by Bella Rose
My first instinct was to hurry home. Except I didn’t want someone following me there and knowing where I lived. My brain was spinning. What should I do? There was a police station two blocks south of here. Should I go there? And tell them what? That I was the daughter of a Russian mafiya boss who had claimed less than forty-eight hours ago that his mafiya rival was going to try and use me against him? It sounded preposterous no matter how I spun it.
I stopped walking and turned around. Maybe I just needed to be firm. Maybe it wasn’t mafiya at all. There were plenty of obnoxious kids in this neighborhood. Perhaps it was just one of them pestering me. I could tell the little buggers off and then go about my business.
I glared at the two men on my tail. They were perhaps twenty yards behind me and dressed in long trench coats. This did not look promising for me, but it was too late to change my mind now. “Why are you following me?” I demanded in a voice I hoped sounded more confident than wary.
Vasily
Stalking targets was nothing new to me. I did surveillance all the time. I learned everything I could about the habits of my target. It was the best way to discover their weakness. It helped me uncover the moment when they would be most vulnerable. I exploited that weakness, and it became their cause of death—so to speak.
Following around a target with an eye toward making an attempt at inserting myself into her life was completely foreign to me. So far I had been following Anya since the night she left her father’s house almost two days ago. I had discovered that she was a total creature of habit, something that made her an easy mark. It hadn’t taken me long to discover that Anya was already being followed by at least two other groups. One was quite obviously the Orlovs. They were sloppy, but Anya was too oblivious to notice. The other was an entity I could not quite identify.
I sat on my bike and watched Anya exit the library. She looked strangely in a hurry. Her face appeared flushed in the bright light of the library building. Then she quickly bounced down the steps and lit out for home as though she were a woman on a mission. I wondered what had gotten her so obviously worked up, but there was no time to ponder that. Two Orlov soldiers closed in on Anya’s position and began moving in fast. If I had been hoping for an opportunity to weasel my way into her life, I had just been presented with a very timely moment in which to do so.
Then Anya whirled around to face her stalkers. I realized that she had actually known they were behind her. That was more than I had expected from the girl. I had to give her a grudging moment of respect for that.
“Why are you following me?” Anya demanded.
Her tone was steady. I admired that too. Her body language was firm. Yet I could see the fear in every line of her body. I threw my leg over my bike and left it in a shadowy alley. Emerging slowly, I let things play out as they would. The two men stared at each other briefly, before getting even closer to Anya.
“Hello, Anya,” the taller one said.
I recognized him from the Orlov crew. His name was Pyotr. He was quite a bastard on the streets and known for his rough treatment of women. The Pekhan of the Orlovs had certainly chosen his candidates well.
“How do you know my name?” Anya pulled her satchel even closer to her body. She looked as though she might be thinking of fleeing. That would have been the equivalent of a deer running from a couple of wolves.
“It’s too bad your father left you unprotected,” Pyotr mused. He took a few steps closer. Any second now he was going to lunge. I could see it in the way he moved. “It makes you such an easy target to take.”
Anya curled her lip. She was reaching into her bag. “I’m not a fucking target!”
Pyotr lunged and Anya screamed as she unloaded an entire can of mace right into the man’s nose. Pyotr roared in pain and anger, backing off. Unfortunately, that left his shorter compatriot with an opening. The man reached for Anya, a knife in his hand. My fight instinct kicked in, but I reined it in and waited. Nothing in the man’s body language suggested he wanted to kill Anya. A few cuts might actually shake up her mind-numbingly boring existence, and it would give me a chance to see what the woman was made of.
So I waited in the shadows to see what would happen.
“Such a pretty little thing,” the short man muttered. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but I bet you bleed red just like I do.”
“I-I don’t!” Anya protested.
But her attacker didn’t really care what she had to say. He grabbed Anya and pulled her flush against his chest. I felt my hand twitch. I wanted to hold her that way. But that could wait. The man put his knife against the creamy top of her breast just visible above her neckline. I saw the flesh bulge slightly below the blade. The metal gleamed in the glow of the streetlamp overhead. Blood welled to the surface and beaded against her breast. My protective instincts rose to the surface and overwhelmed everything else.
I braced my foot on the pavement and sprinted toward Anya as hard as I could. I felt my body crash into the bastard holding the knife to her throat. I staggered a bit, but he went down in shock. Beside him Pyotr was still whining and whimpering as he crouched on his knees and rubbed at his face like a wild animal in a trap.
“Back off,” I snarled.
One thing about working in the shadows, nobody knows who I am. Nobody knows to fear me more than the others. I am the one who stalks the night with death in my hands. So when this asshole came at me, I was ready. With a set of brass knuckles in one hand and a knife in the other, I knew I would come out the winner.
Chapter Three
Anya
My heart was beating so fast I thought it might come right out of my chest. Dread left me feeling ice-cold. The cut on my breast burned. I glanced down and saw the blood dripping down toward the neckline of my shirt. The man could have cut me deeper. He could still do it. At any moment my spontaneous rescuer might fall to these two Orlov thugs, and then I would be at their mercy. They could make me kneel right here on the street and slit my throat. Hot blood would rush out of the wound and soak my front. My life would drain onto the pavement, and I would be able to do nothing to stop it.
Fear wound icy tendrils around my soul and squeezed tight. My breathing grew shallow. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, and I felt almost light-headed as I froze in place. I should run. I should flee this horror scene and hide in my house. But that would lead them right to me. They would know where I live. They would know how to find me in my bed. I would never be safe again.
Then a grunt brought me forcefully back to the moment at hand. I wasn’t dead. Not yet. This total stranger was fighting off my attackers. But why? What if he only wanted something else? What if I was trading my moment under the knife for being raped in the street?
I watched the men grapple like wild dogs. My protector batted away the first attack, spinning with such agility that he could have been a dancer. I saw a flash of something shiny on his right hand. Brass knuckles. He used them to come up underneath my attacker. There was a grunt, and I felt my own ribs tingle in sympathy as my protector began brutally punching my attacker.
The fight was short and absolutely lethal. This stranger gave no quarter and asked for none. He punched hard and when his opponent slashed at his arm, he did not flinch when the knife cut through his dark jacket and the layer of cloth beneath. The sound of ripping fabric made me cower backward. What if this unexpected protector went down? What if I was alone out here with two crazed lunatics? I should be running, and yet I was riveted to the spot as though my feet had been pinned to the ground.
The second attacker hit the ground. My protector went down on one knee and continued the beating. My mouth popped open in horror. It would not stop! There was a noise in the street. I was shocked to realize that I was making the sound. I was screaming. Screaming for this man to stop.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Just stop! He’s done! Can’t you see he can’t fight anymore?”
Then the stranger stood up. He wasn’t even winded. I caught a glimp
se of him in the glow of a streetlamp. His hair was cut so short I could not tell the color. His eyes were black pits of hell, and he was smiling. Yet his face—it was the visage of an angel. His features were so handsome that I could not describe them.
That was when I knew. This man was an archangel sent to protect me in my darkest hours. I felt so odd. My fingers and toes were tingling. I watched the stranger step a bit closer to me. He held out one hand. The knife and the brass knuckles were gone. How odd. I hadn’t seen him put them away.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said. “My name is Vasily. I won’t let them hurt you.”
Vasily
She was going into shock. At least that was my first observation. I tried to be as nonthreatening as possible when I gently took her hand and started leading her away. I headed toward her house automatically, then realized that I wasn’t supposed to know where she lived.
“Can I take you someplace?” I murmured near her ear. The scent of her was mesmerizing. Sweet and feminine, it tickled my senses and made me almost drunk with her essence. “Where were you going when you were attacked?”
“I live just there.” She gestured weakly, her hand barely lifting from her side. “Number twenty-two.”
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
She tried to look behind her at the men on the street. “I don’t want them to know where I live.”
I appreciated her spunk. She was actually going to argue with me when she was barely moving under her own power. I could respect that sort of fierce independence. “Don’t worry,” I said quickly. “They’re down for the count. Look.” I gestured to Pyotr and his companion. “They’re in no shape to pay any attention to you now.”
“Oh.”
Her expression suggested that she was disturbed by their sad state. Did she actually have compassion for the men who would have raped and kidnapped her for no other reason than that they’d been ordered to? How strange.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll help you home, then I’ll stay by the door to make sure they don’t come back.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” I assured her. The panic was setting in. Once she got her wits back together, she would be tossing me out on my ass. I knew. “I’ll stay until you tell me to go.”
“Thank you.”
We were nearly to her door. I could not help but notice the details of her neat little home with the white picket fence, flower garden, and green shutters. It was picturesque. There was no doubt in my mind that she was trying to put anything to do with her father’s business behind her. It was sad really. The mafiya didn’t allow family members to make a choice. You were in or you were dead. That or there was the third option, which was to be a target. For someone gentle like Anya, the lifestyle would consume their life until nothing remained but bitterness and hatred.
I shook off my dark thoughts. Anya was nothing like the other women I had known. She was the daughter of a Pekhan. Whether she had liked it or not, she had lived a life of privilege purchased with the blood of her father’s soldiers—someone like me.
“Here.” She reached into her satchel with shaking hands. “I have keys.” She tried and failed to insert the key in the lock three times. Finally she shoved them at me. “You do it.”
“As you wish,” I murmured. I put the key in the lock, and it turned smoothly. “Shall I wait outside?”
“No.” She stumbled into her home and then turned to look at me. “Please come in.”
Anya
He might have been an archangel, but I would have been more accurate to call this man a temptation from the devil. Vasily he had called himself. Okay. Perhaps his name was Vasily, but sin was certainly on his list of talents. Nobody looked like this guy without being a complete player.
I flipped on the light in my tiny front room just to get a better look at him. The hair was dark blond. At least I thought it looked like the thick close-shaven stubble covering his head was the color of a lion’s mane. His eyes were dark, dark brown. Yet it was the face and body that left me almost breathless with what I quickly identified as lust.
His forehead was high, his cheekbones well defined, and his jaw cut from granite. Even his ears were well shaped. His mouth was sensual, with a lower lip that made the most perfect bow. The desire to kiss him was almost undeniable. I wanted to cup his face in my hands and see what that dark blond stubble felt like on my palms. Then I would trace his jaw with my thumbs and stroke his lower lip with my tongue. I wanted to taste him so that I could see if he tasted as dangerous as he looked.
He was tall. I’m only five foot six, and he towered over me. I could not imagine him being less than six foot two or three. His shoulders were broad but not overblown. He looked athletic and trim. What I could see of his torso beneath his long jacket seemed fit. His chest flowed straight down to a narrow waist and long, muscular legs. The guy looked like an underwear model.
“Are you all right?” He raised an eyebrow at me, and I realized that I was staring at him like an imbecile.
“I’m fine.” Then I noticed that there was a thin coating of a Russian accent over his words. Could he be from another crime family? “Why were you there just now?” I demanded suddenly. “I mean, how did you happen to be in the right place at the right time to help me?”
“I was waiting for someone to call, sitting on my bike,” he said without missing a beat. “I heard the men talking to you and decided it wouldn’t be right not to intervene when I could so easily help you.” He cocked his head to one side. “Would you have rather I let them hurt you?”
“No.” Why was he making me so jumpy? Was I so very unused to being around a hot guy? Ugh! He even smelled amazing. It was like smoke and the outdoors and maybe a hint of something like cinnamon and bergamot. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I’m just wary of strangers.”
“For good reason it would seem,” he murmured.
Vasily
I felt bad using her good nature against her when she was only asking a perfectly logical question. Yet I couldn’t have her being suspicious of me right now. So I poked at her sense of fair play and made her feel as if she were questioning the value of my assistance. She immediately felt bad. But then so did I. And why did I care what she felt anyway?
I had not been lying when I told Boris that I did not remember his daughter. I didn’t. But I certainly had not expected the sight of Anya Romanov to be such a kick in the teeth—or balls as the case may be. She was like the promise of sex waiting to happen. All of that repressed sensuality wrapped up in her beautiful golden skin. Seeing her was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
The woman had a body built for sex. Her legs were long enough to wrap around my waist. Her hips were the perfect size for my hands to hold while I pounded my cock into her pussy. And her mouth. God her mouth! Those lips were so perfect that I could not stop imagining what they would look like against the shaft of my cock.
An image—a forbidden one—drifted through my mind. Anya on her knees with her hands bound behind her back. I wanted her looking up at me as she opened her mouth to accept my cock. I would thrust between those lips again and again until I felt her swallow my cum and saw her lick her lips for more. Yes. That was what I wanted.
“What can I do to help you relax and feel safe?” I managed to say. I stepped behind her sofa better to hide the raging erection pressing painfully against the zipper of my cargo pants.
“I’ll make some tea,” she decided. She began walking toward the kitchen, turning and casting a glance over her shoulder. “Would you like some?”
I considered her offer. “Do you have anything stronger?”
“Vodka?”
“Perfect.” So she was Boris’s daughter after all.
She pulled a bottle of good vodka off the top of her refrigerator and then retrieved a shot glass from her cabinet. Her motions were jerky, and she seemed distracted. She set the bottle
and the glass on the countertop and then put the kettle on to boil. She was shaking a little. Trembling, I think. I wondered what I should do to put her at ease.
“Can I help you in any way?” I spoke softly, not wanting to startle her further.
“You’re disturbingly handsome, did you know that?” The words seemed to burst from her lips without thought. Then she clapped her hands over her mouth and looked mortified.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “I’ll thank you for the compliment. Although I might just send it right back to you. You’re a very beautiful woman. Yet we haven’t even been properly introduced, have we?” I held out my hand. “My name is Vasily Krachenko.”
She took my hand and gave it a delicate shake. “I am Anya Romanov. It’s very nice to meet you, Vasily.”
“Likewise,” I murmured. And then I wondered where I could convince her to go from here.
Chapter Four
Anya
I’ve always heard people talk about how they “weren’t themselves” or how a situation “made me act completely unlike myself.” I’ll admit that I’ve always viewed those people with no small amount of skepticism. Mostly because I could not imagine a scenario where I would not act like myself. How was that even possible?
Yet as I sat in my living room laughing and flirting with Vasily, I realized that I was acting completely unlike myself. We were sitting companionably on my couch with only a few feet between us. Yet I didn’t even know what we were talking about half the time. I was too busy watching his lips and wondering what it would feel like to kiss him. Would my toes curl up? Would my belly finally untie itself from these infernal knots? Would my pussy get even wetter? If that was even possible.
