Chapter 19
Tasya ate. She finished her wine. She waited until he was done.
Then she said, "The Varinskis killed my parents."
Rurik heard the words—and rejected them. It was impossible. The kind of tragedy too hellish to imagine.
But Tasya seemed oblivious to his horror. She recited the events calmly, as if the drug of time insulated her from the pain. "They came in the night. My mother picked me up out of my bed. She handed me to Miss Landau, my governess. She kissed me goodbye. I saw my father getting out his guns. He kissed me, too, as he handed my mother a rifle." Tasya took a long breath. "That was the last time I saw them."
Rurik had so many questions to ask . .. but first he wanted to shake his fist at the sky and howl in fury.
He understood now, understood only too well.
Now he knew why she was so strong, so resilient, and so admirable in all the ways he thought were important.
Now he understood why they could never be logether.
"The Varinskis . , . of course. It would be Varinskis." He laughed shortly and without humor. "Those bastards."
What evil fate had thrown them together? The night he'd made love to her was the first night in five years he'd been happy.
"Bastards, for sure. Bastards for generations." Tasya faced Rurik across the table, and with fierce scorn said, "Men who turn into predators. Oh, please! I visited the Ukraine, and I swear, they've got everyone believing this stuff."
"You went to the Ukraine? Are you crazy?" He shouldn't shout. He would not shout. "If they had discovered you were alive and had escaped them—"
"I know. I know." She waved a dismissive hand. "But I didn't understand the danger then."
"That wouldn't have saved you." He might never have met her.
"I'm pretty sure they don't know I'm alive, or Miss Landau wouldn't have fled with me in the first place."
"That's right." He leaned back against the seat. "You're right."
"In the Ukraine, it doesn't matter what the Varinskis do—kill, kidnap, torture, rape—no one touches them. They never go to jail. They're never brought to trial. They live in this compound—it's a guy's paradise."
"You went to their compound." He closed his eyes, trying to block out the knowledge of what could have happened.
"I drove by."
"How often?"
"Often enough to get some pictures taken."
"You stopped and took pictures." He could scarcely believe the depths of her foolishness—or the extent of her luck.
"I am a photographer." She acted as if that was the most normal thing in the world. "There are these cars they're working on sitting around with the hoods up, and the ones they've abandoned that are rusting. The grass grows every summer and no one cuts it. The house is unpainted. When they need extra room, they simply tack on some ridiculous-looking addition. And do you know what they have by the gate?"
"A place for the women who were impregnated by a Varinski to leave their infant sons. They ring a bell and run, and the Varinskis take the child in and celebrate the birth of a new demon."
"You know a lot about them."
"Yes. I do." You have no idea.
"Then tell me this. How have they managed to perpetuate this atmosphere of terror all these years?" "They have a firm grip on the local imagination." He couldn't sit there and look her in the eye any longer. He stood and rang for the porter, then piled the dishes onto the tray.
"They're extortionists. They're murderers. They're kidnappers." She was coldly furious. "They're an affront to civilization, and it's time for it to stop."
"I agree, and I intend to do everything in my power to stop them." For more reasons than she knew. "But I can't do anything right now, and I've got questions." He removed the tablecloth and pushed the table up into the wall. "The Varinskis don't kill for free. Who were your parents? Who wanted them dead?"
"What did I know? 1 was four." She shrugged. "You're a reporter. You've looked into the records. What did the police say about the attack? Who did they blame?"
"The police report blamed my parents. They said it was a murder/suicide, and that my father torched the house before he killed himself."
"That's a good, standard story. The Varinskis are fond of that one. What about your governess? Where is she now?"
"I don't know. Pardon me for being uninterested in finding Miss Landau." Tasya stood as if she wanted to pace, realized there was no room, then sat' back down again. "She took me away. She put me in foster care. And she disappeared. I find being abandoned makes me bitter."
Someone knocked on the door. Rurik checked the peephole, then let the porter in. He took the tray; Rurik tipped him, shut and locked the door, and turned back to Tasya. "You weren't abandoned. She took you to safety and for whatever reason—fear of the Varinskis, probably, but maybe the fear you'd be easier to trace if she was with you—gave you over to foster care. If she had put you down outside your house and left you for the Varinskis to find and kill, then you'd have cause for a grudge."
"Tell a four-year-old who's lost her parents and her home, who's lost the governess she's known her whole life, and who's been put with people who regularly foster at least ten children at a time, that she hasn't been abandoned. I doubt if that child will listen."
"You're not that child anymore." Her capability for carrying a grudge worried him . . . when she had so much more reason to hate him.
"When I need the motivation to do what needs to be done—"
"You mean, when you want to thoughtlessly charge into the fray."
"Whatever." She made a shooing gesture toward him. "Whenever I need to overcome fear or fury, I remember my parents, and the Varinskis, and I plan my revenge. That's why I wrote a book guaranteed to tap into the public's fascination with religion and legend, murder and oppression. That's why I'm willing to travel the world and face the Varinskis to get the icon. If I can bring proof to the National Antiquities, have them verify the authenticity of the icon, and give witness to the Varinski legend, that'll capture the world's attention, focus the spotlight on the Varinskis, and the rulers in Sereminia will be forced to convict them."
"And what will that accomplish?"
"The Varinskis make millions every year performing assassinations. They have a mythological prestige among the criminals of the world. It'll be the beginning of the end for them, and I will be the person who pulled the trigger." Her smile was a symphony of white teeth and vengeful satisfaction.
"You'll be the target." He didn't know why he bothered. This was Tasya Hunnicutt. She wouldn't listen. She would do as she thought right. And when she found out who he was . . . who his parents were, what his family name had been before it had been Wilder . . . that he was a Varinski, that he lived with the devil's pact every day of his life, that he would take the icon from her to free his father . . . she would never forgive him. Never.
And yet he loved her. She was his woman, the one fated to find the icon.
He knew it, and the tragedy of his life was that who and what he was could never be changed.
And who and what she was would never accept him . . . when she knew.
But she didn't know yet.
Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, for she scooted back. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Perhaps, if he made the right moves, said the right thing, showed her how he felt, she would remember him, and understand why he'd done what he intended to do.
"Soon the porter will be by to make the bed." He stood. "You're tired. Go ahead. Get some sleep. We're coming into a stop. I need a few things, and I want to think."
"All right," she said slowly. "Are you okay? You look funny."
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Is your wound bothering you?" She pressed her hand to his chest and left it there, worried about him. Trusting him.
The spur of guilt dug into his side.
She didn't trust anybody, and for good reason.
He stood hasti
ly before he betrayed himself with the truth. "Lock the door behind me. I've got the key."
He paused outside the door until he heard her turn the lock before he walked to the end of the car. He waited for the train to stop. He disembarked, and bought everything he needed from the row of vendors lined up selling food and sundries. He very carefully chose what he needed, and when he boarded again, he held a bag in his hand.
At least, when he finished with her tonight, she would never forget him.
Chapter 20
Rurik stood in the viewing car, watching the passengers board the train. When it pulled away from the station, he made a sweep of the cars, examining every person, making sure that once again he and Tasya were safe.
Tonight he needed to know they would be safe.
Tonight he would concentrate on Tasya. Only on Tasya.
When he was satisfied, he went back to their compartment.
Tasya was deeply asleep. She lay facedown on the covers in her clothes, snoring lightly. He smiled to see her so relaxed . . . and locked the door, taking precautions to ensure no one—not an enemy, not a friendly porter—could enter.
She'd left the blind open so that the lights of the passing towns shot through the window and covered the wall in ephemeral bursts of red and blue and white.
He shut it, making sure no beam could penetrate. He shoved a rug forward to block the glow under the door. In here, the darkness was complete. No human eye could see . . . anything.
Taking care not to wake her, he removed her clothes. Using the oils he'd bought, he rubbed her back, her thighs, her calves. He took his time, liberal with his attentions, using the opportunity to stroke every part of her, to learn her body as she would never allow him if she were awake. He rubbed her earlobes, the soles of her feet, the bones of her hands. He stroked her breasts, probed her navel, spread her legs, and explored, arousing her gently, but not seeking response.
Response he would demand later.
She slept still, but she moaned and stretched like a baby in the hands of one she trusted.
"Yes," he murmured in her ear, and he stroked her hair back from her face. "Sleep."
He shed his clothes and climbed on the bed. The scents of sandalwood and orange rose from her body, stirring his senses . . . stirring hers. Or perhaps it was his hands, kneading her muscles, that brought her to wakefulness. He heard her breath hitch as she realized she was in the dark, that she rested on her stomach, and a man was above her.
"Sh," he said. "It's Rurik."
Convulsively, she tried to rise.
He held her down with his weight across her thighs. Sliding his hands up her hips, over her waist, up her arms, he caught her wrists and lifted them above her head. "You knew I wouldn't wait forever."
"Don't!"
"Trust me," he murmured. In a long, slow undulation, he settled atop her. He held her legs together with his knees. He pressed his chest to her back, his penis against her bottom.
He felt the heat of her skin as her passion blossomed.
She struggled against his grip. She said, "No . . ." But she whispered.
He rubbed his body on hers, using the oils to ease the friction, reveling in the sensations of her skin against his. Her body was built to contain him, to please him. He pressed his cock between her legs, seeking the silk there, the warm skin, the glory within her. He rubbed himself between her thighs, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin.
"No." It was more of a breath than a word.
"Do you know what I feel when I'm inside you?" He used his cock like a ram, thrusting against the
gates of her body, and the oil he'd used on her allowed him to open her. Just a little. Just enough to almost enter her.
Then he slipped toward the front of her body, and the most sensitive part of him rubbed against the most sensitive part of her.
She caught her breath.
He groaned.
"You can't do this." She turned her head from side to side, tried to lift herself off the bed.
Although he had no intention of hurting her, he enjoyed controlling her. He had a point to make.
"Trust me." Her personal scent was strongest at the back of her neck, and he breathed it in, and kissed the tender skin. "I love the taste of you. Do you know, since that night when we made love, all I have to do is stand close, and I can taste you again?"
"You cannot."
He put both of her wrists in one hand, and slid the other between her rib cage and the bed to cup her breast. "When I rubbed oil on your nipple, you moaned in your sleep."
"I imagine I did." She sounded snappish, more Tasya, less vulnerable.
Yet her nipple beaded in his palm. She might not want to want this: the dark, or him. But her body betrayed both her fear and her desire.
"Damn you. Get off." She tried to turn over.
Gently, he squeezed the tiny bead. Once. Again. Again. A slow, steady rhythm guaranteed to irritate her senses.
Her exertions, and that inexorable rhythm, worked their magic. She panted, and perspiration formed on her skin. The scents of her body grew stronger, blending with the perfumes. Beneath him, her movements made him aware of her strength, her weakness, the promise of her femininity.
And he could see her.
The dark was not dark for him.
He saw the mixture of anger and fear on her face, the dawning of passion, the strength with which she held it back.
Yes. This was the right thing to do. For she didn't stand a chance.
In a single quick motion, he let her go and donned the condom.
She hesitated not at all, but made the dash for freedom.
He caught her, put her back where he wanted her, and started again. Holding her down, massaging her, arousing her.
She yielded more easily this time, forgetting for many long seconds the dark and her rebellion. Whenever he touched somewhere new, pushed her toward some new pleasure, she would struggle again. But her resistance grew less and less, and finally she accepted his attentions, relaxed into the mattress, waited for the next caress.
Again he pressed her legs together, then slid his cock between her thighs and higher, finding the entrance to her body and seating himself. He held her arms above her head, held her down with his weight, and murmured softly in her ear, "When I am here, where your body begins to yield, the pleasure is only at the tip, and yet so strong and concentrated I want to scream. Then I push a little"—he did—"and you accept me, squeezing me and promising paradise."
"Please. It's dark."
"You're afraid of the dark."
"No, I'm not. I'm not afraid of anything."
He kissed her ear, bit her lobe, tasted her skin. "I get about halfway inside, and you flex. You welcome me."
"That's not welcome."
"Isn't it? Let me convince you." He slipped one well-oiled hand beneath her, down her belly and between her legs, and on one finger, he had attached a tiny vibrator. He flicked the switch, bringing her to instant, unwilling ecstasy—while he thrust all the way inside.
She writhed beneath him. She whimpered in desperation. Her fingernails clawed at the sheets.
Inside, her climax squeezed him, caressed him.
"When . . . when I'm as far inside you as I can go, you're still so tight"—he should have spread her legs, this ecstasy was almost painful—"so tight and hot. . . . Inside, you're so hot. . . and the folds inside you tug at me, begging me to come. To fill you . . ." He was losing the ability to form words. As her spasms dragged him into heaven with her, the primitive beast within him clawed to get out. He thrust faster and faster, desperate for release, determined to claim her, to show her the man he was and make her know she was his.
Their climax built to a crescendo, then gradually faded.
He turned off the vibrator, dropped it on the floor, listened as she sobbed the last of her release.
She was exhausted. He could feel it in the trembling of her muscles, the way she rested, quiescent, beneath him.
Good. That would make the rest of the night easier.
He lifted himself, rolled her over, leaned down be- 1 tween her legs, and kissed her there.
She gasped, tried to scoot away.
He pressed his hand to her belly. "I want you to forget about the dark. I want you to forget where we're going. I want you to forget who you are. I only want you to know what pleasure is—and who is giving you that pleasure." He tasted her, a long, slow savoring of the flavors of aroused woman and satisfied man.
She couldn't believe he wanted to continue as if he'd never come. As if he hadn't held her down and forced orgasm after orgasm from her until her legs trembled. "You can't. . . you can't do me again. Not so soon."
With a bound, he rose above her. Taking her hand, he wrapped it around his arousal.
It should be impossible, but he was as hot and hard as he had been the first time.
That first night, he'd been like this. A man of massive appetites, tightly leashed.
Tonight he'd let those appetites slip the leash. He was an animal, a stranger to civilization—and he made her an animal, too.
Pressing a foil-wrapped packet in her hand, he said, "Put it on me."
"I will not!"
She couldn't see him. She couldn't see anything, only a black so dark it pressed against her eyeballs and threatened to break her will. But she could smell him as he leaned close to her ear, and as he spoke, she felt his breath against her neck. "I would like to impregnate you, Tasya. I want to see you with my son in your belly, and know you suckle him at your breast. If I could, I would make a dozen sons with you, and my pleasure would be increased a hundredfold when I filled you with my come, over and over and over again. So you decide, Tasya Hunnicutt. Condom or no?"
She feared the darkness as much as ever . . . but he made her forget everything except him, and the fury and delight he aroused.
Her hands were shaking as she tore the foil. Taking the small roll, she slid it over the tip of his penis, then eased it down to the base.
He didn't move. He remained so still, he might have been a statue.
When she finished, she still held him in her hands. She thought about the many self-defense moves she knew. She'd used them before, and without hesitation; a woman who wandered the earth alone sometimes found herself in a dangerous situation.
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