The Enemy in My Bed

by LK Shaw

  “Do you?” he asks again in a low voice, leaning in so his breath ghosts across my face.

  My nails dig into my palms. I hate that he taunts me. I’m like food he plays with before snatching it up and devouring it.

  “No,” I finally reply, my voice shakier than I wish. “There’s nothing else.”

  “I think there is, actually.” The look in his eyes ramps up my heart rate and sends my stomach plummeting. “You need a shower.”

  Is his purpose to humiliate me? My face flushes and a burning starts in my belly. “If you would kindly get out of my way, I can take one.”

  He chuckles, but it lacks real humor. “You still haven’t seemed to figure out how this works.”

  These mind games he keeps playing are making me insane.

  “Everything you do,” he continues, “comes with a price. If you want something, I need something in return.”

  Of course he does.

  “I guess we’re both going to have to endure my stench, then.” My mouth snaps shut, and I wait for the pain to come for my defiance.

  A mocking grin crosses his face instead. “That is where you are wrong. You’re going to take a shower, whether you want to or not. Having privacy is another matter entirely. Are you going to clean yourself, or am I going to do it for you?”

  “What do you want in exchange for giving me privacy, then?” I have to be sure I’m willing to pay the price.

  “Answers,” Death says.

  Always with the answers. “I don’t know that I have them.”

  “For your sake, I hope you do.” He pauses. “Why were you at Mikhail’s compound?”

  I weigh how much to tell him. His closeness makes it hard to think. “Revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “He killed my mother,” I say. Both she and Mikhail are dead, so it doesn’t matter if I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “Because he could.”

  Death raises a brow. “Even for a Russian, Mikhail was calculating. Smart. He never did anything without a reason. That includes killing someone.”

  I straighten as much as I can with him standing so close. “You asked me a question. I can’t help it if you don’t like the answer you get.”

  That scary smirk crosses his face before he grabs me and practically tucks me under his arm. I kick and scream, but his hold doesn’t loosen. Not even when I pound my fists against his stomach. I go for his groin, but he merely catches my hands in his as he drags me down the hallway.

  Panic spikes inside me, and my cries grow louder. I twist and writhe, desperate to escape his clutches. He’s too strong. The bright light of the bathroom makes me flinch. I only spot a giant garden tub before Death tears at my shirt. In a frenzied motion, I fight, but he easily overpowers me. In seconds, it lies in a ragged heap on the floor, and I wait for him to finish the job.

  “What the fuck are those?” he barks.

  I freeze, then yank out of his grasp, wrapping my arms around myself and backing up against the wall. It’s cold against my skin, which feels good compared to the heated shame washing over me. I can’t look at Death.

  “Mila,” he snaps, and, against my will, my gaze darts maniacally to his. He’s staring at me in horror. He does have emotions. Such a stupid thing to be in awe about in this moment.

  Chapter 6

  Pierce

  * * *

  Who the fuck did that to her? That question keeps running on repeat through my head. Scar upon scar decorates Mila’s back. As someone with a fair share of my own, I can tell which ones came from a knife. Others look like burn marks from a cigarette, or maybe a cigar. I could swear one of the marks is a brand of some kind, but I hadn’t gotten a close enough look. She appears to have been tortured. No wonder she fought so hard against me seeing her.

  There’s also a cloth binding around her chest. Combine that with the boyish haircut, and it’s like she’s hiding her femininity. Why? I have more questions than ever. None of them have anything to do with Mikhail or the Russians, either.

  Mila still cowers against the wall, guarding herself against any further assault from me. A prickle of emotion pushes at me. I turn away and head to the rain shower. Once the water temperature reaches my satisfaction, I move to the door and glance over my shoulder.

  “There should be towels under the sink. I’ll bring you something clean to put on.”

  I exit the bathroom and pull the door closed behind me, rub my hand down my face, and blow out a breath. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why didn’t I follow through on my threat?

  I head to the bedroom where I had one of our soldiers store some clothes in the dresser. I grab a few things without examining them and return to the bathroom. The water is still running. For the second time, I hesitate at a door that separates me from my little captive. Cursing my weakness, I open it and toss the clothes on the floor without looking toward the shower.

  “You have five minutes,” I call out. “Don’t make me come back and get you.”

  I turn and head to the kitchen. As I’d requested, there’s a first aid kit under the sink. I grab what I need and move into the living room to wait.

  With seconds to spare, Mila enters the room, her skin still damp and her hair a wild, tangled mop. Fuck. What size of clothes did Santino bring? A child’s? Her curves are obvious without the cloth binding. For such a small woman, her breasts are large. It’s no wonder she hid them. Her legs are toned and she curls her tiny toes in the rug. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, her gaze lands somewhere to my left while she fidgets with the hem of her plain green tee.

  “Have a seat.”

  Mila hesitates, and I take a step toward her. I’ll be happy to remind her what happens when my instructions aren’t followed. I want her to stay on the edge of fear.

  Those small feet move quickly, and seconds later, she makes it to the couch. She sits as close to the arm rest as she can, almost like she wishes she could disappear into it. Her whole frame is rigid, and her eyes lock onto the floor. That won’t do.

  “You say you’re not a coward. If that’s the truth, then stop acting like one.”

  Mila’s gaze jerks up to meet mine. Fire spits from them. That’s better. I cross the room with the items in my hand and crouch at her feet, placing the bandages and antibacterial ointment on the cushion next to her.

  “Let me see your wrists.”

  She eyes the supplies and carefully unfolds her tense body. Then her arms stretch out in front of her. I gently clasp her forearm, and she tightens her muscles, almost pulling herself out of my grasp.

  “Stop fighting me.” I don’t just mean in this moment, either.

  Ever so slowly, Mila follows my instructions. I brush my thumb lightly over the red marks that decorate her skin. She hisses. I ignore the sound and take care of the wounds. By the time I finish applying the ointment and wrapping the soft bandages around her wrists, she’s relaxed.

  I raise my head and wait until she meets my gaze. My finger keeps stroking her inner arm. Then my eyes wander over her body and back up to her face. Her lips part the tiniest bit and her pulse kicks up a beat. Her breath comes just a little faster. She trembles, but doesn’t pull away. “I brought you here because it’s comfortable.”

  Mila blinks and her expression shifts to mild confusion. “Why do you care for my comfort?” she asks, her muscles already tightening beneath my touch.

  “It’s not your comfort I care about.” I pause for a beat. “It’s mine.”

  It only take a few seconds until her eyes widen with understanding and then fade with resignation. The blood leaves her face, but she stiffens her spine further even though I’m not sure how that’s possible.

  “So you’re going to rape me, then?” Her words are tight.

  One side of my mouth tips up. The action feels foreign. I can’t remember the last time I truly smiled. “Trust me, it won’t be rape,” I say smoothly.

  Mila’s lips twitch and she barks out a sound I take for lau
ghter. It’s mixed with a touch of hysteria. And grows louder until tears nearly spill from her eyes. “You’re holding me here against my will. You abuse me. Humiliate me. And you think I’m going to just let you fuck me?”

  I send her a confident look. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Why?” she asks in wide-eyed disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to.” Mila hasn’t figured out yet that everything is based on my wants, but she will. “Besides, you have answers I seek.”

  She huffs out an annoyed sigh. “You keep saying that, but you’re not listening to me. I’m no one. I don’t know anything.”

  My brow raises at that. “I guess we’ll find out, piccola fata, won’t we?”

  Chapter 7

  Mila

  * * *

  It’s been countless hours since Death left, and I still haven’t moved from my spot on the couch. My mind is frozen on the last words he spoke before he’d risen to his feet and discarded the trash from the dressings he’d used to wrap my wrists. Then he’d walked out the front door without another word or even a glance over his shoulder. As though he hadn’t just thrown me into a panicked tailspin.

  “It won’t be rape.”

  The thing that scares me the most about Death’s words is that I don’t know if he’s wrong. This change in him—bringing me food, feeding me, gently tending my wounds—it’s the kindest anyone has ever been to me. No one has taken care of me like that before. A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from my chest. How fucking sad is that?

  I should be focusing on the fact that he kidnapped me and tied me to a chair. He purposely left me in the dark—the thing that terrifies me more than anything—because he saw it bothers me. Then he humiliated me by making me pee over a drain, for god’s sake, and nearly stripped off all my clothes.

  Instead, all I keep seeing is his appalled reaction to what had been done to me. It…softened him somehow. He actually left me alone to shower after seeing my scars. I rub my hand over my arm. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still feel how my skin sparked with electricity at his touch. I enjoyed it far too much.

  I’m not fooling myself into thinking that he actually cares. But for some reason it eases my fears that, regardless of whatever else he might do to me, he’s nothing like Maksim.

  God, I am so fucked in the head.

  Shaking myself out of these crazy thoughts, I rise from the couch. Death said there was no way for me to get out of this house, but surely there’s some way. A door that isn’t locked or maybe a window someone forgot about. There’s a kitchen. Maybe I can find a knife. I swallow the bile back. Could I really stab someone? Even if it meant getting away?

  I cross the large living area—one that’s nearly as big as my entire apartment—into the gorgeous kitchen. A room I’ve always felt at home in. Making various dishes for Anya and me while our mother had been out doing god knows what. My fingers glide along the stainless steel handle of the oven door while I admire the shiny black surface of the flat stove-top. I glance down and my reflection is mirrored back at me.

  The refrigerator is next. Its gleaming silver sparkles with the fading evening sun pouring through the window, tiny flecks of dust dancing in its rays. For just a moment, I stand within the beams of light, letting them warm my face. It’s almost peaceful in this quiet house. There’s no sound of police sirens. No horns honking. No neighbors screaming obscenities at each other through the paper-thin walls. It’s still a prison, Mila.

  With a sigh of disgust, I start pulling open drawer after drawer. My despair grows with each empty one. Not a single fork. Not a single knife. I look inside all of them as well as every cabinet. Even the ones above the stove I have to crawl onto the counter to reach. There’s nothing I could possibly use as a weapon. Wait.

  I grab the first aid kit I’d found under the sink and throw it open. With hurried movements, I dump everything onto the floor and rifle through it.

  Shit. I’d been hoping for a pair of scissors, at the very least. The only thing I might be able to use is a needle. I slip the small packet into my pocket and return everything to the metal box. Hopefully, Death won’t notice it’s missing.

  After placing it back under the sink, I begin my tour of the rest of the house, intent on checking every window and door. My heartbeat picks up in the hallway Death dragged me down as the memory returns of the sheer panic that nearly overwhelmed me. It hadn’t mattered how much I’d fought, like always, I lost.

  The first room I come across is a bedroom. The large bed, turned down to look like one of those fancy hotel room beds I’ve only ever seen in pictures, dominates the room. A nightstand bookends either side of the headboard. Otherwise, the room is empty of furniture.

  The next room is the master bedroom with an attached bathroom. In addition to yet another massive bed with a gorgeous maroon satin bed covering, there’s a nightstand with a lamp, a large bedside chair, and a reddish wood dresser that stretches half the length of one wall. My fingers itch to touch the comforter and see if it’s as soft as it looks. Prison, Mila, remember?

  Ignoring the compulsion, I cross the room and check those windows as well. As with every single one I’ve come across, they’re locked. I didn’t expect anything different, but there had still been a small amount of hope. Defeat makes my body heavy, and I stumble back, collapsing onto the bed. With a sigh, my fingers curl into the soft, downy fabric. It’s as perfect as I imagined.

  Self-pity wells up inside me. Wetness drips off my chin. I swipe a hand across my cheek. Great. A stupid comforter brings me to tears. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. I give the bed one more glancing touch before I force myself to head back to the living room.

  A quick look around confirms there isn’t even a television in here. I’m completely and utterly alone with nothing but my thoughts. Not a place I’m anxious to be. Probably because they betray me. My mind wanders far too often to my jailer. I drop onto the couch and curl up in the corner of it, tucking my knees in tight to my chest.

  The sun fades behind the horizon, casting the room into near darkness. I’m surprisingly unafraid. I breathe in the scent of freedom, even if it’s only a mockery of it. Soon, my eyes grow heavy. I can’t remember the last time I slept a full night. Maybe I’ll just rest here for a minute.

  The scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies fills my nose. Is Anya in the kitchen again? My sister can’t be trusted in there. I should go out and check on her to make sure she doesn’t burn the house down, but I’m far too comfortable. I burrow even further under sheets I don’t recall being this soft and luxurious. Disappointment fills me. This must be another one of my dreams. No wonder I’m warm and cozy. It’s not real.

  There’s a shift in the air. It brings with it a familiar clean scent. One would think Death smells like smoke or decay. Instead, it’s a soft, subtle fragrance. I open my eyes to find him hovering at the end of my bed.

  “You came back,” I whisper.

  “Of course I did,” he replies, his voice coming almost directly into my ear.

  I sit up, smooth the covers over my lap, and study him. “In all these years, not once have you spoken to me. Why now?”

  Death’s hell-fire eyes blink. “Perhaps I didn’t have anything to say.”

  “In over twenty years?” My lips pinch in disbelief.

  “What can I tell you? I’m a man of few words.”

  I pause at that response. It seems so…human. I shrug it off. “Mikhail is dead. Then again, you probably already knew that. I hope you took him to hell with you.”

  “Yes.”

  Satisfaction flows through me. “Good. It’s no less than he deserved. Especially after what he did.”

  Death cocks his head. “What did he do?”

  There’s a sharpness to his question. I shake my head in confusion. He moves from his place and circles the bed to stand at my side, staring down at me. I shrink back.

  “Answer the question, Mila,” he demands,
leaning down to hover directly in front of me.

  My body jolts, and my eyes fly open. A startled scream pierces the air, and I try to scramble off the bed. The man lying behind me, cocooning me with his body, wraps his arms even tighter around my waist, pulling me back against his chest and pinning me to him. How the hell did I get in the bedroom?

  “Relax, piccola fata,” he rasps in my ear.

  Goosebumps travel down my arm, and a shiver skates down my spine. “Let me go,” I croak as I claw at the hands securing me.

  “Shhh. Relax,” Death repeats, tightening his hold and locking a leg around mine.

  I continue thrashing, but it’s useless. There’s no escaping him. I sag in defeat. The constriction loosens, but he doesn’t release me. Heat soaks into my flesh from our connection. Every nerve ending is standing at attention. His breath ghosts across my skin. I tense at the erection pressing into my ass. His finger traces a line up and down my arm, and a spark of electricity runs through me.

  “Why are you in my bed? Where are my pants? And why are you naked?” I squeak out.

  “I told you why.” Death places a soft kiss where my neck meets my shoulder and moves his lips across my hyper-sensitive flesh. He nips at me with his teeth, and a shudder tickles my spine.

  “Stop, please,” I whisper.

  He ignores my plea. Instead he continues nibbling along my nape and palms my breast. If he were rough I could fight. Struggle. But his touch is gentle. I’m unable to resist pressing myself into his caress. I bite my cheek hard, trying to hold back the moan that threatens to escape. The flavor of blood coats my tongue.

  “I knew they’d be a perfect fit for my hand,” Death says.

  My lungs burn from the need for oxygen until I can’t hold it any longer. I suck in a ragged breath. It’s as though I’m walking a tight-wire, waiting for him to make another move, but he does nothing more than cup my breast.