by Zaires, Anna
She shuts her mouth at that.
The hem reaches her thighs, but her naked pussy is only an arm’s reach away. I straighten and ask brusquely, “What do you need for the disguise?”
Her answer is tentative, as if she’s reluctant to do this. “The usual. A wig. Beard. Stage makeup.”
I glare down at her. “What were you hoping to achieve the night you let me take you?” I can’t let it go. I can’t wipe it out of my head. “Information, perhaps?” You never know. Some information is a valuable commodity.
“I told you. Nothing.”
I laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”
She glares right back at me. “What about you, Yan? What were you hoping to achieve? I heard you and Ilya. I heard what you said about keeping me.”
“Is that why you ran?”
She looks away.
I grip her chin and turn her face back to me. “Answer me.”
“There’s that, and…” For a second, she looks guilty. “And who I am.”
“Ah. A killer, you mean. I wouldn’t have judged you for that, princess, but framing me as a terrorist? Now that’s a different story.”
“It wasn’t personal,” she whispers.
My smile is mean. “Is that so?”
“It was a job.”
A job. I was a job.
Fuck me if I know why the knowledge slices me up ten different ways inside. Maybe because she’s not the waitress she pretended to be, and what she is makes her all the more perfect for me.
Under different circumstances, we may have had something, she and I. But as it stands now, we’re enemies.
And her life is mine.
11
Mina
It’s been a while since Yan left, taking my dirty clothes with him, but the scent of musky sandalwood and spicy pepper lingers in the space. Contrary to his overpowering personality, his signature cologne is subtle and airy, but it still dominates the shed, enough to mask the musty smell of the wood in my nostrils. It clings to his shirt, the one I’m wearing. Why did he bathe, feed, and dress me in something clean? Is this some psychological tactic, a way of softening me before breaking me? If so, it will be most effective. If he’s going to be physically cruel to me later, these kindnesses will make it seem worse.
Bars of shadows from the thin gaps between the wall planks stretch over the floor and finally disappear. Crickets start to chirp. There’s one somewhere in the corner of the shed, trapped inside, like I am. His song is out of tune with the chorus of the free ones outside. I distract myself by trying to spot my little companion, but the glow of the light Yan left on doesn’t bleed into the corners. It falls around me in a white pool, failing to reach the dark corners of my heart where fear beats out of tune.
It’s completely black outside when the door opens and Yan steps into the shed carrying two metal cases. They’re generic cases, the types that can be used for weapons or instruments of torture. The knot in my stomach tightens as I look from the cases to his face. His angular features are set in a hard expression, and the masculine beauty of his face somehow makes it look more dangerous, more calculated. He locks the door and crosses the floor. With every step he takes, my insides wind tighter together.
He drops the cases at my feet. “How are you doing, my little waitress?”
The accusation is bitter. To reply to it would only add to his wrath. And I can’t fault him for feeling this way. I understand how it looks from his perspective. One night, we meet and have sex, and fifteen months later, he finds out I’m the sniper who tried to get his friend/boss killed. What is he supposed to think? The only logical conclusion is that I was spying on him that night at the bar. To top it off, because I lied to protect Gergo, he believes I helped frame not only Sokolov but him and his brother by putting their faces on the team that committed a terrible act of terrorism. He doesn’t know that I had no idea what Henderson would do with the Delta Force men whose files I gave him, nor that I never would’ve taken the Sokolov job if I’d had any clue he was connected to Yan. And I can’t tell Yan the truth.
In his eyes, I’m a heartless monster, and I have to remain that way for as long as they let me live.
“We’re going to do this in reverse,” Yan says. “You’re going to disguise me to look like one of the Delta Force assholes.” Leaning over, he grips the armrests and adds in a soft, menacing voice, “For your sake, I hope you fail.”
I swallow. I already failed when I took responsibility for the job.
His full lips tilt in one corner, but there’s nothing friendly about the gesture. “Ready, princess?”
I nod.
His mouth ghosts over mine. “If you try anything, I’ll make you wish you were dead. Understand?”
I shiver more at the cold deliverance than the threat itself.
“Good,” he says, taking my silence for the correct answer. In this game, I don’t have a choice.
I study him as he crouches down to untie my feet. He’s wearing a fitted dress shirt and pants, and he’s not carrying any weapons, at least none I can see. Not that he needs any. His hands are strong enough to inflict lethal damage. And coming unarmed is wise. It eliminates the chance of me disarming him and using his own weapon against him.
He walks around me to work on my wrists. “Need to pee?”
“Yes.”
I hiss when the ropes fall free and he moves my arms to my sides. After hours of being in the same position, even the slight movement hurts. He rubs his big, warm palms over my arms, aiding the circulation. When most of the pins and needles are gone, he pulls me to my feet by my upper arm and guides me outside.
There’s no light around the shed, but I can make out two guards, different ones, in the moonlight. One of them is holding a dog on a leash. The animal bares its teeth when we pass. This is more than a sniffer dog. It’s trained to attack.
“You don’t want them to get their hands on you,” Yan says softly against my ear.
I understand what he means and he’s right. I don’t. I also understand why he brought me out here. It’s to make sure I understand what waits for me if I do somehow manage to overpower him.
He takes me to the same tree, but this time, he doesn’t turn away as I relieve myself. Despite my training, my cheeks turn hot. The tail ends of his shirt hide my private parts, but he stares at me as if he can see right through the shirt. When I’m done, he takes a travel-sized packet of wet wipes from his pocket and hands it to me. I quickly clean myself before wiping my hands, appreciating the small hygienic luxury. Not knowing what to do with the used wipes, I ball them in my fist.
He grabs my arm and steers me back to the shed. The exercise, however minute, is welcome. Some of the ache in my back dissipates.
Back inside, he locks us in and drops the key into the front pocket of his pants. Then he pulls me roughly to the chair.
Indicating the cases, he says, “Open them.”
There’s a bin next to the chair, maybe for blood or vomit when they torture their enemies. I dispose of the wipes in the bin.
“Now, Mink. I don’t have all night.”
Ignoring the accusation in the way he said my code name, I crouch down in front of the cases, flick open the clasps, and flip up the lids. One is filled with an assortment of wigs, moustaches, combs, and glue, and the other with makeup and brushes. How did he get these so fast? One look is enough to tell me these products are on the high end of the scale.
“Pick one,” he says.
I turn my attention back to him. “What?”
“Pick a guy.” His tone is mocking, but I don’t miss the anger running underneath. “Who are you going to turn me into?”
“I don’t remember them by heart. I’ll have to see their faces again.”
He gives me a piercing look as he fishes his phone from his pocket and flicks over the screen without breaking eye contact. Sweat forms on my forehead from the intensity of his stare. If I really disguised those men, I should be able to remember their fea
tures. I hold my breath, praying he won’t call me out on it.
He glances briefly at the screen before holding it up to my face.
I let out a silent breath of relief. Looking at him for permission, I lift a hand. He nods. I swipe a finger over the screen, running through the photos of the Delta Force men. I pause on the one with the beard and bushy eyebrows.
He turns the phone back to look at the image. “Ugly bastard.” Leaving the phone well out of my reach on the bench, he turns back to me with crossed arms. “What are you waiting for?”
“You’ll have to sit down.” He’s too tall for me to reach his face.
A little shock runs through me when he grips my hips. His gaze sharpens, as if he knows. He moves us around, reversing our positions, and lowers himself into the chair. Spreading his legs wide with a lazy movement, he pulls me between them.
“Do me, malyshka.”
I jerk inwardly at the nuanced meaning. Memories of us doing each other naked in his bed assault my mind, and a faint pulse of arousal starts beating in my belly.
Slowly leaning back with a predatory gleam in his eyes, Yan releases me to rest his arms in a deceptively casual pose on the armrests. I do the wise thing. I jump to create distance between us, rummaging through the contents of the makeup case. Grabbing a tray of cream-based foundations, I study them in the stark glow of the naked bulb.
“I need better light.”
“This is all you get.”
I select a color that corresponds to the darker skin tone of the bearded man and take a wedged sponge from its package. To reach his face, I have to step closer, my thighs brushing the insides of his legs. My body tightens with an uninvited sensation, one that sends heat to my core. I busy myself by dragging the sponge through the foundation, soaking up just enough of the cosmetic to spread it evenly over his cheek without creating a caked effect.
At the first swipe over the hollow of his cheek that emphasizes the stark lines of his high cheekbone and strong nose, my hand starts to shake. I have to lean closer to reach. Tilting back his head, he holds my gaze with the piercing interest of a lover, or maybe an animal on the hunt, as he offers his face like a canvas. It’s not the unconventional beauty of the canvas I focus on, but that he’s offering me anything at all. Men like Yan give nothing easily. Emotions? Never. I can forget about counting on his compassion to escape alive.
I scoop up more foundation, dabbing it onto the rough skin of his jaw. He shaved. By the smell of soap still clinging to him, he showered, too. I take a deep breath, but it’s useless. I can’t keep my hand steady. I freeze when he closes his legs the tiniest bit, squeezing my hips softly. My lower body starts to hum, and more heat pools in my abdomen. The notion of pending death only adds to the sensations, making my body feel more alive than ever. Every bolt of awareness that runs through me is amplified. When you’re hungry, food tastes extra good. When death is so real you can taste it in the back of your mouth, physical awareness is stronger. I’m powerless to control these impulses. As before, my body responds to him. My flesh doesn’t recognize that the man who gave it life is the same one who’ll take it away forever.
“Nervous?” he drawls.
Another nuanced question. He knows the answer. He can feel it in the unsteadiness of my hands. With his fine-tuned killer senses, he can probably hear the minute change of my breathing as my pulse quickens.
There’s no point in denying the truth. Biting my lip, I nod.
For some reason, my answer pleases him. He likes to make me nervous.
Keeping my gaze, he places his hands on my thighs, just below the hem of his shirt. His broad, calloused palms are abrasive on my skin, making my flesh contract. Measuring my reaction with his piercing, all-noticing stare, he slowly glides his hands up under the shirt until they rest on my naked ass.
My shiver is visible. Electric shocks run down my spine and up my legs to collide in the center. Like an invisible charge, the current explodes in my clit, making it swell with an instant ache. Watching me, reading me, he rubs his hands down the back of my thighs and up my inner legs. I pinch my knees together, trying to hide his effect on me, but he pushes them apart with little effort. At the seam of my folds, he stops. I hold my breath.
The lazy casualness of earlier is gone. The hunger in his eyes is blade sharp. More dangerous. Edgier. For one, two seconds, we freeze, me in a desire to deny my body’s reaction—I don’t want him to know how much power he wields over me—and him with the unmistakable intent of examining that reaction. Then he moves his hands back to my ass with a gentle sweep. Tightening his fingers on my globes, he yanks me to him, hard. I collide with his body and grab his shoulders to steady myself. His hard-on is trapped between us, pressing at the seam of my opening. I try to push away, but the harder I fight to escape, the tighter he holds me. All I’m accomplishing with my squirming is rubbing myself over his erection.
I stop.
He grunts. “Come here.”
I can’t come any closer. I’m practically on his lap. And that’s exactly where I want to be, whatever happens after be damned. If I’m going to die anyway—
“Mina,” he says more harshly.
I focus on his eyes, on the jade-green color that shines so coldly.
He drags his palms up my back and over my shoulders until his big hands frame my face. “Do you want this?”
There are many reasons why I shouldn’t, but the truth is an easy answer. It’s one-worded and uncomplicated, devoid of who we are and what that means for the short future I have left. It only knows the undeniable pull that brings our lips closer.
He takes the last step, crushing our mouths together. The makeup sponge drops to the ground, but not before I’ve painted a streak of bronze over the collar of his shirt. I manage a feeble whimper, a weak sound of surrender, but it’s lost in the turbulent kiss that takes my reason. The whimper grows into a moan, its meaning quite different. It says how much I want him, this dangerous Russian killer.
The moment that needy sound slips into his mouth, he turns even wilder. He opens my lips impatiently with his tongue, taking as if I belong to him. The roughness of his kiss is matched only by the gentleness with which he cradles my head. He drags his hands down to my neck, one big palm fastening around my nape while the other folds around the front in a possessive hold. He keeps me in place while conquering my mouth, making sure I have nowhere to go but where he wants me.
My knees grow weak. As if sensing that little sign of submission, he grips the back of my thighs and lifts me onto his lap. My legs are stretched uncomfortably wide over the armrests as I straddle him, but I don’t care. I only care for more of him. Our chests press together, the warmth of his body seeping into me. His heartbeat reaches me through flesh, skin, and clothes. The strong, erratic beat simultaneously soothes and excites me further, the knowledge that he wants me adding to the burning heat inside me.
Impatiently pushing me away without breaking the kiss, he unbuttons my shirt. When it falls open, he takes a moment to look at me, then lowers his head and closes his mouth around my nipple. The wet, hot flick of his tongue over the unbearably sensitive tip makes me arch my back, giving him more. He closes his teeth around the tip and does that wicked thing with his tongue again. Another moan escapes my throat, louder this time.
The wet heat around my nipple disappears, and he presses a finger on my lips. “Shh.” He must not want the guards to hear.
Pulling back, he stares at my body with satisfaction and hungry lust. My nipple is hard and extended, a telltale sign of my arousal. So is the wetness between my legs. He drags a finger over my other nipple, inviting a similar reaction, then down between my breasts and over the ring in my navel, coming to a stop at the top of my slit. His gaze finds mine. I want to watch his hand, to look at the devastating work of his finger, but I’m helpless against the pull of those green pools.
Slowly, he parts my folds, reading my face. I gasp when he sweeps the pad of his thumb over my clit. Approval tighten
s his features as he discovers my wetness. All gentleness vanishes. He flips his hand palm up and drives a finger into my core. At the same time, he slams a hand over my mouth. My involuntary gasp as the heel of his hand slaps against my sex is caught behind his palm. With his thumb, he draws circles over my clit. I’m caught in the vise of his hand, his shirt slipping down my arms as I writhe in exquisite pleasure. Balancing me on his lap, he thrusts that one finger into me, taking me away from the harshness of my reality with a different kind of harshness. I embrace it greedily, letting him finger-fuck me in whatever way he pleases.
“That’s it,” he says with tender appraisal. “Show me how you come.”
And I do. My inner walls clench with a delicious pressure. It’s sweet freedom. Shockwaves weave through me, sending lethargic impulses to my brain. I sag in his arms, dragging in air through my nose to try and settle my ragged breathing. Dropping his hand from my mouth, he presses his lips against mine in a soft kiss.
I want to feel his skin on mine. When I reach for the buttons of his shirt, he doesn’t stop me. I unbutton them and brush the edges apart. Leaning forward, I push our chests together. I absorb as much heat as I can, letting it sink into my skin before pulling away to trace the grooves of his lean muscles. It’s a shape imprinted in my mind. The slab of his ridged abdomen is hard like marble, his skin velvety warm. The trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of his pants draws my hands. I glide my palms over his erection, tracing the outline through his pants. When I reach for his belt, he doesn’t stop me either. He lets me undo the buckle and unbutton his pants, then unzip his fly.
I’ve never trembled with anticipation, but I do as I slip my hands into the elastic of his briefs. That’s when he stops me, locking his fingers around my wrist. “Not yet.”
He pulls me up until I’m standing on my knees, my legs on either side of his thighs on the chair. When he slides down in the seat to put his head on level with my sex, I understand his intention. I tense in anticipation.