My rhythm is grueling, but she doesn’t ask me to slow down. She gasps into my mouth when I hit the barrier of her cervix. When I let her take a breath, a scream tears from her throat. I barely have time to clamp a hand over her mouth. Screaming will attract the attention of the guards, and there are too many cracks in the wall through which to peep.
Mina is my show, no one else’s.
She shakes her head, trying to tell me something, but I’m beyond listening. Nothing matters but getting us both over the line to the only place that will soothe this goddamn insane ache.
Keeping one hand over her mouth, I sit back and rub her clit harder. Her inner muscles tighten with her orgasm, triggering my own release.
The blast of pleasure is beyond intense, but I don’t stop moving. Not yet. My fingers dig into the soft flesh of her thigh as I pump myself dry. The high doesn’t let me go, not even when my cock starts going soft. My breathing is heavy, my head spinning.
This woman. She’s fucking dangerous.
I release her mouth, keeping the connection between our bodies.
“Yan,” she says on a hoarse whisper, her eyes wide.
I can’t help the heat in my voice, not after what we’ve shared. “What?”
“You didn’t use a condom.”
I freeze.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This never happened before. Wait, no. It almost happened in Budapest. With her. She warned me then too, in time. I look down to where her milky white lap is draped over mine, her pussy still stuffed full of my cock. I jerk out. My release leaks from her slit, dribbling down her ass. I should feel a lot of things at the sight, but not the perverted satisfaction that feeds an animalistic part of me.
What have I done?
Yes, she is fucking dangerous, and not because of what she does for a living.
Moving out from under her, I get to my feet.
“Yan?”
I ignore the tremble in her voice as I go for my clothes.
Why the fuck didn’t she stop me? Because I had my hand pressed over her mouth.
I shake inside as I pull on my pants, socks, and shoes, not meeting Mina’s eyes. I only look at her again when I use my shirt to wipe up the spillage between her legs. She says nothing. I pull the shirt down over her body to cover her, then loosen the rope tied to the wall just enough to let her sit up.
I feed her the sandwich with lettuce and tomato to get some vegetables into her body, a need that seemed crucial at the time I made it and insubstantial in light of the current situation. When she’s done, I make her drink the water, and then I get the hell out of there, stumbling into the night.
13
Mina
It’s a long night. With the loosened rope, I can turn on my sides on the bench, relieving the cramps in my muscles. The ache between my legs is something entirely different. There’s no remedy to take that away. Nothing can undo what Yan has done.
I’m not on birth control. It may be difficult for me to conceive, but not impossible.
Why did he do it? Why did he come inside me?
Because it doesn’t matter. He’s going to kill me anyway. I guess some men aren’t sentimental about things like that, about the possibility of wiping out their gestating seed along with the woman who carries it.
When dawn breaks, Yan returns with a breakfast of bread and water. Afterward, he takes me outside to pee before tying me up in the chair.
Nothing is said of last night.
He comes back sometime during midmorning.
Unscrewing the cap of a bottle of water, he comes to stand in front of me. “Open your mouth.”
My lips are halfway parted when he takes a pill from his pocket. I slam my mouth shut, panic rushing through me. Pills can have detrimental effects. Lethal. I know with sudden insight that’s the method he’d use. A blade is too messy. Drowning will get water on his fancy clothes. A bullet is too quick, too easy for a traitor, and when you strangle someone, you have to look into her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask.
His features are tight. “The morning-after pill.”
That takes me by surprise. I guess this particular killer is sensitive to wiping out his spawn after all.
“Open,” he says again, this time with impatience.
When I open my mouth, he puts the pill on my tongue and tips back the bottle for me to swallow. I take a few sips. He catches a drop that runs from the corner of my lips with his thumb.
“I’m assuming there’s no pharmacy on site,” I say. “How did you get it so fast?”
“You’d be surprised by the kind of resources money can buy.” He gives me a cold smile. “Then again, maybe not.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill me.”
He studies me for a moment. “Did I say I was going to kill you?”
“You didn’t say you weren’t.”
“And clever girls know the unsaid is more important than what’s said.”
“Something like that.”
He smirks.
I lick my cracked lip. “Can I ask you something?”
“You’re not in a position to ask anything.”
“Will you make it quick?”
His eyes flare. At first, he looks taken aback, but then anger replaces his surprise. “You’re asking for mercy?” He shakes his head slowly, giving me a disapproving tsk of his tongue. “The question you should be asking is if you deserve mercy.”
And with that, he leaves me.
Ilya is with him when Yan comes back with lunch, and by the look of it, Yan isn’t happy about it. This time, Yan leaves the door of the shed open. Heat and sunlight filter in, and my face warms. The smell of sex still hangs in the air, or maybe it’s clinging to my body.
Ilya leans against the wall as Yan feeds me pasta. “How are you holding up?”
Yan shoots him a look.
“What?” Ilya pulls his shoulders up to his ears.
Yan brings another forkful to my mouth. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“Hey,” Ilya says, “I’m just trying to be nice.”
Despite the situation, I smile. He’s sweet. “I’m good.”
Now I’m at the receiving end of Yan’s hostile glare.
“Can I get you anything?” Ilya glances at the bottle of water on the ground. “Tea? You like tea, right?”
Yan feeds me the last bite and wipes my mouth on a paper napkin. “This isn’t a hotel.”
“If you need a bath, I could—” Ilya starts, but Yan cuts him short.
“She doesn’t need a fucking bath.” His voice is clipped. “She doesn’t need anything.”
“Are you going to tell her or must I?”
I look between them. “Tell me what?”
Yan glowers at Ilya before turning his attention to me. “Sokolov needs a disguise. You’re doing it tonight.”
“Why?”
“He’s going after Henderson,” Ilya replies.
“Shut up,” Yan says.
“What difference does it make if she knows?”
My chest shrinks. “Are you going with him?”
“Yes,” Yan says. “Ilya and Anton, too.” Mockingly, he adds, “Why? Are you worried?”
The scary part is that I am. Henderson is sly. Dangerous men work for him. What if my kidnappers don’t come back? What if Yan doesn’t come back?
“Stop taunting her,” Ilya says. “Don’t worry. You won’t die of starvation tied up in here. We’ll be back.”
Yan walks over and smacks him upside the head. “Fucking idiot.”
“Hey! What was that for?”
Yan turns to me. “We’ll see you tonight.” He grips Ilya’s arm and pulls him out of the shed.
The door slams, and the rattle of the chain sounds.
As promised, they return later with Peter Sokolov. Yan unties me while Ilya opens the cases with the props and makeup. I do Sokolov’s disguise. When I hand hi
m the mirror, he gives a satisfied nod, though tension is rolling off the men. What they’re doing is dangerous. Despite Ilya’s promise, there’s a very good chance they may not come back. The guards outside will finish me off, but I prefer that it be Yan. Please let him return. I don’t dare look too deeply at my motivations. Not all of them are selfish.
Sokolov leaves first. Yan takes me out for a bathroom break before tying me back up on the bench and hastily feeding me an empanada. Ilya gathers the makeup. I want to tell Yan to be careful, but I swallow the words. They’d be unwanted.
“Good night, Mina.” Ilya’s smile is guilty. He feels bad about killing me, even if he believes I framed him. Of the two brothers, he’s the one with the heart. Why couldn’t I be attracted to him? “We’ll be back before you know it.”
God, I hope he’s right.
The men make their way to the door. In the frame, Yan turns. He gives me a long look. I want to say many useless things, like tell him not to go. I want to tell him I hope he gets Henderson. Even I have to admit what Henderson did with the bombing was a low blow. I want to tell him the night in Budapest was real. This shed, what we did here, was real, too. But just as I open my mouth, he steps through the door, and he’s gone.
I toss and turn on the bench, as much as my restraints allow. To say I’m going out of my mind with worry is an understatement. Not even mind control helps to steer my thoughts away from Yan and what’s happening with Henderson right now. Escape is still at the forefront of my thoughts, but I simply don’t see a way. Will I get an opportunity when, or if, Yan returns?
The sun rises. One of the black-clad guards comes inside to feed me bread and weak tea. He hardly looks at me. I’m acutely aware of my nakedness under the shirt and relieved when he leaves quickly, omitting the bathroom break.
The sun moves to a position directly above the shed. I can glimpse it through one of the cracks. Hunger sets in. I got used to being fed. My bladder is full. A long time later, I don’t have a choice but to move over the edge of the bench and relieve myself on the ground.
The same guard comes back with more bread and water for lunch. He leaves as soon as he’s shoved the last bite into my mouth.
I count in my head. The minutes drag on until it’s dark once again.
Still, no one.
No dinner.
More anxiety sets in. I don’t know how I get through another night. It’s hell. I can move a bit, but not enough to get the circulation in my arms going. I can’t feel them anymore, which is a strange kind of relief. The worst is the fear. It’s killing me. I just want it to be over. I practice every mental skill I know for disconnection from reality, but it’s no longer enough.
By the time the sun rises again, I start wishing Yan had killed me before he’d left. I’ve barely slept in all the time they’ve kept me here, and sleep deprivation is cruel on the mind and body. I’ve seen big men broken with that kind of torture. Even if it wasn’t my captors’ intention, it’s taking its toll. I ease back on the bench, trying to relax my muscles, when I hear it.
A footstep.
I still, not daring to so much as breathe.
There. Another.
I turn my head toward the sound. It’s coming from the side of the shed. A voice filters through the wall, speaking softly in Russian.
“She no longer serves a purpose.”
Sokolov. I go rigid, my heart pumping hard.
A smooth, deep voice replies, “I’ll take care of it.”
Yan.
My first reaction is overwhelming relief. Joy, even. He’s alive. Then the terror sets in. Like the joy, it’s a natural response. It happens unguarded, before I have time to put up defenses around my emotions.
The words run in repeat through my mind. I’ll take care of it. They chill my body and freeze my heart. Cold shivers set in.
It’s time. Yan is going to kill me.
I’ve been trained to deal with death, to expect it as part of the outcome of every mission, but nobody’s trained me to cope with having feelings for my killer. I’m not even sure what I feel for Yan, only that his words fill me with immense grief. But what did I expect? I know who he is, what we both are. There’s no other way this could’ve gone. Still, it’s as if the dagger is already twisting in my heart, the damage far more painful than if it were for real.
I strain my ears, but the voices are gone, their footsteps ominously quiet.
Where is he? Why doesn’t Yan come inside? Why doesn’t he just do it already?
I’m sweating and shivering. My teeth are chattering. All biological reactions to a specific mental knowledge. I’ve accepted my fate, but my body doesn’t comply. As long as I’m breathing, my body will keep on fighting to survive.
I think of Hanna. For what it’s worth, I say a prayer for her. I think of my parents, of the last time I saw their faces. It’s a hurtful memory I don’t often revisit.
When the chain on the door finally rattles, I’m ready. Yan’s big body fills the frame. He’s carrying a tray. For a moment, we just look at each other. I drink him in, how alive he seems, how strong.
I’m glad it’s him. I’m glad he’s my executioner.
He leaves the tray on the chair and flicks on the light before locking the door.
I don’t speak. I wait for him to say it.
He crosses the floor and stops next to me. His handsome face is clean shaven, and he smells good. Fresh, with that understated hint of sandalwood and pepper. He looks refreshed too, as if he’s slept ten hours or more. There’s not a trace of tiredness on his features, only dark determination and cold calculation.
“Henderson is dead,” he says.
I battle to swallow past the dryness in my throat. “What happened?”
His smile is mocking. “Do you really want to know?”
What he’s asking is if I care. I nod.
“He attacked the house.”
What? “Here?” This shed must be far from the main house for me not to have heard any gunshots.
Yan nods. “The guards took him and his team out.”
I take a wild guess. “The Delta Force men?”
“They got what they deserved.”
The words are measured. They carry a message, a promise, but it’s the ice in his eyes that makes me tremble harder than I already do. It throws me off balance, that frostiness, not because he hates me, but because his hate hurts.
He loosens the rope, giving it more stretch, and helps me to sit up. I stare at him. What is he doing? He fetches the tray and sits down next to me, balancing it on his lap. There’s a plate covered with a silver lid and a glass of white wine. It’s a beautiful glass with a skillful cut and long stem. Drops of condensation run down the glass. I don’t understand. But then I take in the ornate knife and fork, and I get it. I grasp the meaning of the pretty crystal and expensive cutlery.
This is a last meal.
My conclusion is confirmed when he lifts the silver lid to reveal a scrumptious-looking dish of chicken on rice, complete with a sprig of parsley as garnish. The rich aroma fills my nostrils. Under different circumstances, my mouth would’ve watered, but my empty stomach only churns.
“Pollo con chocolate,” he announces. “I’ve been told it’s one of the best Latin American dishes.”
“Who made it?”
“Esguerra’s cook.” He scoops up a forkful and brings it to my mouth. “Open.”
“Is it poisoned?”
He chuckles. “No.”
He has no reason to lie. He can easily force it down my throat if I refuse to eat. I part my lips not because I’m hungry, but because I don’t have a choice. If this is my last meal, I should try to make the most of it.
When he carefully pushes the fork into my mouth, the flavors burst on my tongue. The dish is creamy with a savory, peanut-flavored sauce and a hint of cacao that complements the chicken surprisingly well. The bite of chili that registers after I’ve chewed is mild.
“Like it?” he asks when I’ve swal
lowed.
“It’s delicious,” I say honestly. “Have you tried it?”
“Not yet.”
He offers me a sip of wine. It’s crisp, tangy, and refreshingly cold. It somehow enhances the flavors of the food that linger on my tongue. With my arms stretched tightly above my head, I sit dead still while he feeds me. I watch his eyes while he watches my lips. He seems to home in on every bite and swallow. He’s meticulous in feeding me, offering small enough bites so I can chew comfortably. When the fork leaves a trace of sauce on my lip, he wipes it away with a linen napkin before giving me another bite. In this manner, he alternates between the food and the wine until half of the food on the plate is gone and I’m buzzing.
I shake my head. “I can’t eat another morsel.”
He frowns. “You haven’t eaten much.”
“It was a big portion.”
“At least finish the wine.”
I’m pathetically grateful for his kindness, for numbing my senses with alcohol for what lies ahead. When he tilts the glass, I gulp down what’s left. He puts the glass back on the tray and leaves it on the ground. I start to tremble in earnest when he stands.
This is the moment.
The shaking gets worse when he lifts a hand to my face.
“Shh.” He traces my bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it ever so gently over the healing cut.
His gaze follows the action, all his concentration focused on the task. I bite down hard on my back teeth to stop the involuntary quiver of my jaw that betrays my body’s severe state of stress. He trails a finger along the line of my quaking jaw and gently cups my face. Then he kisses me sweetly, invading my mouth with leisurely strokes of his tongue until I melt and the uncontrollable chattering stops. My eyes flutter closed. He tastes of mint and coffee.
“That’s better,” he breathes against my lips.
When I open my eyes, I catch him staring at me with searing heat. My face is slack from his kiss, but my body still trembles. He smoothes his hands over my arms, rubbing softly, and I don’t resist when he pushes me down slowly until my back hits the bench. I let him stroke me all over. I let him feel me under the shirt, brush his palms over my nipples and stomach. I let him feel between my legs where my wetness betrays me.
Darker Than Love Page 9
