The Assassin's Wife

by Nikita Slater

  “T-tomorrow?” she asked, surprised. “I will see you tomorrow?”

  “Da,” he confirmed. “We will dine again, perhaps spend more time together.”

  “But I have to dance tomorrow, a-and the night after,” she told him in a hushed voice, her eyes on his feet. “I’m not allowed to go out on ballet nights.”

  His long fingers enveloped her chin and tilted her face up to his. Though he was not a huge man, he was still much taller than Tasha. She kept her face straight ahead, turned toward the buttons of his coat. It was a fine coat. Grey wool and warm, but not too heavy for Moscow in Spring. He tilted her head still further until her dark mahogany hair swished against the smoothness of her own jacket. Finally, she flicked her gaze up, giving him what he was after, her eyes.

  “You will make an exception for me tomorrow night, Natasha,” he said sternly, the hard tone to his voice telling her resistance would not be an option. “I have already talked to your director. You will be ready to leave once you have finished your dance.”

  Her mouth fell open and for just a moment, an irresistible spark to argue with this man rose up within her. He tensed, his fingers tightening on her chin. She quickly tamped down on the instinct and gave him a quick nod, lowering her lashes in case her too-revealing eyes gave her away. He released her and stepped back. Without another word, he turned and left, walking quickly away from her. Tasha stared after him for a few seconds before making her way indoors and checking in with the dorm matron.

  Chapter Three

  David was a killer.

  A ruthless, cold-blooded killer. When he worked, he completed his job with no emotion, dispatching his victims with ice in his veins before moving on to the next assignment. He did not kill with passion or because he particularly enjoyed the act. He did not kill for the adrenaline rush, as some assassins did. He killed for work, for life and for money. He killed because he was trained to kill. He killed because emotion was stolen from him at a young age when he was given a gun and pointed to a target.

  Yet now, everything in him was boiling with rage as he watched a young man put hands all over his Natasha. He wanted nothing more than to break every limb in the male dancer’s body and then tear him to pieces. To watch him bleed until the life was extinguished from his pathetic existence. There would be nothing icy about David’s vengeance. He knew he would enjoy this kill if he allowed himself to touch the male dancer. No man could be allowed to touch his Natasha again.

  David hadn’t thought of this possibility when he’d allowed her to leave him the evening before. If he had realized, he would not have let her return to the Bolshoi. His intent in letting her go back to the only home she knew had been twofold. He needed to put his affairs in order so that he had time to acquire a wife. Men of his profession did not simply drag women around the world without careful consideration. Secondly, he wanted her at least a little bit willing when the time to take her finally approached.

  Her reaction to the two wines had been somewhat prophetic. To simply reach out and pluck her, as he longed to do, steal her innocence, would be easy… but damaging to her. She would fight and cry. Like the red wine, she would bleed. But if he used patience, and as much gentleness as a man like him was capable of, then he might perhaps have more of the breathtaking smiles that she had bestowed after she’d tried the sweeter wine. He would have her regardless, but there was no harm in taking his time.

  Or so he thought before he decided to come see her dance again and found her in the arms of a would-be lover, playing out La Bayadere, The Temple Dancer. Her natural effervescence took on an impossibly sensual twist as she dipped and wove, leapt and shimmered across the stage in a skimpy slave girl outfit. He knew the story. The Rajah’s daughter was forced to dance for her betrothed, though she didn’t love him.

  If David didn’t have years of experience honing his instincts he would have stormed the stage and forced Natasha into the shadows, away from all of the eyes, glued to her every sensual movement as she twisted and turned before leaping into the arms of the male dancer. Never before had David felt such furious jealousy and possession over a woman. Over anything. He’d been trained from the cradle to maim and murder.

  He did not care what these feelings were. This woman would become his prize for his years of service. He had taken side jobs until he’d been able to buy out his commission seven years ago. Now he could do what he wanted with his freedom. Take the things he wanted. Natasha belonged to him. One day she would have to go. Angels did not survive in this world. But he would make it peaceful. And like an angel, she would sleep with them. He would make sure if it.

  He turned and left, unable to bear another moment of watching another man’s hands gliding over her sleek curves, of watching her show those rare glimpses of passion and rage to the world. This would never happen again.

  Tasha pressed her ear against the door of her change room as she dressed. She could hear raised male voices. She pulled a warm, blue knit sweater over her head and smoothed it over her hips. It was both pretty and modest. She paired it with a black skirt that flowed below her knees and pretty much left everything to the imagination. Under that she wore a pair of high-heeled knee-high boots. She loved them. They had been a daring purchase for her, but she enjoyed the added height. Tonight, she suspected she would need any advantage she could get.

  When she stepped into the hallway, Sergei looked up. His face was pained as he looked toward her and he tossed an arm in the air. “She is my best dancer!” he protested.

  Tasha frowned in confusion, her gaze swinging toward David who came forward to take her hand. Her heart sped up as he lifted it to his lips and brushed the back of her knuckles against his lips. Such a strange feeling to have his mouth against the skin of her hand. It was an old-fashioned gesture… and yet oddly quite intimate. His lips felt hard, but also soft against her skin. The warm breath from his slightly parted lips passed through to her flesh, causing her to shiver in response. She would have snatched her hand away, but his fingers tightened, holding her captive against his side as he dropped their hands.

  Her hesitant gaze returned to Sergei as he continued to plead. “I raised her up to become a principal, my best principal. She was born to become a star! She is spoken of across the globe as one of the greatest dancers the Bolshoi has ever produced. She is compared to the likes of Anna Pavlova and Margot Fonteyn, and you would cut her off in her prime?”

  Tasha gasped in surprise and blushed at the extreme compliment. She didn’t know that. She knew she was a great dancer. Of course, she was. She would never have become principal if she was a bad dancer. But to be compared to some of the greatest dancers of all time? It was impossible. Yet Sergei had spoken with such conviction.

  “You overstep Markov,” David growled menacingly from beside her. Tasha stared wide-eyed between the two men. “It would take one phone call to have you replaced.”

  She quickly stepped in front of David and looked up at him, instinctively feeling he would like for her to look at him directly. “Please,” she breathed. “Do not.”

  David’s eyes flicked down to her for just a second. The hardness within frightened her. There was no relief between the pupil and the stark pitch colour surrounding it. She wanted to touch him, to sooth away his anger, but she was also afraid of him. Who was this man that he could wield so much power in a theatre that had quite a lot of power in its own right? She didn’t understand what was going on, but she did know that the company needed Sergei. He was one of the best, kindest and most influential directors to run the Bolshoi.

  “Please,” she begged David. “I will do what you want. Don’t send him away.”

  David ignored her, continuing to speak directly to Sergei over her head. “You will replace her as principal, or you will replace her altogether. I will not suffer another man to touch her. Am I clear?”

  Tasha gasped, a rush of dizziness swamping her. So, this is what they had been arguing over while she was changing. This is what she was agreein
g to? Career suicide. Her knees buckled. She barely felt David slide his arm around her waist, his long fingers splaying against her hip. No wonder Sergei had braved this dark stranger’s terrifying wrath on her behalf. Sergei would know exactly what David was demanding.

  She barely heard as Sergei finally agreed, hammering the first nail in the coffin of her career. “Da, it will be done,” he capitulated sadly. “Tomorrow she will dance in the chorus. Her understudy will fill in as principal.”

  She went limp against David’s side. He practically carried her from the back of the theatre, gathering her coat and purse from her weakened arm. She was too shocked to cry, or shout, or protest. She simply clung to the man that seemed determined to destroy her life and allowed him to escort her to his car. She collapsed into the plush seat and sat docilely as he buckled the belt around her hips and smoothed it across her chest. He adjusted the clip next to her head so it wouldn’t sit too high on her neck. Perhaps if she hadn’t been in shock over the destruction of her career at the tender age of twenty she might have noticed his solicitous care.

  Neither of them said a word as he drove through the nighttime streets of Moscow. Tasha spared a thought for the scolding she would receive from the dorm matron about being out past curfew. Then she laughed bitterly, the light, eerie sound bursting from her lips. She was being sold. Of course, it wouldn’t matter what time she was returned… or in what condition for that matter. David glanced at her.

  He sighed and seemed to come to some kind of decision. He made a U-turn with the car and drove in a completely different direction. She sat stiffly next to him as they drove away from downtown and into a more residential area. The homes were wealthy, but not ostentatious. She was beginning to feel quite nervous. Clearly David had intended to take her to a restaurant before, which was now no longer his intent.

  She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, watching with slowly rising panic as he maneuvered the car into the driveway of a house. It was large, though not as large as some that were nearby, and it was surrounded by trees. She was beginning to understand David enough to know that he was a discreet man who liked his privacy. Her heart beat wildly as he climbed out of his side and circled the car to assist her.

  She tried to scramble out so that he wouldn’t touch her, but he slid an arm around her waist as he’d done at the theatre and held her against his side. She could feel the heat from his body penetrating through the layers of their clothing. His body felt hard against her side as he absorbed her softness. It was strange that he made her feel so warm when he could cause such a chill with just a look or a few words. The man was proving to be lethal.

  “Please, sir,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Where… where are we?”

  “My home.” His voice was clipped as he strode with her toward the front door. He ignored her faltering step, sweeping her along beside him.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed a protest. She so did not want to be here. In his home. Matron warned the younger dancers about things like this. Of course, there was nothing any of them could do about the patron system. Natasha trembled as he entered a long, digital code that disengaged the door lock. Then he stepped inside and entered another code into a security system. She frowned, realizing that, though on the outside his home looked normal, it actually seemed a little like a fortress. She shook the fanciful thought away and allowed him to escort her inside.

  He reengaged the door lock and the security system before waving her forward into the living area. She took a deep breath and followed him, watching warily as he turned a light on, flooding the sitting area in a soft glow. He took her arm and pressed her to sit next to him on a comfortable couch.

  She kept her eyes down and her hands folded in her lap. She knew he watched her, but he didn’t say anything. She hated the staring and she hated the silence. He had forced her to come to his home and now he was just… watching her. Like she was his prey. Finally, she cracked, knowing that Sergei would be horrified if he could hear her.

  Without lifting her eyes, she demanded in a sharp voice, “Why have you brought me here?”

  She felt him shift in the seat next to her, his knee brushed against hers. She jerked hers away. “Because you were upset at the theatre, Natasha. I didn’t think you would want a scene if you became angry at the restaurant.”

  She frowned, glaring down into her lap. She bit her lip and tried very hard not to give into the urge to let her temper fly. A slight vibration ran through her body.

  He sighed quietly and she felt a slight tug on her hair. She gasped and looked sideways at him. He was touching her hair, running his fingers through the fine, dark length as though he had every right to. The tension in her body amped up as she battled the urge to snatch the strands away from him.

  “Talk to me, Natasha,” he growled softly. He sounded strained, but not angry. More… put upon. As though something was bothering him.

  “Fine,” she snapped, still glaring at her lap. She continued in a rush, “Yes, I am… upset. You forced Sergei to replace me as principal dancer and put me in the chorus. Do you know what this will do to my career? Do you know how hard I have worked for those solos? What if I fade into obscurity b-before you are done with me? Maybe there will be no more solos left for me by the time I am allowed to dance the parts again.”

  He stiffened next to her, his fingers clenching in her hair. She cried out at the sharp tug. He released her hair immediately and smoothed his hand down the length, as though to soothe away the momentary hurt he’d caused. He reached for her chin and turned her face toward his so that she was forced to look into his dark eyes. The stern iciness was once more in place.

  “I think you fail to understand, Natasha.”

  She stared at him, fear trickling down her spine.

  “We will never be done.”

  Her mouth opened. He took advantage and traced her plush bottom lip with his thumb. Her breath stopped in her throat at the light caress. “You’re right, I don’t understand,” she whispered, eyes wide with worry.

  “You are going to become my wife, Natasha,” he told her, his voice low. “You will be allowed to dance until we are married, but until then I cannot have other men touching you. I’m sorry if the change distresses you, but I find my patience doesn’t hold with watching other men touch what is soon to become mine.”

  The blood drained from her face and she jerked back so hard his hands fell away from her. “Not dance?” she gasped in shock. “Impossible!”

  He seemed to understand. She saw a flash of pity in his eyes before he shuttered the expression with his usual bleak ice. He shook his head once. “Nyet, rebenok, you still fail to comprehend. No wife of mine will dance on a stage for the amusement of others.”

  She exploded violently off the couch, finished with pretending she didn’t have a temper. This madman was proposing insanity! “Th-th-this is simply not possible!” she shouted, pacing the rug in front of him, throwing her arms up. “You propose to take my career away from me? The single purpose of my entire existence since I was a four-year-old girl? Nyet. Nyet! Do you hear me! You are a crazy man!”

  She turned on her heels to stare at him, hands on hips, fury high in her cheeks and eyes. If he had any ornaments whatsoever in his austere home she had no doubt she’d probably be seconds away from hurling them at his arrogant head. He sat calmly, watching her. Assessing her. As though she were his favourite toy, doing something new and enticing. God, how she hated when he stared at her.

  He stood calmly and faced her. “Yes,” he said calmly. “That is exactly what I propose.”

  Suddenly her eyes snapped icy fire and she screamed, “Nyet!”

  He was on top of her so quickly, she had no time to prepare herself. One hand twisted in her hair while the other slid around her waist and jerked her against him. It was like being held against warm steel. His body was cut into slabs of granite muscle. She was no stranger to muscle and sinew. Ballet was one of the most brutal, competitive dances
in the world. But his body, it was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. If she weren’t so terrified she’d want to see what it looked like underneath his expensive suit.

  His dark eyes glowed into her like hot coals. There was nothing icy about him now, despite the abuse she’d hurled at him. Her breaths came out in short bursts, fanning across his neck. He was rigid against her, as though barely able to hold himself in check.

  “Now there, krasavitsa, is the passion I knew simmered just beneath the surface,” he growled down at her, his eyes devouring every part of her he could see: her face, her neck, the curve of her breasts beneath her sweater. “This is the woman I see when I watch you dance.”

  She glared up at him, daring to meet his eyes once more. “Yet you will take my dancing away! You will take away what I love!”

  “Nyet, rebenok moya, my child. Just your audience and your punishing regime,” he said, gentling his hold on her, until his grip on her hair was soothing instead of punishing. “I despise the way other men watch you as you move. In your innocence, you can have no idea how… provocative it is. It tests my control. As for the rest, I cannot have my wife starving herself anymore, forcing herself to throw up half of her food and dancing until she falls down or bleeds. She needs care. She must be treated like the angel she is.”

  Her mouth opened in astonishment as she digested his words. He seemed to understand far more about the nastier aspects of ballet than most people. She had to admit, a small part of her thrilled at his words. The idea of someone wanting to take care of her and treat her like she mattered. No one had ever done that for her before. Her parents loved her, but she was a paycheck for them. She sent all of her money back home to her family. Sergei loved her in his own way, but she was his star dancer, his prima ballerina. It was in his best interest to keep her well cared for. David was the first person to want her for herself.

  Then reality set in and she scoffed. No, David wanted her for her pretty face and dancer’s body. She brought her hands up between them and shoved. “Let me go!”