Sweeter Than Hate: A Darker Than Love Prequel

by Anna Zaires

  “Go ahead,” Yan says as Ilya pulls out his phone to take notes. “Tell us.”

  I rattle off all the names in the file I handed over to Henderson. I’ve actually only met those men once and hated them on sight, so I don’t feel particularly bad that I’m betraying them. Gergo might be upset to lose them, but he’ll get over it. After all, it’s his fault I’m in this predicament.

  He’s the one who sent Henderson my way.

  “Did you get all that?” Yan asks, glancing at his brother, and Ilya nods.

  “Got it.”

  “All right.” Yan rises to his feet. “We’ll see what we can pull up.”

  “Wait,” I say as he turns to leave. “I need to pee. Please.” I’m not lying; my bladder is uncomfortably full. But I also need them to take me out of this shed, so I can assess my surroundings and figure out what my chances of escape are.

  They’re most likely zero, but I have to try.

  Yan’s lips curl in a cruel smile. “Really? Then go here.”

  Ilya rounds on him, massive fists curling. “I’ll take her out. In fact—”

  “I’ve got it.” Yan’s voice takes on a lethal tension, one mimicked in the stiffness pervading his tall, muscled frame. “You can get started on the names.”

  Ilya visibly bristles at the order, and so much testosterone fills the air I can practically smell it.

  Are they about to come to blows? Over who takes me out to pee, no less?

  At the last second, however, Ilya turns on his heel and stomps out of the shed, slamming the door, and I’m left with Yan.

  My captor.

  The man I fear and desire in equal measures.

  9

  Mina

  Yan’s gem-green eyes glitter coldly as he sweeps his gaze over my face, lingering for a second on my lips before fixing his attention on the pulsing vein in my neck. My heart starts beating even faster. His proximity both frightens and excites me, the danger that he represents perversely heightening the attraction. As warped as it is, my body reacts to him exactly as it did in Budapest, and when he grabs my wrists to work on the knot of the rope, the touch elicits an involuntary response, like the zap of an electric shock.

  He unties me with the smooth efficiency of a killer who knows his way around ropes. Flipping me around, he forces my arms behind my back. My muscles protest at the violent change, my arms aching as the blood circulation reverses. Keeping me flat on the bench with a knee pressed on my lower back, he easily grips both of my wrists in one hand and uses the same rope to tie them back together, winding it around several times before knotting it a little too tightly.

  Roughly, he pulls me to my feet. With my hands tied behind my back and after having been immobile for so long, my balance is off, and I stumble. He catches me with a strong arm around my waist. A flash of recognition goes off in my brain, a memory of warm arms and a strange feeling of security, but before I have time to digest the response, he yanks me back against his hard chest with one arm squeezing around my stomach and his free hand finding purchase in my hair.

  Pulling my head to the side by the short strands, he exposes my neck and growls in my ear, “Don’t try anything. It’ll be fun for me. Not so much for you.”

  I don’t doubt that for a second.

  When he moves me forward, I trip again, but he effortlessly keeps me upright, maneuvering me as if I’m nothing but a puppet on strings. I suppress an ingrained urge to fight back. Without a weapon, I don’t stand a chance, not against Yan. He’s too skilled. None of my hand-to-hand combat moves will catch him by surprise. If I’m to escape, I have to use my head.

  We move through the semi-darkness toward a poorly insulated door. It’s fitted with a deadbolt as well as a chain and lock, and daylight shines through the cracks between the frame and the wooden walls. When Yan pushes it open, the outside air doesn’t bring relief. The hot humidity is worse than the somber shade inside. I blink a few times for my eyes to adjust to the brightness.

  Two guards turn when we exit, and I catalogue them swiftly. Black combat gear. AK-47s. Male, with Hispanic features and bronze complexions. Their dark eyes fix on my face before skipping down to my white tank top. My body is soaked with sweat, and the thin cotton isn’t enough protection against their invasive gazes. With both of my arms drawn back, my breasts are on display, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Groping hands and fists that won’t stop. Jeering voices. Helpless fury.

  Fuck, no. Suppressing the old memory, I narrow my eyes at the men visually dissecting my body, but that only invites their smirks.

  “Que pasa?” the tallest one asks.

  “Get lost,” Yan snaps in English. He must speak several languages, same as I do.

  “We have orders,” the other guard replies with a strong Spanish accent.

  “Then I hope you can execute them blind,” Yan says in a tone so boldly sadistic it makes me shudder, “because you’re about to have your eyes ripped out.”

  I have no doubt he means the threat in the most literal sense. Neither do the guards, because the tall one looks away and tilts his head toward a compound in the distance before addressing his friend.

  “Vamonos.”

  The one who speaks English averts his eyes. Together they walk toward the white buildings, not looking at me as they pass.

  I take stock of the environment. We’re surrounded by lush vegetation. Most of the plants are unfamiliar to me, but I recognize the toucan beak flowers and Yopo trees with their beaded seed pods from pictures I’ve seen. A good distance away from the compound, a guard tower is visible above the treetops on the left. Two more are on my right. And if there are watchtowers, the property will be fenced.

  My spirits sink. Escape seems more unlikely by the second.

  A buzzing noise sounds overhead, and I look up.

  A drone.

  Dammit, we’re being watched as well. Even if I get away, I won’t get far.

  Yan turns me in the direction of the jungle and gives me a little shove. “Walk, princess.” He’s back to speaking Russian.

  I stumble a step before managing to right myself. Walking to where Yan is pushing me, I squint up at the scorching sun. My lips are parched, but I force myself not to think about my thirst.

  Tracing the cut on my throbbing lower lip with my tongue, I ask, “What time is it?”

  “Does it matter?” he asks with a note of cynical humor.

  “Just wondering for how long I’ve been out.”

  He chuckles, not buying my nonchalance, but surprisingly, he answers. “It’s past two.”

  I make a rough calculation of where north should be by using the position of the sun.

  After crossing the small clearing that runs around the shed, we enter the dense flora. The drone hovers at the fringe, unable to follow. Yan steers me deeper into the shady jungle until we’re completely out of the drone’s scope of visibility.

  Twirling me around, he pushes me against a tree. My back hits the trunk with a thump, the rough bark pressing into my palms as he stares down at me with that new chill in his eyes. I’m the enemy now. He hates me. He believes I lied to him. And I did, but only about not understanding Russian, and he knew I was lying about that. No, the quiet fury emanating from him is evidence that he still thinks I was spying on him, and nothing I say will convince him otherwise.

  He reaches for the button of my jeans, and I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper. I could ask him to untie me, but it would be a waste of words. That will never happen. The button pops free, and the zipper makes a scratching sound as he slowly pulls it down, all the while holding my gaze.

  Those other men, the guards, they frightened me. I’ve seen what men at war can do to a woman. If not for Gergo, I would’ve been infinitely more familiar with those sinister intentions. Yet I’m not frightened of Yan. Not like that. I’m terrified he’ll kill me, but not that he’ll force me. He kidnapped me in Budapest and carried me off to his place. If he wanted to, he could’ve done a
nything to me. But despite the twisted situation back then, I felt safe in his bed. Secure. A rare feeling for me to have with a man.

  He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and slips them under the elastic of my cotton panties. My face heats like I’m an inexperienced teenager, not only at the intimacy of our situation, but also at the memory of how he devoured me, and how I devoured him back.

  His lips curve with the self-assurance of a man who knows the effect he has on a woman, but his eyes remain as frosty as the northern lights, mocking me, despising me, as he pushes my jeans and underwear over my hips and thighs to my knees. Goosebumps break out over my skin, following the path of his touch. He straightens slowly, trailing the tips of his calloused fingers up the outside of my naked legs and over the indents of my glutes on the sides.

  The heat in my cheeks intensifies when he finally drops his gaze, looking at the triangle between my legs as if it’s his right. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but this is different. I’m bound and naked, exposed with my hands tied and my jeans around my knees. Whereas he’s cool, collected, and fully clothed. As he stares at me, a heavy assault of vulnerability hits me in the gut. It’s humiliating, and judging by his relentless smile, humiliation is what he’s aiming for.

  Angry punishment. Cold-hearted revenge.

  Despite it all, the underlying current of danger sends a spark of exhilaration to my belly. I can help it as little as I can help my attraction to this dangerous man. My body craves his touch. Just one more time to remember how good it was. A taste to remind me how it feels to be alive. He has an effect on me like no other. Before him, I thought I’d never be able to tolerate a man’s touch again without the accompanying repulsion.

  But there it is. An untimely, yet undeniable reaction. My core heats. My sex swells. The bundle of nerves between my folds tingles. It takes all the self-control I possess not to tilt my hips toward the cradle of his thighs. I’m lucid enough to admit it’s more than physical, that there’s a psychological element to my desire to feel his arms around me. I’m not stupid. I know I’m not walking away from here alive, though I do intend to try. Either way, I suddenly crave the soothing security I found in his embrace in Budapest. I don’t care that it will be a lie. I just want to feel it one more time, and I refuse to judge myself for that.

  It’s only natural. Nobody wants to die alone.

  I focus on where his hands are resting lightly on my naked hips, those incredibly male hands with long, masculine fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Hands that can inflict pain in a myriad of ways. I pull in a ragged breath, on the verge of begging him to make the end sweet and quick when he steps away and turns his back on me.

  “Get a move on.” His voice is even, emotionless. “You have ten seconds.”

  I crouch down and quickly do my business. Having lived in close quarters with men in all kinds of tactical situations, I don’t suffer from stage fright.

  I count in my head. He gives me exactly ten seconds before he turns. I’m up already. He makes quick work of dragging my underwear and jeans over my hips and fastening the zipper and button. He’s rushed all of a sudden.

  Grabbing my arm, he manhandles me back to the shed and forces me into a chair that stands in the middle of the room—for interrogation purposes, no doubt. My insides go cold at the implication of what’s in store for me. Yan lifts my bound arms over the chair back so I’m not crushing them with the weight of my body, a strange reprieve when an interrogation is a foregone conclusion and torture a most likely possibility. Then he gets more rope, spreads my legs, and ties my ankles to the feet of the chair.

  And that’s how he leaves me, tied up in the dark.

  I’ve been trained to endure discomfort and pain. I slip into a space in my mind where the sensory impressions of hunger, thirst, and aching limbs are nothing but signals to my brain. It’s called a mental override. If not for this technique, I’d go crazy.

  It doesn’t take long before the door opens once more, and a tall, powerfully built man enters. With the sunlight at his back, he’s mostly a silhouette. I don’t need to be a clairvoyant to know this man’s aura drips with the same kind of danger as Yan’s.

  Two men step in behind him. The twins. Their faces are in the shadows, but I’d recognize Ilya’s bulky shape and Yan’s distinct, panther-like stride anywhere.

  A light flicks on, a naked bulb casting a circle of light around me.

  “We’ve just gotten the files on the men whose names she gave us,” Ilya says in Russian, holding out his phone. “Our doppelgängers have quite a resume. All four are former Delta Force, same unit.”

  Their doppelgängers? What the hell?

  Ilya glances at me. “They and a few of their buddies got court-martialed fifteen years ago for gang-raping a sixteen-year-old girl in Pakistan.”

  What? Every hair on my body bristles at the information. I was right to have had a bad feeling about them. Does Gergo know? No, impossible. Considering my history, he wouldn’t have worked with them. I’m glad I gave up their names. I hope the Russians catch them. I hope they make them suffer.

  “Six of them got arrested,” Ilya continues, “but the others broke them out and they all went on the lam. Since then, they’ve been doing random jobs here and there, everything from minor assassinations to planting bombs for terrorist organizations.”

  The man takes the phone as Ilya speaks, his thumb sliding over the screen, presumably checking photos of the men in question, men I recommended to Henderson. A rivulet of sweat runs down my back. Then the newcomer turns, holding the phone at such an angle that I can clearly see the faces as he flicks back and forth, and I go stone cold.

  Holy mother of all clusterfucks.

  On the phone are the familiar faces of the Delta Force men, but underneath, matched to each one, are grainy images that must’ve come from a security camera, photos that show different men entirely. One of them looks like the man holding the phone in front of me, while another is a tough-looking guy with a dark beard. But it’s the last two that make my stomach twist.

  The twins.

  It’s Yan and Ilya, and yet it’s not. I recognize the Delta Force men’s features underneath the skillfully applied disguises.

  Is that what Ilya meant by “our doppelgängers?” Was the FBI bombing in Chicago—the terrorist act Sokolov was to be arrested for—a frame job by Henderson? Did the general use the Delta Force team I gave him to carry out the bombing and then pin the blame on Sokolov and his team? A team that includes Yan and his brother?

  I want to throw up at the thought.

  I don’t watch the news much, but even I couldn’t miss that story—especially since my target, the man I was supposed to get killed during his arrest, was the main suspect behind the bombing. His and his wife’s faces were all over the news. I watched the coverage at first, but after a couple of days, I’d had enough.

  It was repetitive, and I didn’t need constant reminders of how much I fucked up by getting involved in this mess.

  Now, though, I have to wonder if that was yet another mistake of mine. Were Yan and Ilya’s faces—or rather, those of their doppelgängers—eventually broadcast as well?

  If I’d kept watching, would I have known of their involvement?

  Wait, those disguises… I catch another glimpse of the photos on the phone, and my mouth goes painfully dry.

  Those disguises, they carry a signature trademark, one I know well. I know the style, because I used it myself on many occasions. It’s a style the master himself had taught me.

  Only one person in the world could’ve created that effect.

  A man known as The Chameleon.

  Gergo Nagy.

  My mentor, savior, and friend. The man I owe my life, and more.

  He, too, must’ve been involved in this. Which makes sense. Gergo’s worked with the Delta Force men before. Many times. And he’s the one who gave my name to Henderson.

  I start shivering in the tropical heat. If this comes to
light, Gergo is dead.

  I know what the man with Yan and Ilya is going to ask even before he turns back to me and says, “Who did their makeup and disguises?”

  The light of the phone screen illuminates his harsh features, and I recognize him from the pictures on the news.

  It’s Peter Sokolov, the Russian assassin I was hired to indirectly kill—and apparently, the twins’ teammate.

  This can’t end well for me.

  He walks into the circle of light and stops right in front of me, staring down at my face with cold calculation. “It looks like it was someone very skilled.”

  Yan and Ilya follow on his heel, Yan a little too closely. The twins’ faces are stark and forbidding as they scrutinize me, but it’s Yan’s stare I feel viscerally, as if he’s cutting me open and looking right inside.

  I dampen my dry lips. I can’t betray Gergo. Everything I am, I owe to him. I won’t repay him by ratting him out. Anyway, I’m dead. We all know it, all four of us in this room. There’s only one solution with a dreadful implication, something that intensifies the nausea in my empty stomach.

  The men regard me silently. They’re not going to let the question about the disguises go unanswered. They want whoever has done it too badly. Eventually, they will find out. There’s no other way.

  A part of me dies even before I gather the words and form the lie. It’s Sokolov who poses the biggest threat, hovering over me like the brutal killer I sense him to be, but it’s on Yan’s face I focus as I say softly, “Me. I did it.”

  The declaration is huge. I’ve just admitted to framing Yan and his team in the dirtiest way possible. The mere idea burns like a ball of fire in my stomach, and it’s not even the truth. Yet there’s no reaction in Yan’s frosty gaze. Nothing in his expression. Not even a twitch.

  Whatever magic we so unconventionally shared in the dark hours of the night is as dead as his flat, green eyes.

  10

  Yan