by Hope Anika
Again.
And he wondered—had he been the one injured—would she have sat so unwavering beside him? A foolish question; he had little use for such speculation. Still, the question persisted. Worse, he wanted the answer to be a succinct, unequivocal yes.
“Confused and pissed off. Scared for Eva.” She reached out and brushed PN4’s solemn face with her fingertips, a dark frown drawing her brows low. “I don’t understand how it’s all connected. And Charlie...” She sighed and turned toward him, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “Why were you in a prison cell?”
The tension that had eased returned, and as Ruslan stared down into her brilliant turquoise gaze, he knew—if he made any move to avoid or deter this conversation—it would be his third strike.
One more strike, Ruslan. One more, and then you’re out.
This was his moment to win or lose. He had never shared himself, not with anyone. Partially because he had no desire to do so, and partially because he understood that with disclosure came vulnerability, and he allowed himself no weaknesses. But now, trapped within Ash’s expectant and challenging look, he understood it was also a matter of trust.
What would she think of him once she understood who he was and where he’d come from?
The dark entity within him hissed softly, as if protesting, but it did not understand that—should he refuse her this answer—it would lose her.
Forever.
And while the thought of her rejection threatened to freeze him in place, Ruslan understood that—if they were ever to be—it was essential that Ash know and accept all that he was.
And wasn’t.
He could not be that which he was not; he had no desire to try. So he would have to be enough.
A sobering insight.
“I fled the orphanage in St. Petersburg when I was nine,” he said without inflection. “I spent most of my childhood on the streets of the city, and I became quite adept at survival. It did not take long to ascertain that information was the most valuable commodity, and few guarded their words in the presence of a scrawny street urchin who appeared far younger than he was. I parlayed my role in providing intelligence into one of transmitting personal communications, acting as a neutral conduit between the various factions that ran the city’s underground markets. I was unhindered by the liabilities that burdened my competition: I had no fear, nor any personal ambition with regard to the organizations I served. I was uniquely suited for the role, and by the time I was eighteen, I had earned the respect of those I worked for, and an appreciable income.”
She only watched him, her face unreadable. “And then?”
“And then one of my clients offered me a ludicrous sum to kill his main competitor—an offer I declined.” After careful consideration, although Ruslan thought that best left unsaid. Killing was not something with which he had been unfamiliar, even at eighteen—the streets contained no moral high ground, a milieu where one either killed or was killed, another fact probably better left unmentioned—but his years spent trading information had afforded him a bird’s eye view of what became of the men who murdered for money, and their lives were often violent and short. As far as he could see, no amount of money or reputation could equate to the shortened life span.
Thus—even knowing there would be repercussion—he had said no.
“I take it your client wasn’t happy?” Ash said quietly.
An understatement of monolithic proportions. Ruslan had been dragged from his bed—a place he’d kept obsessively hidden, even from those few with whom he’d occasionally worked—chained, blindfolded, and thrown into a cell made of concrete and steel where the temperature never climbed above freezing. He had been burned, his skin peeled away, layer by layer. Drugged, beaten into unconsciousness, his bones broken into jagged pieces. He had been made an example, and death had been his most fervent prayer, in spite of the fact that he was not a man who believed in an almighty.
Even his uncommon strength had not saved him; it had merely ensured his survival.
“You are correct,” he replied. “I was...rebuked and placed in a cell at a penal colony outside of Moscow, where Charlie found me nine months later.”
“Rebuked,” Ash repeated, her eyes narrow. “Rebuked how?”
“That is irrelevant.”
She shook her head and took a step closer to him—too close—but he didn’t protest, because he was beginning to hunger for that closeness.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice gentle, her gaze steady.
“I fail to see its significance.”
“Humor me, Ruslan.”
He stared at her, uneasy. Shame, he thought, something to which he would not have thought himself susceptible.
“You said we were friends,” she reminded him.
“Yes,” he said, uncertain what that meant.
“Friends are the ones you tell the bad things to.”
The bad things. How many of the experiences in his life would qualify as bad things? Would she expect the disclosure of all of them? And—if he shared his—would she share hers?
“I was...punished for my refusal,” he said stiffly.
“Torture?” she clarified softly, and he saw the flare in her gaze—a sight he knew intimately now, that hot, unpredictable volatility that mirrored his own darkness—and the knowledge that it was there for him silenced him for a long, disconcerting moment.
For him.
Had anyone ever become angry on his behalf before?
Charlie, perhaps. But that had been different. Charlie’s response had been to help. Ash’s response would be—
Anger. Violence. Retribution.
She would make someone pay.
The realization sent a jolt of something hot and hungry and restless through him—lust?—and the savagery within threw back its head and howled like the feral creature it was.
“Yes,” he said. Nothing more.
She watched him for a long minute and then nodded once, decisively. “And Charlie set you free?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I would not hazard a guess. Perhaps simply because he could.”
“That sounds about right.” She arched a brow. “Any idea what he was doing at a penal colony outside of Moscow?”
Realizing she wasn’t going to press for the details of his torture, Ruslan relaxed. “No. But he commanded a team of men who infiltrated the cellblock where I was kept and removed a man rumored to be an American CIA agent. The guards looked the other way, so I presume they had been bribed to do so. I do not believe my release was part of their plan, but when Charlie saw me, he stopped before my cell door and ordered it unlocked. He then carried me from the facility and loaded me onto a transport truck. We drove out the front gate without difficulty, and an hour later, we were on a plane headed to Berlin.”
Questions filled her eyes, but she said only, “He was someone I didn’t even know.”
Her pensive tone made Ruslan want to touch her. Beyond any physical hunger, he wanted to...sooth her. As she had when she’d put her hand on his arm yesterday; as she had when she’d spoken of hugging him. Whatever it was that connected them, it went beyond the persistent sexual hunger he felt in her presence.
A bond he both feared and craved in equal measure.
“Anyone who works in the intelligence community must be two different people,” he told her. “The one who does the job, and the one who comes home.”
Her mouth twisted. “Spoken from personal experience?”
“No. I have never been an official member of any intelligence community.”
“Officially unofficial,” she muttered and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Terrific.”
Ruslan only stared at her, unsure what to say.
“We’ll save that for another day,” she whispered. “I think I’ve hit my quota for today.”
The temptation to touch her was so great, his hand fisted at his side. “I am trying. As you asked.”
“Yes.”
She met his gaze. “I know. I recognize that, and I appreciate it. It’s just...” She trailed off, and Ruslan took another step, until they were almost touching. Her heat licked over him, and the fist at his side tightened.
“Just what?” he asked, tilting his head down toward her.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, “Growing up, my father lied to me on a daily basis. It didn’t matter that he was...sick, or that I knew they were lies. It was...damaging. And I thought—I thought Charlie was different. But maybe he wasn’t.”
It was the first she’d spoken of her relationship with her father, and Ruslan felt both honored and oddly hopeful, as if the invisible tether linking them together was tightening. “Your father is not a good man. Charlie was.”
“Says who?”
“The boy Charlie went out of his way to save with no benefit to himself.” A strand of her pale, moonbeam hair clung to her cheek, and Ruslan succumbed to impulse and hesitantly tucked it behind her ear.
Touching her.
Something he no longer feared. Something he was beginning to hunger for.
When she didn’t pull away, he grew bolder, tracing the graceful curve of her neck with his fingertips, and the feel of her skin—so silken and impossibly soft—made his own tighten. She watched him with lidded, brilliant blue-green eyes, her only movement a shiver he knew instinctively he had caused. One he wanted to repeat.
“Wouldn’t the young niece he took in agree?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she whispered, and her eyes closed, briefly. “But...he lied, Ruslan. About everything he was.”
“No,” he said and dared to stroke her again. Current glinted in his veins, white-hot, humming as it rode his blood. Every muscle in his body was slowly tightening, and the sensation was so pleasurable, he stilled to savor it. Another shiver moved through her, which pleased him as nothing had in a long, long time. If ever. “Not everything. You knew the largest part of him, but that he was more should not hurt you. Nor should it surprise you.”
For another long moment, she was silent.
“I don’t know how, or why, but there’s no doubt he was mixed up in this mess,” she said quietly. “Joe Pierce came here looking specifically for him. So did Ellery’s mother. Shirley was planted by Kline because of Charlie. And the whole thing with Jesse, and Jace being at Kline’s compound—it feels contrived. The coincidences are too big.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Did Charlie know Anson Grant? Was he involved with GenTek because of his link to the Agency? And what about Architect?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think, or how any of the pieces fit together.”
“Patience,” Ruslan counseled. He rubbed his thumb over the small beauty mark that sat just beneath her ear, and she laid a hesitant, careful hand against the lapel of his suit. The weight of her hand sent both satisfaction and impatience surging through him. “We have been gathering data and intelligence for less than a week. Once we discover what Wylie and Wanda have to add to the equation, we will go and speak to Ellery St. Clair and her mother. We will also sit down with Jesse, and if he was deliberately put into place here, we will discover who manipulated him and why. We will scour every scrap of paper Charlie left behind for clues, and we will deepen our investigation into the life and death of Anson Grant. We will keep a close eye on Kline and his disciples, and we will uncover why Shirley became his willing spy. Additionally, we will also look into GenTek, and open a line of communication with young Adam. We will find both Eva Pierce and answers, Ashling. But it will take time and careful attention to uncover the revelations that await us.”
She stared up at him, her eyes gleaming. “And the Russian?”
Ruslan stiffened. Part of him wanted to step away, but the feel of her beneath his hand held him locked into place. “What of him?”
“He knew you.” Her hand smoothed over his suit coat, as if pressing out an unseen wrinkle. “That wasn’t a lie, even if you don’t remember. And we both know you’re a part of this, too.”
“Perhaps.”
Her wry smile surprised him. “Stubborn.”
He moved to protest, but she wrapped her hand around his tie and tugged his head down toward her. When he followed without protest, she looked up at him, uncertainty lining her face, but then she seemed to decide something, and her hand tightened around his tie, and she pulled him so close, the darkness quivered in breathless anticipation.
Too close. But not close enough. And Ruslan knew he should do something but not what—
The sweet, unexpected press of her mouth against his froze his entire being into motionless place. Her lips molded to his, lush, pliant, and fire whipped through him, as searing and fierce as the burn of a bullet.
“Thank you for talking me off the edge,” she whispered huskily against his mouth, and the rub of her lips over his made his body harden to stone. “And for telling me about the cell.”
He stared down at her, unable to respond, his gaze locked on the wet sheen of her mouth. So soft and sweet and tempting.
A kiss, freely given. His first.
“Again,” he rasped, shaken.
“Greedy,” she murmured, but her smile widened, and as she kissed him a second time, her lips parted, her breath bathing his mouth, and her tongue stroked boldly along his upper lip. A harsh sound rattled in his chest.
Another hungry stroke of her tongue; a soft moan in her throat that was like a hand squeezing his cock. He snarled helplessly.
His hand curved around her nape and tightened possessively. His other arm slid around her waist and settled into the small of her back. Following an instinct he’d thought lost to him, he lifted her easily, until she was suddenly pressed against him, her breasts lush against the hard plane of his chest. The connection of their bodies sent a bolt of lust surging through him, and he was very aware of the unyielding press of his erection into her soft belly. But he felt no embarrassment or chagrin that she could feel the hunger of his body; for Ruslan, the hunger surging through him was a liberating revelation he welcomed.
He opened his mouth over hers instinctively, and when her tongue stroked his, his knees nearly buckled. She moaned again, louder, and he swallowed the sound with greed. When she sucked delicately on his tongue, he couldn’t halt the feral sound he made, drawn from the deepest part of him. His hands tightened on her; his tongue stroked hers, bold, aggressive, and she arched against him, her belly rubbing his cock.
That quickly, he was on the precipice, all of his cold, unbending control in ash. He wanted to pull her to the floor and take her like the animal he suddenly understood he was. Wetly, savagely; he wanted to claim her in the most primitive and undeniable of ways. And the darkness...
More. Lost in her heat and her scent and the sweet, wet, cavern of her mouth. Mine, mine, mine—
“Ah-hem,” barked a loud voice, and Ruslan growled, a low rumble of warning, but Ash gasped and wrenched away from him as if someone had doused her with ice-cold water.
He didn’t want to let her go, but when he saw the deep flush of her cheeks, her mouth ripe with dark color, her pupils large and dilated, he thought again mine, and he didn’t want anyone else to see her in such a state. So he forced himself to release her, and kept her behind him as he turned to look at the man who stood in the suddenly open doorway, scowling at him.
Butch.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Butch said, his tone conveying that he was not at all sorry. “I’ve got those files you wanted.”
“Indeed,” Ruslan said, his tone frigid.
Ash suddenly pressed against his back, her breasts so soft and warm, his cock jerked.
“Indeed,” she echoed with a snort of laughter, and Ruslan realized she was...amused.
He turned and looked over his shoulder. She grinned up at him.
“Busted,” she told him and straightened. She slapped her hands over her red cheeks and shook her head, her eyes like brilliant jewels. She stepped away from him, and his hands clenched at his sid
es—keep her close—and then Jesse appeared behind Butch, and Ruslan ground his teeth together.
“Hey,” the boy said. His dark gaze touched them both; his brows arched. “Am I interrupting?”
Butch chortled. Ruslan scowled. And Ash whirled toward the corkboard.
“Come in,” she said and turned to shoot Ruslan an intense, searing look, one that threatened to melt the cold core of him. “We were just getting started.”
CHAPTER
-22-
Footprints.
And they weren’t even hidden. Like a child who’d tracked muddy shoe prints everywhere they went, Wanda could trace every single digital path that had been taken, see where the intruder had lingered, track any changes—files copied, deleted, altered—and deduce, at least generally, what it was they’d been seeking.
Which only created more questions.
Staring at her computer screen, fury flowed through her. This was her fault. This infiltration; this blatant, open betrayal. She’d been worried about outside forces, not internal ones. She’d guarded against the hackers and the spies and the nosy government—but not her own people.
And therein lay her mistake. Because it had been one of their own who’d systematically inspected the Firm’s hard drives and internal storage devices, who’d downloaded and deleted at will.
She should have noticed. She should have seen.
But she hadn’t.
Because she hadn’t been looking. She’d made idiotic assumptions and ignored the signs as plain as the nose on her face.
Ash should fire me immediately.
She fully deserved to be let go. After what Shirley had done—
Shirley.
Who had been, Wanda thought, if not her friend, certainly not her enemy.
Not someone who would send a small army to blow up a building Wanda was in. To kill her.