a frown marring his brow. “Denial is the first symptom of depression.”
“Fine. Label me however you like. I’ve been called worse.”
He grabs my ankle and yanks me to the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing?” I squeal.
“I’ll drag you outside in your T-shirt and panties, or you can get dressed. Your choice.”
“Asshole,” I mumble, sitting up.
He grins. “Call me that again, and you won’t sit for a week.”
I shut my mouth, because I don’t doubt he’ll make good on his threat.
“Now, Mina.” He has the audacity to snap his fingers at me on the way to the bathroom.
“Hardheaded mule,” I mutter, getting out of bed.
We dress without speaking, me sulking and him in an irritatingly good mood. When we enter the quiet living area, it’s clear Anton and Ilya aren’t up yet. I give Yan a narrowed glare. He lied about the pancakes.
“Don’t fret,” he says with a wink. “I’ll make you pancakes when we get back.”
He drapes an exercise towel around my neck and pushes me to the door. “Let’s go.”
I suck in the early morning air as we hit the street, and fall into pace next to him as he starts jogging toward the old town. His pace is taxing, but as soon as my body feels the tease of adrenaline, it perks up. My energy returns with a rush. I keep up, and even give him a run for his money. We jog for a good hour before we stop to do some resistance training, using an outdoor exercise area in a park.
I’m sweating by the time we’re done, but a lot happier than when we left his apartment. The strenuous workout was exactly what I needed.
“See?” he says, giving me a gentle punch on the shoulder. “I was right.”
I roll my eyes. “All men think they’re right.”
“Admit it,” he says, a glint in his eyes.
“Fine. I enjoyed it. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He gives me a peck on the lips. “I’ll race you back.”
I’m always up for a dare. And I always win. Of course, he says I only won because he let me.
28
Mina
The days after the morning Yan dragged me outside to exercise are easier. Despite my flagging energy, we run and work out every day. It helps to channel my frustration and chase the depressive feelings away. And that’s not the only gift he gives me. He also continues to give me venge
ance.
Ten more men.
Yan brings the proof of their torture to me like a cat would proudly show off a mouse to its owner—an undead mouse, one he’s cruelly playing with. I’m terrified he’ll stumble onto Gergo at any moment, but so far, it seems like he’s only focused on the men who assaulted me. I’m also worried the violence will catch up with us and we’ll have to flee before we finish the job in Prague, but my ex-teammates aren’t talking about their run-ins with Yan’s hired team. It’s not as if they can press charges. What will they say? They don’t want the world to know what they’ve done—or what was done to them in retaliation. Yan intends to let them suffer for a while; then he’ll go back to finish them off. Of course, it takes him time to flush them all out, and by the time there’s only one name left on the list, we’re two days away from our meeting with Dimitrov.
The stress runs high. The apartment is small, and the men get on one another’s nerves. It’s a good thing this will soon be over. Not only for the men, but also for me. As the days go by, my strength deteriorates. It’s happening faster than before. I can almost feel the defective cells growing inside my body, destroying me little by little.
And as I deteriorate invisibly, our plan progresses.
Dimitrov uses the secure number I gave to ensure our meeting is still on. The painting is dry, thanks to the acrylic paint. The fact that it’s not oil will be obvious on closer inspection, but by that time, Dimitrov will already have a bullet in his brain. I try on the dress with the body pads and practice my disguise. I work on my persona. We go back to the hotel and speak to the manager, making sure everything is set. We do a practice run on site. We rent a room in another hotel up the street where I can disguise the two hotel security guards. Yan and Ilya test the weapons. They clean and take the rifles apart for less conspicuous transportation. They test the rope and go abseiling at an indoor training site. All the while, we keep an eye on Casmir Dimitrov and Natasha Petrova in case he behaves suspiciously or she makes a sudden change in her schedule. But everything goes smoothly—which is why we’re all extra tense. In our business, it’s never a good sign when the sailing is too smooth. Nobody says as much, however, because that will only jinx it.
That evening, we eat a quiet dinner and watch a movie to relax, since everyone is strung out. I’m sitting next to Yan on the couch while Anton takes the chair. Ilya is in the kitchen, making popcorn. It’s a stupid horror movie, a film that has us laughing rather than being scared. Yan has his arm around my shoulders. His fingers play with my upper arm, sending delicious chills over my skin. It’s a soothing touch. Familiar. I can’t believe how quickly he became a part of my life, how much I miss him when he steps out for even a minute.
Over the past three weeks, my captor has somehow become my anchor.
Ilya finally joins us with a bowl of popcorn, stuffing a handful into his mouth as he squeezes in next to me. Predictably, Yan stiffens, and the gentle brushing of his fingers on my arm stops.
I turn my head to look at him. “Not tonight,” I whisper-plead, kissing his temple. I don’t want them to fight.
He catches my chin before I can turn my face back to the television. Holding my eyes with a smoldering look, he brings his mouth down to mine for a passionate kiss. My cheeks heat a little, knowing Ilya and Anton are watching, but the kiss seems to settle Yan, because he goes back to stroking my arm.
Ilya holds the bowl out to me, and I help myself. The popcorn is warm. It melts with a buttery taste on my tongue. I get engrossed in the silly movie again until Ilya picks up the popcorn I’ve dropped in my lap.
“Messy eater,” he says, nudging me.
Yan shoots him a look. Anton clears his throat.
The woman on the screen leaves the safety of her house to see who’s hiding in the woods. We all laugh at that.
“That’s so unrealistic,” Anton complains.
“Without the dumb moves, there wouldn’t be a movie.” Ilya pushes his leg against mine. “Tell him, Mina.”
Yan tenses again. Since the episode in the restaurant, he’s made a big effort to behave less possessively, even with Ilya. It’s as if he’s trying to make up for his behavior that night, for the hurtful way he reminded me of my place. And I want to believe this, want to trust that the affection he shows me stems from more than a physical attraction, but I know better.
No matter how real this seems, I’m nothing more than his possession.
Sure enough, when Ilya throws his arm along the back of the couch, hugging me from the other side, Yan pushes to his feet.
Jaw tight, he holds out his hand. “Come, Mina. Time for bed.”
“The movie isn’t finished,” Ilya protests. “I was going to make hot chocolate.”
“Enjoy the rest of the movie with your hot chocolate,” Yan says coldly.
My captor doesn’t tell me when to shower or eat any longer, but when he orders me to bed, I don’t argue. It only pisses him off. Besides, I know when a fight is brewing.
Taking Yan’s proffered hand, I let him pull me to my feet. He drags me behind him to the bedroom. To my surprise, Ilya gets up and follows.
Yan stops in the doorway and turns to his brother. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Mina.” Ilya shoves his hands into his pockets. “You don’t have to be afraid of Yan’s reaction. In fact, pretend he’s not here. I want you to tell me honestly. Are you with him because you want to be?”
Yan lurches, going for Ilya, but Ilya jumps back.
“You motherfucker.” Yan glares at him, fists clenched. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“I think Mina could be attracted to me,” Ilya says calmly, “if you’d allow her to look at someone else.”
“You know what I think?” Yan asks through thinned lips. “I think you have a death wish.”
“Guys.” I step between them. “Cut it out.”
“No,” Anton says, joining the circle. “I want to know.” He looks at me. “Tell us, Mina.”
Swallowing, I look between the three men. “What is wrong with you? We’re going after Dimitrov in two days!”
Anton’s bearded chin juts out. “Stop using that as an excuse. Tell us the truth now. Do you have feelings for Yan?”
I gape at him, my mouth opening and closing, like a fish out of water. I wait for Yan to tell Anton it’s none of his business, but Yan just stands there, staring at me. Waiting.
Fuck.
“That’s not fair,” I say.
Yan crosses his arms. He’s not coming to my rescue.
“What’s not fair,” Anton continues, “is playing games.”
“I’m not playing games!”
Anton widens his stance. “Then answer the question.”
Yan glares at him. “Back off.”
“We just want her to tell us,” Anton says, “since she seems to have you wrapped around her little finger.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know, Mina. That maybe you’re using your body as a weapon with Yan.”
I lunge and slap him without thinking, my palm connecting with his cheek with a sharp thwap before he has a chance to jump back. I’ve had enough of these false accusations. “I didn’t ask for this,” I growl as he stares at me in disbelief, his hand cradling his stinging face.
My words are barely out when Yan grabs Anton by the front of his shirt. In a flash, the two men are wrestling. Fists fly everywhere. Ilya ducks just in time as Yan swings an arm past his face and punches Anton on the jaw. The blow makes Anton stumble. His back hits the wall.
“Stop it!” Jumping between them, I try to push them apart, but Yan is too strong.
He easily shoves me away. “Stay out of this, Mina.”
Ilya grabs my arm and pulls me aside. “Let them fight it out.”
“You started this,” I accuse, freeing my arm.
Holding Anton pinned against the wall with an arm pressed against his throat, Yan raises his fist. “Apologize to Mina.�
��
Anton’s dark gaze only hardens. “Not before she admits the truth. I’m not apologizing for anything.”
A crunching sound reverberates as Yan brings his fist down on Anton’s nose, then steps back, breathing heavily as Anton grabs his face with a string of profanities. “You fucking broke my nose,” he snarls as blood drips through his fingers.
“Apologize,” Yan says through clenched teeth, advancing on him again.
I grab Yan’s arm before he can get in another punch. “I don’t need his apology. I don’t need anything from him.”
Anton sneers. “The truth is ugly, isn’t it? Not easy to admit, either.”
I take a stand in front of him. “You know nothing about me.” Turning in a circle, I look at the three men. “You’re unbelievable.” I’m shivering with indignation and anger. “You better get your act together and your testosterone under control. We have one shot at taking Dimitrov out.” I poke Anton’s chest with a finger. “Try to focus on that.”
Marching into Yan’s bedroom, I close the door. Let them fight it out, as Ilya suggested. For all I care, they can kill each other. At least then, I’ll be free. And without the shortfall to pay for Hanna’s lifelong stay in the clinic.
I walk to the window and peer through the burglar bars, looking at the quiet street below but seeing nothing. I feel like a hamster in a cage. Trapped and beyond frustrated. There’s no way out of this for me. I keep on telling myself it doesn’t matter. In a few months, I’ll be dead. But it does matter. It matters because I don’t want it to be this way. I’ve been lying to myself all these weeks.
I do care. Way too much.
My body isn’t the only part of me Yan brought back to life.
The door opens and closes. For a moment, the room is as quiet as if no one has entered, but I can feel him standing there. Yan. I can feel him watching me.
I don’t turn to look at him. I don’t want him to see the truth in my eyes.
The floor creaks as he advances. He stops close but doesn’t touch me. The heat from his body folds around me, offering make-belief comfort, momentary happiness.
