Her Relentless Russian (Karev Brothers Book 3)

by Leslie North

  His animalistic need for her stoked Harper's own internal fire. A cry in response from her, and he buried himself to the hilt, seeking to know her completion. She came in the same instant he filled her; the stars that had been shivering in and out of existence behind her eyes exploded, and all she knew was wave after wave of indulgent joy in his arms. She gripped him as his biceps tightened, twitched, and the murmur of her name on his lips accompanied his own explosive release inside her.

  As many dresses as Dmitry ruined, she would keep buying new ones, Harper decided. As they came down from their high together, Dmitry extracted himself from inside her and quickly did up his pants. Harper matched his hurry as she pieced herself back together in the darkness. She was surprised when she felt the weight of his jacket settle on his shoulders. Her ravenous, wolfish Russian had returned to a gentleman by the light of the moon.

  "Thank you," she murmured once she had steadied her breath. She pulled his jacket tightly around her, taking in the faint smell of coffee, Old Spice, and book glue.

  "For which part?" Dmitry asked with a smirk. He reached up to smooth a strand of long blond hair that had come loose from his bun. Harper punched him lightly in the shoulder as they stumbled out to the street.

  A sudden noise made Dmitry halt midstep, and Harper's blood ran cold. It came again, and there was no mistaking it this time—the low, double-tap whoop of a police siren. She saw a flash of red and blue cast across the side of the warehouse.

  Oh, shit.

  A black, unmarked sedan pulled up beside them. Its wheels had scarcely stopped before the passenger was getting out of the car.

  "Were the two of you inside there just now?" a man in a black suit demanded. Harper cast her eyes to Dmitry, stricken. If he denied it, she would follow his lead. She had already proven she would follow him anywhere, do anything to protect him.

  "Yes," Dmitry said. "Is there a problem?"

  The man opened the backdoor to the vehicle, and Harper's stomach sank. "FBI," the man said. "I suggest you come with me."

  7

  Dmitry

  "I'm not saying anything until you put me in touch with my brother," Dmitry said.

  He kept his arms firmly crossed across his chest and leaned back in the extremely uncomfortable metal chair. Despite being a son of the mob, it was his first time in an interrogation room. It looked to be about what he had expected: too-bright light radiating down from the ceiling, four sterile walls, and an untouched Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee in front of him. He could tell by the aroma that the roast was burned, but he didn't think the agent interviewing him would appreciate his snobbish claims to a palate at the moment.

  Savannah Casillero stood by the door of the room, thin arms crossed similarly. She was a beautiful woman, built tall and lithe, and she had done something with the colored layers of her hair that would have doubtless made Harper salivate. While there was no denying the tension between them, Savannah was his brother Maxim's girlfriend, and a seeming asset to their family's murder investigation—at least, that was how she had always portrayed herself. Dmitry wasn't sure what his personal opinion on the matter of Savannah's involvement was, other than that he was happy to see his brother happy.

  Hell, he would be happy to see his brother, period, right about now. Hence his first attempts at an actual demand.

  "You don't seem to know how this works," she noted. "Usually the first thing you ask for is a good mob lawyer."

  "I'm not with the mob," Dmitry said. "And I haven't done anything to warrant an arrest, so I don't believe I'll be needing the services of a lawyer."

  And honestly, there were more pressing things than his own innocence on his mind. He hadn't seen Harper since they had exited the fight club together, but he didn't want to let on to Savannah just how deeply involved he was with her… not until he knew what the FBI knew.

  "Where's the woman?" He allowed himself an internal wince at reducing Harper to such a static noun, but her anonymity depended on him not giving too much away now.

  "The woman? You mean Harper Allen?" Savannah supplied for him.

  Time to change tactics. Dmitry leaned forward onto the table, and he knew he didn't have to attempt to make his face earnest—he wanted this meeting to go well between them, and he meant every word of what he was about to say.

  "Savannah, you trust my brother," Dmitry said, "and Maxim trusts me with his life. I want to find my father's murderer as much as the two of you do. We're on the same side."

  Savannah hung back toward the door a moment longer; then, with a gusty sigh, she loosened her posture a little. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

  "I do trust you, Dmitry, and I don't think that trust is misplaced." Her dark eyes glimmered as she appeared to weigh how much she revealed next. "But the Bureau's been compromised in the past few days. Hacked. A lot of information on the mob, and on your father's case in particular, has been compromised. The methodology used is in-line with how we know a hacker—who goes by the handle Belvedere—operates. Let's just say it doesn't look good for your girlfriend."

  Damn it, Harper. "I don't know anything about that," he said. It wasn't a lie. He didn't know for certain how far past the bounds of the law Harper had allowed herself to reach, but he trusted Savannah's intelligence enough—on all fronts—to not doubt what she was saying to him now. Harper had stolen information from the FBI, and not thought the move pertinent enough to tell him about.

  "That's exactly what your girlfriend said." Savannah pursed her full lips and waited.

  "She's not—" Dmitry bit off his protest. It was a kneejerk response, and he wasn't sure who it was he intended to keep safe by going on the defensive.

  What was Harper to him? Just another hookup, but one that happened to be the best lay he had ever had? One with a body that drove him crazy, whether or not it was present in the room with him or not? A woman who was beautiful, intelligent, funny, and infuriating all in one? A woman he was exclusive with, and a woman he wrestled with for dominance in their relationship?

  They were in a relationship. There was no denying that. Arguing semantics in this situation was just about the dumbest inclination he’d had all day,

  Apparently, Savannah saw right through him. Her expression softened. "Maxim told me about your wife," she said. "To lose someone you love to drugs… it's not easy to come back from that. I wasn't thrust into the foster care system for most of my life because of familial sobriety."

  Dmitry listened. He felt exhausted suddenly, and cold. He wondered if the FBI turned the AC up in their interrogation rooms to make their suspects accept the coffee that was offered and decided he would ask Maxim about it later. He pulled the Styrofoam cup to him. Savannah wore the patient, waiting look once more. There was no denying she was good at her job.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "You don't have to bring up your personal tragedy to try and establish a rapport with me."

  "I know I don't. That wasn't what that was." Savannah leaned forward. "I'm going to help you out and walk you through it as we go. This is the part where I tell you I believe you didn't know anything about the FBI hack. But this is also the part where I caution you. I think it likely Miss Allen lied to me because she was trying to protect you, but I don't like being taken for a ride. You haven't given me any reason to mistrust you, but she sure as hell has. Know who you're getting in bed with."

  Jesus. He wondered if the sexual simile had been purposeful, but he didn't ask.

  "What do you want from us?" he asked. "I promise you that I'll make sure Harper… Miss Allen… is more cooperative, but first I need to know why we're here."

  "You're using the Bureau's information. There's no taking it back now," Savannah replied. "But as a trade, I want to be brought in on whatever the two of you find. Immediately. I'm not beyond threatening your girlfriend with jail time to try and turn her white hat for us. Right now, I'd say she's straying pretty far into the gray, Dmitry."

  Because we all know how much Harper likes
to answer to authority. Dmitry kept the sarcastic thought to himself. Harper would absolutely cut off her nose to spite her face. If Savannah, or any other agent, came at her with that kind of ultimatum, the hacker was more likely to put her middle finger up and teach herself to dye her hair in a cellblock toilet bowl.

  "I suppose you're just going to have to use your threat to blackmail me instead," Dmitry replied.

  Savannah smiled. "It's cute the way you guys keep trying to protect each other from the Big Bad Bureau. I promise you we're all on the same side here… well, I can make that promise for all save one." She thrust a finger at him. "You keep her on a tight leash from now on. And at the risk of sounding paranoid, sleep with one eye open. Not that she's hard to miss with that hair of hers." Savannah rose, and Dmitry took that as his cue to stand as well. "All right, Dmitry, you can go. If—when—you need to get in touch, call Maxim."

  Dmitry agreed that he would. He continued to trade polite, meaningless words with Savannah as she led him down the hallway and out to the parking lot. All the while, his thoughts were in complete turmoil.

  Had Harper omitted the 'little' detail of her hacking into the FBI server deliberately? She had admitted once to knowing about Agent Casillero's ties to his brother. She professed to be on his side of the conflict, but this was a huge betrayal of his trust any way he measured it.

  And Dmitry couldn't help measuring. He couldn't help drawing all the comparisons between Harper and his Lily: the secrecy, the lack of impulse control, the playing innocent. How could Harper not be toying with him in the exact same way?

  She was reckless. She endangered everything: his family's safety, the integrity of their investigation, and most of all herself.

  Savannah left his side, and Dmitry realized the object of his mental disorder, his life disorder, was standing before him. Harper, heels in hand and her hair slightly deflated, peered up at him.

  "Hey, stud," she offered. "Hope they didn't put you through the wringer. Don't worry—I played dumb the whole time. I know it's late, but still want to go back to my place? We can discuss what we want to do next uninterrupted. Well… almost uninterrupted," she amended suggestively.

  He locked eyes with her, prolonging the moment. Harper blinked her full lashes, mouth quirking slightly in anxious question. For some reason, it was the weak attempt at a smile that put him over the edge.

  "You lied to the FBI," he stated. "And you lied to me. You went completely off-book without telling me and endangered everything we've worked for."

  "What?" Harper's voice shook with the question, and Dmitry realized just how much on the fringes of his control he sounded. "I—that's—"

  He turned away from her. He started walking.

  Dmitry didn't go home to his apartment. As soon as he was out of view of FBI headquarters, he caught a cab and went straight to the bookstore, shunning every possible reminder of the woman he had once loved—and the woman who had, despite his best efforts, slowly started to take her place.

  He couldn't be in love with a woman like Harper. He couldn't go through this again. Someone so disordered, so upside down, so willing to bend the rules…

  She had apparently already beat him to his sanctuary.

  Dmitry paid the cab driver and folded himself out of the backseat of the car. Harper stood on the doorstep of the bookstore, hugging herself and tapping her bare foot impatiently. Evidently she hadn't taken the time to go home, either, since her heels still dangled from one hand. The aura she gave off—that of a jilted lover, or one-night stand—shouldn't have been as sexy as it was. The sight of her standing there shouldn't have scattered every tenuous plan he had made on the ride over so easily.

  "I'm just here to get my things," she stated as soon as he joined her. "But you never gave me a key, due to your fucked-up trust issues."

  Dmitry drew out his keyring. His own ride over had given him time to cool off; evidently, it had given Harper time to ignite. Her big, beautiful eyes blazed at him in fury. "So I figured it'd be the easiest thing if I just met you here," she continued. "That way you can get rid of me all nice and clean, and—"

  He had barely inserted his key into the lock before the front door was pushing open of its own accord. The hinges creaked, the bell tingling hollowly. Harper bit herself off mid-tirade, eyes rounding. They both knew he always locked it.

  They looked at each other.

  "Stay behind me," Dmitry instructed as he moved inside.

  A figure sat behind his desk. His uncle, Igor Ivankov, reclined behind the register with his expensive shoes propped up on the table. Dmitry noticed that all of his books had been flung on the floor, and some of them had pages torn from them and scattered about. His stomach plunged to think that his uncle had been lying in wait for him… and when he saw his desk lamp glint off the barrel of a gun, he knew he was wholly correct in his assumption.

  "It's not like you to leave the store unguarded. Running around the city playing detective, Dmitry?" His uncle's thick accent dripped with a malice Dmitry had never heard before—a malice he evidently didn't think he needed to bother suppressing any more. Harper shrank closer to him, but she didn't get behind him like he had ordered her to. She stood by his side, attention fixed on Igor, her expression one of obvious loathing.

  There was no more hiding, no more games, between the three of them. It was only his uncle that insisted on keeping up appearances now.

  "You always were so involved with your books, Dmitry," Igor continued. "I'm afraid in recent days you may have allowed your imagination to run away with you."

  "That's my father's gun," Dmitry said levelly. "He always had it on him. They couldn't find it the night he was killed."

  "I… remember that gun," Harper continued uncertainly. She glanced up at Dmitry, eyes wide as she looked for confirmation. "He brought it out once to show me when he visited my family. He even let me hold it."

  "Ah yes, the Allen family," Igor said. "My first real indication that your father had gone soft, Dmitry. I had suspected as much for a long time. So I split him open to see what he was made of. Know what I found?" Something unfathomable, cold and animalistic, entered into Igor's eyes. "We were not made of the same stuff, my brother and I. He was too weak all along for this business—imagine, living in his shadow for so long, only to discover it now. But you, Dmitry… you know you were always my favorite nephew. You are afraid of your own strength, but I tell you now you don't have to be. Come and work for me. I will not let you go as easily as your father did."

  "You don't have to," Dmitry said. "Because I'm not going anywhere. I've already chosen where I want to be." He pulled Harper close. "You're the one who's going to prison."

  "So you better give yourself up, you fratricidal piece of shit," Harper said. "And hope we go easy on you."

  Igor's eyes narrowed. "Bold words," he commended them both. "But so sad that you must die here together. A lover's murder-suicide." His uncle tutted. "I wonder what your wife will have to say about this when you join her in Hell, Dmitry. Do say hello for me."

  Harper sucked in a loud breath, and Dmitry held himself perfectly still, as his uncle levelled the gun at them.

  Igor pulled the trigger.

  There was a hollow 'click', and then nothing. The trick gun his father had always deployed in games of Russian Roulette—the one he had carried on him until death—had one more trick to deliver. Igor stared at it incredulously and started reaching for his own gun. He was rising out of the chair, rising—

  "Move!" Dmitry shouted. For maybe the first and only time in their relationship, Harper listened. She animated at once—and then she did him one better. She took aim, and hurled one of her shoes right at Igor's twisted, furious face. The heel point struck him on the side of his nose, dangerously close to his eye, and Igor reeled back as Dmitry dove for him. He yanked the gun out of his uncle's hand, turned, and unleashed a pistol whip unlike anything he had ever given in his life. He heard the gun crack like thunder against his uncle's skull; Igor's body w
as limp before it hit the ground.

  Dmitry stared down at his father's killer, heart hammering in his throat. He watched the pool of blood begin to form around his uncle's head and leech into the carpet. He took his time taking in the crime scene, knowing that no fatal blow had been dealt, and the animal part of him wishing it was otherwise.

  Harper flew across the room and cemented herself against him with a cry. Dmitry dropped the gun and clutched her to him.

  "Oh my God! Dmitry! Are you okay?" Harper sobbed into his chest. Dmitry brought his hand up to cup the curve of her skull, relishing how familiar it had become to him already. He could feel her tears

  "I'm fine. I need to call Maxim." But he didn't move a muscle. All he wanted to do was hold her forever and lose himself in the feeling. Grieving for his family could wait. The next part of the plan could wait. "Can't believe my father let you hold his trick gun," he added deliriously. "What were you? Fourteen, fifteen? Can't imagine what your parents must have thought."

  "I can't believe it's over. Oh God, it's over," Harper sobbed into his sweater. "You did it. You and your brothers. You avenged Sergey, Dmitry."

  "We avenged him," Dmitry said. "I couldn't have done it without you, Harper. Without you, I would have never known about my uncle's betrayal of our family. And I refuse to let you go now that it's all over."

  "Apology accepted?" she asked hopefully.

  Dmitry snorted. "You're right. I do owe you an apology for the way I acted. You're just…"

  "Not what you're used to," she supplied. "Or maybe I'm too much like what you're used to? I know your wife—"

  "You're not Lily, Harper." He clutched her hard to him, forcing her head to come up. She blinked, her tears stopping production, her lips parting. "You're my partner."

  "You bet your ass I am." Her voice shook with laughter, with adrenaline, mirroring all of the things that Dmitry himself felt in that moment. "I'm your partner, and I'm not going anywhere."