But me, of course.
“He cried. He pleaded. He said if he told me where Vlasenko had moved that they’d kill him. Do you know what I said?”
I shook my head.
“You’re going to die anyway, so what does it matter?” He blew out a long breath and stilled against my back. “I broke two more fingers before he finally told me what I needed to know. It took less than five minutes.”
He squeezed my hands again, making me cry out.
“Did you like hurting him?”
He didn’t answer right away. Without breathing or moving, he hovered there against me. He was still fully clothed, while mine hung on me like rags. “Yes,” he finally answered. “Truth, even when it’s ugly. I did enjoy it. Part of me even thought Vlasenko would be glad to have such a weak member eliminated.”
I could hear his grief, heavy and dark, weighing his words down. He hated the thought that he’d enjoyed hurting that man, hated it more than he regretted killing him. That was what really bothered him. Not the fact that he was an assassin—but that he would stoop to torture when it suited his purposes.
Worse, that he would actually like it. He didn’t mind his inner sadist taking over in the bedroom, but not when he killed.
I wriggled my butt against him. His erection had gone down a little, but he was still hard enough I could feel the ridge trapped inside his pants. “Did you get hard when you hurt him?”
He made a choked sound, half laugh, half startled gasp. “No. Not at all. It wasn’t...”
“Like this.” I deliberately rubbed against him again and let a soft moan escape. “It wasn’t as good as when you hurt me.”
“Not even close.”
I’d never have the physical ability to pull off a silent, deadly attack like him, but I could fool him. I drooped against the wall, as if I didn’t have any fight or emotion left in me. “How did you kill him?”
“The same way I killed the first man. Quick and relatively painless. That was his reward for telling me what I needed.”
His grip softened on my hands, letting me flatten my palms more fully against the wall. Now I had some leverage. We hadn’t practiced any survival techniques in a long time—not since Rusk had been after me. We’d been too busy sunning on the beach and swimming in the ocean and playing with Sheba. I gathered myself, focusing all my will on my body. I was going to explode away from the wall, whirl—
“It’s never a good idea to hold your breath before you make your move.” His voice vibrated with amusement and I knew he was probably grinning. “That’s a dead giveaway that you’re planning something.” He tucked his body around mine, not pinning me, but holding me. “It was a good idea to go soft like that. Make your attacker think you’re giving up. But don’t hold your breath. That tells me you’re thinking really hard. Your mind is going incredibly fast as you envision exactly what you’re going to do. Right?”
“Yeah.” I blew out a disgusted sigh. “I was going to whirl around real fast before you could stop me.”
In one quick move, he released my hands, gripped my shoulders and hauled me around so I faced him again. “Better?”
I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Better.”
Pressing his forehead to mine, he sighed. “How can you still want to be with me, Ranay?”
“I love you.” I tried to wipe the dried blood off his cheek, but only a small piece flaked off. More splattered his throat, and his black T-shirt was getting stiff as it dried. “You’re doing a good thing, even if you have to do bad things to get there.”
“Torturing a man is a good thing?”
“I saw the way your eyes narrowed at Vlasenko’s picture. Matheson warned you about bringing me here. So he must be a very bad man. What kind of men must work for a man like that? Men who help kidnap women off the street and then sell them?”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“No. But I understand it. And I still love you. I’d rather see you covered in blood and mad at me for pushing your buttons, than ever leave you to go back home.”
He reached down and came back up with the knife. I’d have to search him to figure out where he hid the blade, and if he had more than one. “So even knowing this knife is smeared with someone else’s blood, you don’t care that I’m touching you with it.”
“It’s gross and creepy and yet you felt how wet I am. Remember, I’m just as fucked-up as you are.”
“We’re a matched pair.”
I dropped back against the wall and he obligingly came back to press against me. Though I managed to get my hand between us so I could cup his crotch. “All the way.”
He didn’t say anything or move, just stared at me with the knife in his hand. I tugged his pants open and reached inside his underwear to pull out his cock while he watched me with those dark, serious eyes. Not cold any longer, like he was trying to decide whether to go for my throat or kidney like the men he’d killed tonight. But his eyes gleamed with a sadist’s desire to see me hurt and crying and yeah, bleeding.
I dropped to my knees and licked my lips as I looked up at him. “Put the blade to my throat now.”
He grimaced and shoved the blade into a hidden sheath on his thigh. “God, no. I might accidentally nick you if I’m not fully in control. Do you know how many diseases you could get from a contaminated blade? I’d play, carefully, but no way would I actually cut you with a dirty blade.”
I gripped his thigh where he’d stashed the blade and felt a long narrow pocket built into the side of the dark pants. I switched to his other thigh and found a similar pocket sheath. I pulled that blade out. “Did you use this one tonight?”
He shook his head and I held it up to him, pressing it into his palm when he hesitated. “I trust you.”
His chest heaved and he finally wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
Gripping his waist, I rose up enough to rub my cheek against his cock. I didn’t take him in my mouth, but just caressed him with my face and hair, occasionally giving a lick to the shaft. A graze of my teeth. Inevitably, his fingers tangled in my hair and his right hand pressed the flat of the blade to my throat as I’d asked. Only then did I take him fully in my mouth. I tipped my head back and opened my throat, asking him to control how deeply he’d take me. I stared up at him, on my knees, his cock in my mouth, his knife to my throat.
And I never wanted it to end.
I let that desire burn in my eyes as he fucked my mouth. So slowly, so carefully. He always used exquisite control when he touched me, especially in our more dangerous scenes. But for once, I wanted him to let go completely. I wanted him at his worst, wild and dangerous and out of his mind with need.
So I tightened my lips and sucked him harder. I pulled against his grip on my hair, making him use more force to bring me back to him. I let the tears fill my eyes so they’d glitter and shine with the pulls on my scalp. I dug my fingers into his waist, letting him feel my need. When he carefully stroked the blade up and down my neck, I moaned around his dick, letting my throat caress him on a rumbling purr. His hips jerked and his head started to fall back a little as he lost himself in the pleasure I gave him.
I tugged my head harder to one side, deliberately pulling my hair, and then quickly jerked back, shifting the angle of my throat unexpectedly. Pain seared my neck and his eyes flew open with alarm. He pulled back and I let his dick slide from my lips. I could feel the trickle of blood down my throat.
“Shit, Ranay. Let me see—”
I shifted closer and rubbed his cock against my throat, coating the tip with my blood.
A tremor rocked through him. His fingers spasmed in my hair. His breath whooshed out on a deep groan and then he yanked me up and slammed into me so deep I gasped like he’d stabbed me. He buried himself in me, his face against my throat, his cock so deep, so hard, I couldn’t breathe. He
hammered me against the wall. Plaster crumbled and started to rain down on us but he didn’t stop. He drove me higher, pushing me up the wall, lifting me with each thrust as if he was trying to crack me open. I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand over my lips. I cried against his palm, trying not to send every other hotel guest running for the authorities.
Orgasm wrenched my muscles tighter around him. He let out a deep, guttural moan and thrust again, pushing me higher without any respite. I tried to scream. I tried to breathe. But everything in my body locked down on him relentlessly. He shuddered and pumped into me, an endless spurt that scoured away my ability to think. Or move. He carried me into the shower and stood under the spray with me as I shivered, waiting for the water to warm up a little. I couldn’t stand on my own, so he held me against him. He washed the blood away from us both, stripped our soggy, stained, ruined clothing away. Washed my hair. Cradled me against his chest and whispered in my ear, words that my brain couldn’t seem to understand. But they made me glow anyway.
Sheba whined and lightly scratched at the door.
“I know,” he said to her with a sigh.
“What?” I finally managed to lift my head from his chest so I could see his eyes.
“We have to move. Immediately. I need to lose all this evidence and wipe our trail.”
The last thing I wanted to do was move. Let alone actually put on clothes to go outside and change hotels. Or islands for all I knew.
He tipped my head to the side, his fingers gentle on my throat as he examined the wound. “That was a very stupid thing to do.”
“You say that a lot, but you sure enjoy it.”
“I could have cut you badly.”
I nestled my nose deeper between his pectorals, loving the way his chest hair tickled my face. “No, you wouldn’t have.”
As he dried me off, I tried not to let my mind wander back to what he’d done to those men. I couldn’t help but worry. Not for me, but for Charlie. His guilt over torturing that man for information would be nothing compared to what he’d feel if he had to kill his brother. Deep down, he feared that he’d enjoy taking a loved one’s life too. Just like his father.
No. He’s nothing like that monster.
As he gathered me in his arms and headed back to the bedroom, I sensed his mood going dark again. So I tried to make him laugh. “I am mad at you.”
“Why’s that?”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and nibbled on his ear. “Because you ruined my last pair of clean underwear.”
He tossed me on the bed and I squealed. Sheba jumped up beside me and licked my face. “Then I guess you’ll just have to go without.”
“Then I guess I should wear the sundress again. So you have to think about how bare I am underneath.”
Groaning, he tugged me up and kissed me soundly on the lips. “I thought I was the expert in torture.”
“Not even close.”
Chapter Seventeen
Vincent
“You okay with him?” Lyons asked softly at the door.
Mads glanced over at Vincent, still tied to the chair, then nodded. “Sure. There’s plenty we’ll need to hash out between us if we’re going to do this.”
Lyons nodded. “You have to convince me first. Silva’ll be in his bunk for a couple of hours. I’ll grab some food and be back. Hour tops.”
“Got it.” She shut the door behind her boss and slowly turned to face G. Eyes narrowed, she studied him a moment, but he wasn’t sure what she saw. Mafia hit man? That alone would make most people avoid him. If she had a clue what the heavy tats on his left arm meant... Or worse, if she realized exactly what kind of monster lived in him, and how fragile were the rusted chains holding that heavy iron door shut on its cage.
If she saw as deeply as he feared, she wouldn’t want to stay alone in a room with him, let alone pretend to be his captive so they could go back into Vlasenko’s camp.
She turned away and rummaged in a bag to bring out a first-aid case. Pulling a chair closer, she set up a mini station on the table and sanitized her hands. “You look like someone beat the shit out of you.”
He huffed out a laugh. “You did. At least my ear’s not ringing any longer.”
“Take off your shirt and let’s see the damage. Silva said you had some burns and cuts, but nothing life threatening.” She dampened a wad of cotton balls with cleanser and turned toward him. “He took care of the gunshot on your thigh. You’re lucky it was him and not me—he has a nice hand with the needle. You’d look like Frankenstein if I did it.”
Vincent pulled the T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the table. “You mean Frankenstein’s monster.”
Dabbing at the powder burns on his shoulder, she glanced up at him. “What?”
“Victor Frankenstein was the mad scientist. The creator. The walking dead monster was just that. A monster.”
“And that’s what you are?”
He fought not to hold his breath as she cleansed his shoulder. Not because it hurt. She was too damned close, both physically and spiritually. “Definitely.”
“What makes you say that?”
She sat back a little and surveyed his upper body. Maybe looking for anything else to clean—but more likely cataloging his tats, which might help warn her about exactly what kind of man she was dealing with.
He pointed to the tribal markings on his right shoulder. “I got the first one in high school. Mom was pissed and threatened to sue the shop because I wasn’t eighteen yet.” He trailed his finger down his biceps, tracing the ink that wound around his entire arm. Mostly geometric and tribal symbols to go with the first. “Each symbol is a kill I made, most as a sniper in the Special Forces and then for the CIA. When I ran out of room on this arm, I decided to stop counting.”
“You killed for the first time when you were in high school?”
“I was fourteen, stupid, and fought anything and everybody on a dare even if I got my ass kicked. The kids at school already knew not to come at me one-on-one, so there were plenty of witnesses when a group of punks jumped me after a football game. They beat the crap out of me and I spent a night in the hospital, but I took one of the little fuckers with me. With a whole audience telling the cops that five kids jumped me, plus my injuries, they called it self-defense. But that was just the beginning. I left school early, got my GED and hightailed it to the military, where they’d tell me exactly who to kill and it’d actually be legal.”
She pointed at the ones on his chest. “Those look Russian.”
“I did almost three years in various work-camps. At first, when I told them what my tats meant, they didn’t believe me. So they kept pitting me against other prisoners in tests. Every camp, every new commander, it was the same ordeal, even though I always found someone to give me a tat before they moved me to the next camp. When I had the dagger done, they finally believed me.”
The dagger inked across his upper chest, designed to look like it ran beneath his skin and popped back up at his collarbone. As a Russian prison tat, its message was clear. Assassin. Killer. Consider deadly at all times.
She touched his chest, lightly tracing the inked blade, and everything in him locked down. He didn’t breathe or move, for fear that he’d lose all control of his senses and be on her like a raving lunatic. He hadn’t been touched by anyone in years unless he was fighting for his life. Let alone a woman.
“They think I’m nuts for going undercover to get Vlasenko, yet you went undercover to a Russian prison for years. Why? Just so you could get intel on how the bratvas were recruiting from prison?”
He exhaled, concentrating on keeping his muscles loose. “Partially. I guess if we’re going to work together, you should know more about what I’m looking for. I need to find out who Vlasenko’s got helping him out in the Russian government.
There are plenty of suspicions, but I need proof. It could go as high as the state council.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“Newsflash: so are you.”
She laughed and awareness surged through him. He held himself very still. Worse, her fingers settled on his thigh. She pried at the bandage, inevitably pulling hairs. Tugging skin. Small pain.
Which was not a good thing to give him while she sat so close, giving him that dangerous laugh.
Keeping her head bent, she said, “I’m surprised you didn’t demand we cut your legs free.”
He paused a moment to make sure his tone didn’t change. “Doesn’t bother me. I’ve certainly lived through worse.”
She probed the wound, making him inhale sharply. She glanced up at his face. “Sorry. I just want to make sure it’s not getting feverish.”
“It’s fine.” His voice roughened, betraying him. “So why do you have such a hard-on for stopping Vlasenko?”
She pressed a clean bandage to his thigh. “Because he’s a highly successful human trafficker. And I hate human trafficking.”
“I hate politicians. Doesn’t mean I’d risk my life to bring a senator down.”
“Why not shoot for the top? Go straight for POTUS?” She said it jokingly, but she didn’t meet his gaze either.
She’s hiding just as hard as I am. “I don’t care to have a bunch of pissed-off Secret Service agents hunting me down. Vlasenko’s goons are bad enough.”
Done with his thigh, she started to lean back, but the wound on his side caught her attention. Lightly, she touched his side. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I got you so deeply.”
With her fingers on him, it was easy to remember the pain when she’d slashed him. The intensity of the moment. She was fighting for her life, standing up to him. Challenging him. That didn’t happen very often, especially with a woman, let alone one who could actually hold her own against him. “You hit me hard. Straight to the bone.”
He didn’t mean the cut. She looked up at him, her fingers hovering over the dried scab. “Maybe it needs a couple of stitches, then.”
Two Cuts Darker Page 12
