Bearing His Sins

by Eve Langlais

  Perhaps she should have left the man to his spying. Perhaps he would do something about the rotten animal who kept trying to buy their land. Gram had told Fabian Garoux, on more than one occasion, where he could put his dirty money—spoken with gusto in half Russian, half English, and a whole hell of what the fuck.

  Yet despite the threats to his manhood, Fabian, some kind of crime lord in the area, kept trying.

  What a waste of time. Gram was never going to budge. She and Anja’s grandfather had bought this place when they emigrated from Russia. It was Anja’s inheritance, the one place that held feeble traces of her mother.

  As for her father

  …

  She jabbed in the code to the door providing entrance from the back porch, and it beeped before releasing the locks. She stomped into the house very aware he was only a few paces behind. An attempted slam of the door was caught as Cole invited himself in.

  “Just come on in apparently,” she muttered, stalking out of the mudroom of the ranch house into the kitchen, where her babushka stirred a thick stew that Anja would have sworn hadn’t been brewing on the stove when she’d left.

  When she was a child it never failed to amaze her that her grandmother could, in the blink of an eye, suddenly have a lavish culinary feast ready. As an adult, Anja didn’t question; she just ate it.

  “I have to come in if I’m going to accept your grandmother’s gracious invitation.”

  She tossed a glare over her shoulder. “I warned you. You shouldn’t have come.” Who knew why her babushka had invited him. Anja was only half-sure she joked about a recipe. She learned at a young age not to ask what the meat was.

  Looking utterly unbothered by her statement, the man made himself comfortable in a wooden kitchen chair, his black athletic pants stretching over thick thighs. He crossed his arms over the wide chest that strained the dark T-shirt with the V-neck from which peeked dark curls. “I came because I was invited. I just wish I’d known ahead of time. I would have brought some wine and flowers for my hostess.” He aimed a smile at Anja’s babushka, and the old witch smirked in reply.

  “Such a good and polite boy,” her grandmother cackled. “His mother raised him well.”

  “His mother raised him to assault women on their own property.”

  “My mother died when I was young.”

  If he expected sympathy, wrong house. “So did mine. Cry me a river.” She crossed her arms and tossed a challenging stare back.

  “My father also died when I was little.”

  “I never knew mine.”

  “You live with your grandmother.” His eyes glinted, and he leaned forward. “I was shuffled around from home to home. I win.”

  “That’s only because you don’t know my grandmother.” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes and then grin as her babushka screeched.

  “Ungrateful child. See if I make you any dessert.”

  “I don’t need your dessert, old woman. I’ll just have a treat from my hidden stash. A processed treat.”

  “Garbage!” screeched her old-fashioned babushka.

  Score! Anja couldn’t help but laugh.

  The knife her grandmother tossed flew with precision, but Anja knew to duck. Her guest?

  Not so much, but he did have fast reflexes and caught the kitchen utensil by the hilt. He did not even bat an eye as he rotated the blade in his hand. “Nice balance. Thank you for showing it to me. Let me give it back.” End over tip, the knife whirled back to thud into the wooden block wall, a mere few inches from her grandmother’s head.

  Her grandmother, who surely suffered from some form of dementia, smiled. “Aren’t you a talented boy? I will feed you.”

  Not “Are you hungry?” or “Do you want some food?” Her grandmother had suddenly decided Cole was a guest in their home. Which now meant being stuck with him for the next few hours at least. At that, Anja couldn’t help but groan and flop into a chair across from him. “Now you’ve gone and done it. She likes you.”

  “Yes, I’m just as baffled as you are, yet also oddly delighted. She is a fascinating creature.”

  “She’s a beast, all right. And see if you feel the same way after the sixth course.”

  “I am wearing stretchy pants.” He let his thumb tug the waistband and shot her a mischievous grin. “It’s all good.”

  She shook her head, fighting an urge to smile at the stranger’s method of replying. He didn’t do or say what she expected. At all. It proved intriguing. Almost as intriguing as the reason for his being in a tree.

  “What were you doing when I found you?” she asked as her grandmother whipped a platter of cold cuts in front of the man.

  He ate a piece of thick ham before replying. “Sitting in a tree.”

  “Sitting in it so you could spy. Why?”

  He shrugged. “I was hired to kill the folks next door.”

  “You’re a killer?” Anja didn’t move, but she knew her grandmother heard.

  “I prefer the term ‘assassin.’ Or, if you really want to make it sound fancy, ‘licensed and bonded mammalian exterminator.’ A bit of a mouthful, kind of like me. Personally, I like the title ‘Reaper’s right hand,’ except I’m left-handed, and I don’t like the idea of that Reaper fellow getting credit for my kills.”

  “You want people to know you are a murderer?”

  “Assassin for hire,” he corrected before he shrugged. “A good reputation brings in the big bucks.”

  “And all you do is kill people?” She could tell he tried to shock her. Not for one instant did she doubt what he said. He bore the arrogance and calmness of a man who knew how to act.

  “I don’t just kill. I also do other tasks for the right price.”

  “More illegal acts?”

  “Depends on your perspective. I oftentimes do society a favor. They just don’t know it.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He drummed his fingers on the table. “Because I am trying to decide what to do with you.”

  “Do?” She arched a brow. “Exactly what are the options?”

  “Either I have to kill you because you know about me, which, I will add, I’m somewhat loath to do. I know. I don’t understand it either, and I might have to see a shrink to talk about it. I mean, am I killer or aren’t I killer?” He shrugged. “Yesterday my mind-set was all like, shoot the fucker. Today, I’m like, meh, maybe no. Which means if I don’t kill you, then I’m going to have to marry you.”

  Anja couldn’t have said what was more explosive. His declaration or the fact that bodies suddenly came crashing against the closed mudroom door leading to the yard. Bang. A great big pounding and yet the portal didn’t even rattle in its frame.

  The sudden attack on the door gave her a moment to digest Cole’s words. She peeked at her watch, more than a single glance this time, allowing herself a long look at the digital display flashing between the many well-hidden cameras on the property that stalked every move of the figures who’d just parachuted into her yard.

  Parachuted. What the hell? It seemed the opposition grew fiercer and more cunning. She jumped from her chair. “We have company, Babushka. Let me go say hello.”

  “Sit,” her grandmother barked. “You will entertain our guest.”

  “I’m sure I can wait while you attend to your insistent company,” Cole stated loud enough to be heard over the pounding at the door.

  “That’s not company. They were not invited to dinner,” her babushka claimed in a strong Russian accent, despite her decades on American soil. Her grandmother slapped down a bowl of soup in front of Cole, a fragrant cabbage soup with bobbing chunks of carrot and onion. “Eat. It will make you strong. Like my lapushka.” And, yes, the old bat pinched Anja’s arms to show her size.

  Anja sighed. “For the last time, not everyone wants linebacker shoulders.”

  “People don’t?” Straightening in his seat, Cole rolled his impressive set. “Everyone wants strength. If they say they don’t, then they lie.”
He bent over the soup, the spoon tiny in his big meaty fist, but he didn’t eat like a pig at the trough; he took his time. It was rather fascinating, especially since the pounding continued at the door, along with some muffled shouts.

  Another peek at her watch showed the black jumpsuit–clad trio battering at the door with a ram. A useless endeavor. The steel rods that slid into the reinforced concrete walls held fast.

  Someone outside tried a different tactic. The glass of the window over the sink didn’t spiderweb when someone began to shoot. Her grandmother had renovated this home into a fortress over the years, claiming she did it for the eventual zombie apocalypse. But due to recent events, Anja now understood it was because she suspected this day would happen.

  And, of course, it had to happen while they entertained a guest. Then again, their guest didn’t seem bothered. Why did he not question more? Surely even a killer like himself had to have some curiosity.

  Her turn to lean forward. “Aren’t you going to ask who’s trying to get in?”

  “It’s not really any of my business.”

  “A normal person would still ask.”

  A wide smile brought forth a dimple in his cheek—a killer look. “I’m not normal.”

  “Another cliché, but deserved that time.” She frowned as she glanced again at her wrist. “Some of the idiots are moving around to the front. They better not trample my flower gardens again. The last time they took out that rosebush I’ve been cultivating.”

  “I told you to let me install the land mines,” her grandmother muttered as she worked on the next course.

  “I think I love your grandmother.”

  “I am too old to bear you any children, but my Anja, she has good hips,” Babushka declared as she slid a plate with a fried lamb chop and sautéed vegetables on it in front of Cole.

  “I am not a brood mare,” she snapped.

  “Or a good cook, but hopefully that won’t bring your bride value down too much.”

  “You are not selling me, old woman.”

  “You should thank me for ensuring your future with such a fine boy.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I can find my own man?”

  Her babushka blinked. “No.”

  Bang. Bang. Bang. The hammering kept on enough that she might have snapped a little. “Would you stop it already out there? I’m having a moment with my senile grandmother.”

  But the knocking didn’t slow down.

  A final lick of his fork and Cole set it aside. “Now that I’m finished, I find myself mildly intrigued with knowing why they’re knocking so insistently. Even the SWAT teams I’ve tangled with know when to pull back.”

  A part of her dearly wanted to hear that story, truly she did, but Anja blinked away her curiosity. “It seems my suitor has not yet taken a hint. Those are more of his mercenaries hired to bring me that I might wed their master.”

  “What?” The word roared from him, and he stood from the table, seeming suddenly wider than before. More dangerous.

  Even more desirable.

  “Sit down.” Her grandmother, between one blink and the next, swapped the entrée plate for dessert, an apricot torte with the tastiest lemon buttercream frosting. Her babushka shoved a spoonful between his lips.

  The mighty assassin fell before the sugary goodness. “Damn. That’s good.” Cole found himself distracted from the visitors at the door. But it wouldn’t last because her visitors wouldn’t stop trying to get in.

  I should go take care of them. Yet even if she did negate this wave, there would be another. And another.

  Anja sighed. Would it never end? Less than two weeks since the last attempt. It seemed her fiancé grew desperate to have her.

  Sergei had not yet learned his lesson. Had not clued in on the fact that there was a reason she and her grandmother refused to leave this farm. A reason why none of his soldiers ever returned. There was no better protected place, and the reinforced house had nothing to do with it.

  It began with an eerie howl, a ululation joined by a second howling cry. It no sooner faded than the roar of a wild animal sounded. Then all three erupted, vicious predators on the prowl come to protect.

  Her superstitious babushka claimed it was the spirits of their ancestor come in animal form to save them from the forces of darkness.

  But Anja knew better. She knew of the oboroten, a Russian word for legendary shape-shifters. Beings who could live among men but who were also creatures of the fur.

  Usually a pragmatic girl, Anja believed in them because she’d seen them, next door, as a matter of fact, and the men who turned into animals were better at protecting the land than any guard dogs. Cheaper too, since they fed themselves.

  Bam. She frowned at the back wall. “I think we should request a discount from that security company. Soundproofed doors and windows my ass.”

  “A delectable ass, I might add,” spoken by Cole in between bites of his dessert. “I can’t wait to leave teeth marks in it.”

  Crude and yet still panty wetting. Anja might have frowned at her reaction to his words, but her grandmother slapped him in the head. “No biting until after the wedding with my lapushka. She is pure.”

  Anja rolled her eyes. “For the last time, Babushka, I am not a virgin. I haven’t been a virgin in a long time.”

  The next slap went to Anja. “Idiot. What is wrong with you, advertising your slutty nature to your future husband? Are you trying to sabotage your bride price?”

  “You are not selling me to this man.” Said through gritted teeth.

  “No worries, I won’t buy you. That’s just wrong. I’m going to take you.”

  At his imperious claim, she laughed. And laughed. Laughed so hard, she started to cry and snort and hiccup.

  A big boom finally hit with enough force that the house shuddered. A moment later, a puff of fine silt pushed into the kitchen, and yet even the choking dust didn’t stem her mirth.

  Him standing from the table, every inch of him straining, did. It stole her breath.

  He’s beautiful. Not that it mattered. He was about to see why she couldn’t have a normal girlfriend-boyfriend relationship. Because nothing in my life is normal.

  CHAPTER 5

  Enough was enough. A thin layer of dust covered the last bite of his cake, and Cole eyed it with annoyance. Ruined. It wasn’t enough that people kept trying to interrupt his time with Anja. They also had to take from him the last delicious morsel on his plate.

  Adding to his annoyance was the fact that those attacking the house—and not very well—were after his woman. My woman.

  Cole never did share well with others.

  Mine. All mine. Perhaps it was time he explained that to them.

  “They broke the door. I loved that door,” mumbled the old woman. “I special-ordered it to look like the one I had in the old country. And they broke it. Death to them all!” The feisty grandmother headed toward the hazy archway, in her hand a knife pulled from somewhere under her shawl.

  As if he’d let her have all the fun. And, later, I need to find myself a manly version of that shawl. Because it apparently acted as a pocket dimension that could hold a weapons cache.

  He stepped quickly in front of the grandmother. “After such a fine repast, you should rest. I’ve got this.” Gallant? More like selfish. He needed to work off that excellent meal. Then he could justify asking for seconds.

  “You’re a guest. You should sit. I’ve got this.” His blond temptress hip-checked him and slid through the opening, first tossing him a challenge.

  He accepted. A heartbeat later, he dove through the arch. She shot him a sultry look over her shoulder, which could have also been annoyance, given that her lip curled.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Yes you do.” He saw the red dot a moment before she did and propelled her into the wall, his body quickly pressing against hers.

  Thwack. The tufted dart wobbled in the plaster not far from her cheek.

  Dart
s, not bullets? Where was the fun? “Don’t you have real guns?” he asked as he moved away from the soft cushion of her frame. He stepped in front of his woman. Not usually a protector, and yet, in this instance, it seemed only right.

  Acting as her shield also gave him a chance to show off lightning-quick reflexes, meaning he caught the fired darts and dropped them to the floor.

  By the fourth failed shot, the attackers realized they needed a better plan. Or so he assumed since they shouted guttural gibberish back and forth, gibberish his lady understood as she yelled back at them, hands planted on her hips.

  A Russian hit squad. Things just got even more interesting. Exactly whom did my Russian farm ladies piss off? Did he care? A person should never argue with unexpected fun.

  The fellow at the door—the one who would die first—sneered as he put his dart gun away and pulled out something more sinister, with a gleaming black barrel and a long clip underneath.

  Not to be outdone, Anja pulled a shotgun from the umbrella stand.

  She just pulled out a bigger fucking gun.

  He almost came in his pants, especially when, with a cocky Russian accent, she said, “That’s not a gun. This is a gun.” And, yes, she might have winked at him as she declared the biggest cliché of all.

  It made him more determined than ever to kill her because she was entirely much too perfect. It couldn’t last. She would prove his destruction. He needed to eliminate her before he got in too deep.

  The guy with the totally inadequate gun didn’t seem to understand just how fucked he was. He shouted something. Something stupid Cole’d wager by his Russian girl’s laughter.

  She sneered as she pulled the trigger. “Tell your boss it’s still no.” She dropped to one knee, a good thing since the other fellow fired in a panic, but the bullet went high. Her ammo, on the other hand, didn’t. She fired the shotgun at almost point-blank range.

  The scattered buckshot hit the fellow in the chest, slugs of hard salt and silver shrapnel. Interesting choice. The intruder screamed like a man having his testicles singed by a lighter. It was a sound that stayed with a guy.

  The injured fellow dropped to the ground, wailing and bitching but not dying. She’d get fewer points since it wasn’t a kill. And, yes, he totally kept score.