by Hope Anika
Ruslan stared at her, his heart beating like a drum. His blood a wild, heady rush. The savage presence within him rattled its cage, agitated, excited. Hungry. But a different, more dangerous hunger.
He didn’t understand. Not why she provoked the response from him that she did; not why the pitiless force inside of him had attached itself to her. He only knew it was dangerous. That she made him feel, and the experience was harrowing and thrilling and potentially fatal.
“I owe Charlie more than I can repay,” he said stiltedly, unable to give her more—the truth she sought, a truth he wasn’t ready to share, one he was still trying to understand—and she tilted her head, her body—so warm and sweetly scented—far, far too close to his. Almost touching. Her heat, pressing against his skin. Her breath, bathing his chin.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“I had to come,” he continued. “I could do no less.”
“Blah-blah-blah.” She snorted. “Answers, Ruslan. I want answers.”
He could only blink at her, silent.
“Goddamn it,” she snarled and closed her eyes.
Her pulse beat wildly in the hollow of her throat.
Touch her. There. Yes, there.
He shook himself.
“I would not betray you,” he said, his voice low.
“Faith?” A sharp laugh escaped her. “Is that what you expect? That I should just believe in you? Have you met me?”
“I will not let you down,” he promised softly. A mistake, to promise anything to anyone. Something he never did. But the feral wildness within him calmed, and he meant it.
He meant it.
“You’re letting me down now,” she told him, her voice hard, and that sharp spike of something pierced him again.
But he had nothing else to give. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“So that’s all I get?” she demanded, and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Full and soft, as red as the darkest rose. Pliant.
How would it feel?
You should find out.
That blistering and wholly alien thought froze him in place. For a moment, she hovered so close he could see bright green striations in the iris of her eyes and the fine cut that had split her lower lip. She watched him, as if considering whether or not to walk away and not look back, and his hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“I would not betray you,” he said again, unwillingly.
“I don’t believe you, Ruslan. But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Because right now, I’ve got bigger problems.” She rubbed a weary hand over her face. “Fine. For now, we put it away. But you need to think real hard on where we go from here, my Russian friend. Because I want everything you aren’t telling me. And if you can’t do that, you will go the fuck away.”
The darkness hissed softly. “I am not going anywhere.”
“You don’t get a choice.” She sat back on her side of the Impala, taking her heat and her breath and her sweet jasmine scent with her. “Drive.”
Ruslan didn’t move; his pulse beat like a drum in his skull. He was aroused, his body hard and tight in a manner that was nascent and primitive and driven by whatever it was Ash touched within him. He was a controlled man, and yet she set the deepest, darkest heart of him ablaze, made him feel almost...savage.
Drunk. On her.
“Ruslan,” she said. “Drive.”
He reached down on autopilot, put the car into gear, and pulled away from the curb.
They traveled the rest of the way to Joseph Pierce’s residence in heavy silence, and the weight of her open distrust—and his own chaotic and treacherous response—was static in his head. Loud, distracting.
Chaotic.
He felt...confused. Uneasy and unsettled. When he shouldn’t have felt anything at all.
“247 Rosemont,” he said as he pulled up before a large, brick faced building. Far behind them, the SUV pulled over as well.
Ash said nothing; she climbed from the Impala and headed up the set of stone stairs that lead into the building without him. Ruslan climbed from the car and waited before following her, his gaze on the SUV. He hoped silently for confrontation; the hungry entity within him needed release. Badly. His conversation with Ash had left him wanting nothing but the oblivion of the feed. But the doors to the vehicle remained shut, its occupants apparently only interested in observing them.
For now.
He turned toward the building that housed Joe Pierce’s apartment. The streetlights revealed a nondescript structure, identical to the others that lined the block. A lower-middle class dwelling with aging stonework and cracked mortar. A child’s bike sat just inside, its back tire flat.
Silence permeated the space, broken only by the faint murmur of a TV. There was no sign of anyone else.
“Ashling,” Ruslan said when he caught sight of her striding down the long hallway. “Wait.”
“I’m a big girl, with a big gun,” she replied shortly. “I’m good.”
He caught up to her at the flight of stairs at the end of the hall, which they climbed in silence. Her unwillingness to allow him to go first was childish and misplaced, but he knew any argument would only inflame the anger simmering within her, so he said nothing.
“You have been here before,” he said as she turned right, down another long, narrow hallway.
She nodded tersely.
The second floor was as quiet as the first, the air stale. They approached the last door on the right—a battered, hollow door whose brass number plate 13b hung crookedly—and found the door slightly ajar. Ruslan immediately stepped past Ash, blocking her from the door, and pulled out his weapon.
“You need to knock that shit off,” she said softly, and when he glanced at her, her brilliant eyes flashed with warning. “I’m not made of glass.”
No, she was made of something much more resilient. But he only turned away and slowly, carefully, pushed open the apartment door. The interior of the unit was dark, but he could see pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. Behind him, Ash found a light switch and flipped it on, revealing a violently upended room.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered, but when she went to move around him, Ruslan stepped into her path.
“Wait,” he said again, and before she could respond, he pulled the apartment door shut behind them and began to clear the rooms, one by one.
It was a tiny place, with just two small bedrooms, a bath, a separate kitchen and a little living room with two windows that faced the street. They found no one hiding anywhere, and no sign of Joseph Pierce.
Everything within the small apartment was destroyed; even the pictures had been pulled from the walls, their glass broken, frames bent. Silverware littered the kitchen floor; the stuffing had been pulled from the couch cushions. Beds overturned, books scattered across the floor, lamps shattered into pieces.
“Son of a bitch,” Ash said, looking around at the devastation.
“They were looking for something,” Ruslan said. “One wonders if Joe Pierce is still alive.”
“I wouldn’t count him out. He didn’t strike me as a man who would die easily.”
A grim observation that made him wish he’d met Joe Pierce.
“Maybe they didn’t find what they were looking for,” she added, wandering the room, nudging the piles of destruction with the toe of her boot. “Maybe it’s still here.”
“We have no idea what they sought,” he said. “Or if it was here to begin with.”
“Well, we have to start somewhere.” She backed up and looked around again. “If Joe is anything like Charlie, he’d hide something in plain sight. Somewhere no one would think to look, because it was already right in front of them.”
Ruslan followed her gaze, taking in the broken glass, splintered wood and couch batting. “You are looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Glass half full here, partner.” She knelt down and lifted one of the pictures, turning it over. It was a cheap, nondescript print, the fra
me cracked. She inspected it, sighed, and tossed it down again. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”
He thought it was a waste of that desperate time, but he didn’t argue. He merely began to survey the damaged items, his gaze narrow. He wandered through the rooms, but saw nothing unusual. One of the bedrooms was pink—clearly belonging to Eva—but it held few personal belongings, a few books torn to pieces, a stuffed polar bear, a shredded Supernatural poster.
The other bedroom was blue—presumably Joe’s—and had nothing personal in it whatsoever. Just an upended bed and a broken side table. The bathroom had fared little better; even the aged white tile had been shattered, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and the shower curtain lay in a rumpled ball beside the toilet.
At the end of the short hall that led to the bedrooms, a broken mirror lay against the wall. It was overly large, with a gilt, baroque-style frame and beveled glass. Beyond the shattered mirror, a pale wooden backing could be seen.
Ruslan halted and crouched beside it in consideration. He lifted it and shook away the broken shards of mirror. Then he turned it sideways and studied its depth, before flipping it over and surveying the back, which consisted of an old piece of plywood with two steel eyehooks and a length of hanging wire.
A cheap, homemade backing for such an expensive mirror.
He turned it back over and stood with it in his hands. Behind him, the scent of jasmine and mint preceded Ash’s arrival.
“What?” she asked, halting next to him, too close in the narrow space.
He said nothing. He carefully hung the mirror back up on the tiny steel hanger and looked at it for a long moment.
“Earth to Ruslan,” Ash said. “Come in, Ruslan.”
The wood directly behind the mirror was thinner than the piece of plywood on the back, much easier to punch through. Which he did, with a short, sharp blow. The wood shattered as if it were glass.
“Show off,” Ash told him. “Karate?”
“Jujitsu.”
“Which you practiced with MI6 during your time in the bomb making cult, right?”
Ruslan ignored the sarcasm and pulled away the shattered pieces of wood. Taped to the back interior of the plywood was a large yellow envelope. Scrawled across the envelope was a word that disturbed him deeply.
Kyndal.
Ash reached for it. “Well, bust my buttons.”
“He knew you would find it,” Ruslan said and tamped down the urge to stop her, as if the envelope was somehow booby-trapped and would detonate if she touched it.
“Not me,” she said and pulled at the envelope, which didn’t want to give, the tape clinging stubbornly to the wood. “Charlie.”
Ruslan brushed her hands away, and tore the envelope from the wood. It was thick and heavy, and he hesitated before handing it to her.
“How did you know?” she asked, taking it from him.
“Know what?”
She nodded toward the mirror, her eyes bright with curiosity. Suspicion.
“Look at the frame of the mirror.” He lifted a hand to stroke his finger down the flaking gilt that edged the border. “What do you see?”
Her gaze narrowed, but she cooperated, eyeing it closely. “It’s...ornate.”
“Yes,” he said, pleased. “Now look around you. What do you see?”
A frown drew her brows low. “Hard to say with everything in pieces, but...I see simplicity. Nothing fancy or formal, just functional.”
“Yes,” he said again. “That was the first clue.”
Ash looked at the mirror. “And the second?”
“The mirror’s depth. It is approximately four inches thick. The glass would be less than quarter of an inch, and the frame around it is only half an inch. The back panel is plywood and unlikely to be larger than an inch in thickness. That leaves a surplus of two and one-quarter inches. I made the logical conclusion that something might be contained within that pocket of space.”
She snorted. “Of course you did.”
“I would not betray you,” he said again, the words again welling forth without his consent.
She said nothing, but looked down at the envelope in her hands. When she went to open it, Ruslan stopped her.
“Not here,” he said. “We should go.”
Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.
He held a hand out for the envelope, and she eyed him with a narrow look.
“It should be hidden from view,” he said, taking the envelope from her and tucking it into the back of his pants, where he wedged it beneath the slender line of his belt. He pulled his suit coat down over it, and turned away, growing oddly annoyed by the open distrust in her. “They are watching; we must take care.”
“You’re the expert,” she said, watching him.
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he only nodded and indicated that she should proceed him—which earned him another dark look. But he didn’t care. She could argue her skill and capability all she liked; he would not let her bear the brunt of anything they faced.
Perhaps, he thought, his chosen role to protect and defend was something he could afford to share. Ash wanted words, and while there were many things he would not explain, that simple elucidation would cost him nothing, and her comprehension—and acceptance—of his safeguarding would be worth the effort put forth.
Because they could not afford to be adversaries. No matter how angry she was with him. Wylie was on the run; a child’s life was at stake. Their client had disappeared and they were being hunted by men who chose death over apprehension. Ruslan had a bad feeling there was more, much more to their current predicament than met the eye.
They had to work together.
He’d once been part of a team; he understood that such a connection was symbiotic. But he’d never had a partner, something he was beginning to realize was far more intimate than being a member of a group, and not something he would have chosen for himself. The trust required for such a relationship felt somehow beyond him. And the answers Ash had demanded were not something he was capable of sharing.
He always worked best alone.
And yet he wasn’t about to let her deal with the matter of Eva Pierce without him, which necessitated this connection with her, so different than those he was accustomed to. A necessary evil, which was, he thought, probably what Ash was telling herself about him.
But he was not sorry for the necessity. Because it was an opportunity as well. Ruslan knew his value.
He just had to make certain that, before this was all over, she knew it as well.
CHAPTER
-7-
“Get ready,” Wylie said in her ear. “As soon as that door opens, head toward the Fountains of Bellagio. I’ll be right behind you.”
Wanda could feel him, like a blast furnace at her back. They’d stood and moved to the back of the bus, where the people exiting the vehicle disembarked. Eva stood before her, calm, still, her face a mask of relaxed indifference.
Her lack of distress was annoying—particularly when Wanda was completely freaking out.
Men were chasing them—doggedly, following the winding path of the bus—men who seemed unconcerned with anyone witnessing their behavior; men who carried large black guns and bombs.
“You hear me, baby?” Wylie breathed against her cheek, and Wanda shivered.
“I hear you,” she muttered, taking a tiny step forward, away from all of that incendiary heat and the scent that clung to him, of spice and man.
A man who’d kissed her, his mouth firm and persuasive, jolting her entire body to wakefulness. Her first kiss. Her only kiss. And one who she’d kissed boldly in return.
Wanda wanted to punch him in the face. For that stupid, deceitful kiss. For calling her baby and dressing her in this elicit get-up. For being even more beautiful clean-shaven and shorthaired than he had been scruffy-faced and long-locked. For putting his hands all over her.
He had no right. Which was countered with: it is just an act.
&
nbsp; Three different people, he’d said. And they’d done their best to assume those altered identities. Just a cowboy, his woman, and their boy.
But she’d never been anyone’s woman, and if Wylie had slid easily into his role, Wanda’s was as foreign and uncomfortable as the pants currently riding up into her nether regions. Coupled with the rough surface of his hands: wrapping her waist, possessively clamping her hips, sliding down over her butt, skimming across her skin—well.
It was simply too much. Especially for a woman who’d rarely been touched by a man. And never in the manner in which Wylie was touching her.
“You run,” he said, his voice low. “And you don’t look back.”
She tried to turn around to argue with him, but then the bus was lurching to a halt, and the door was whooshing open, and Wylie was pushing her down the steps and off the bus.
“Go,” he ordered, and Wanda wanted to protest, but then she caught sight of the black SUV pulling up behind the bus, and she simply grabbed Eva’s cool, slender hand in hers and headed for the shimmering wall of water that danced and swayed beyond the mass of people gathered along the sidewalk.
She wove through the crowd, hampered by both the mass of people and the ridiculous boots she was wearing. She bumped into several people, then several more, earning her a few glares, but kept going, Eva’s hand tight in hers, and when the urge to look back gripped her, she forced herself onward, until they came to an abrupt halt before the massive fountains. She turned to look for Wylie, and he was there, right behind them, grabbing her hand and turning them back into the crowd.