by Lora Leigh
Rising to his feet, he moved to the sink, rinsed his cup, and placed it in the dish drainer before turning back to her.
“As there are five extra mouths to feed, I think I’ll send one of the men to town for dinner. Any preference?” he changed the subject the only way he knew how.
Emma Jane could only shake her head. How could he talk about food? How could he be so distant, so cavalier, about the fact that his mother was pure evil?
“This doesn’t make sense,” she whispered.
She watched as a sigh parted his lips and his green eyes gleamed with icy mockery.
“Don’t doubt the threat she is, Emma Jane. I was eighteen, and the lover I visited in Moscow I was rather fond of. Not in love with, but fond of.” He glanced at the stone floor, somber regret creasing his face. “I returned to her apartment one night to find her laid out in our bed, the left side of her face shredded, a knife buried in her heart.”
Oh God, she was going to throw up. Shock held her still, tearless.
This was the life he had lived? From five? He’d been a baby.
“Now, any preference for dinner?” he repeated the question as though they weren’t discussing blood, death, and a woman so vile as to be demonic.
“No,” she forced the word past her lips. “No preference.”
She couldn’t even consider food.
Never had she known such evil as what Ilya described to her. She knew it existed, knew some people just lacked any sense of morality or empathy. That didn’t mean it made sense to her.
Ilya stepped to her, bent closer, one hand wrapping around the side of her neck to hold her in place as he stared back at her, the dragon at the side of his face seeming to flex restlessly.
“I don’t want your pity. I don’t need your compassion,” he warned her, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a primal snarl. “And I won’t tolerate it.”
Releasing her, he stomped from the room, his head held high, pride and fury shimmering in the air around him until he turned into the entryway. Seconds later the front door slammed behind him.
Opening the laptop again, she stared at the pictures in the last article, especially those of Lorena Vasilyev. She had aged well anyway, Emma Jane thought, her chest aching for the boy Ilya had been.
She was pictured with Alexi Vasilyev, the newly elected president of the Russian Federation. Her husband stood behind her, thinning black hair, his features weak where hers were granite hard.
This was the woman who had allowed her brother and another man to so horribly mark her son’s face that he’d had it tattooed over. The woman who had murdered his lover. And only God knew what that Emma Jane was unaware of. And she wasn’t to hurt for him? She couldn’t acknowledge the pain and horror he had suffered.
Closing the laptop once again, she buried her face in her hands, determined not to cry. She wouldn’t cry, at least not yet. Not while he might catch her.
“I’m surprised he told you.” Elizaveta’s voice was heavy with grief as she moved into the kitchen from the far entrance. “You okay?”
A firm hand gripped her shoulder for a moment before Elizaveta moved for the coffee pot and a cup.
She nodded at the question. How could she be anything but okay? Ilya would accept nothing less and she knew it.
Elizaveta moved to the table and sat down, silent for a moment as she sipped. Finally, she placed the cup on the table and frowned at Emma Jane.
“Do you love him, Emma Jane, or just love his touch?” Elizaveta braced her arms on the table as she asked the question. “Because if you love him, the road you travel with him will not be an easy one. But I think perhaps you are the only one I’ve met who would have a chance. If it is only his touch you love, then I beg of you, be kind and tell him now, before he destroys his soul for you.”
Emma Jane pushed herself from the table, staring back at the other woman and forcing her lips not to tremble with emotion.
“I love him, Elizaveta, but I won’t accept anything less from him,” she warned the other woman. “And the point is moot, because Ilya hasn’t mentioned love and he hasn’t indicated in any way that he’ll be here when this is over. Until he does, there’s really nothing to talk about, is there?”
Picking up her laptop, Emma Jane walked gingerly across the kitchen to the door, where she paused and turned back to Elizaveta. “If he asks where I went, I’m going to bed. Having a ceiling fall on you, not to mention a Viking, takes a while to get over. Tell him to order whatever he wants for dinner.”
She forced herself up the stairs, though her muscles protested and the bruises screamed at the abuse. Once she reached her room, after taking two aspirins and placing a heating pad beneath her side, she curled in the center of her bed and stared bleakly into the room.
She was exhausted, her body aching from one end to the other, and she wanted Ilya to hold her, to feel the warmth of him against her, his strength surrounding her. She wanted to touch him and remind herself he was really there, that the hell he’d lived through hadn’t destroyed his ability to love.
Losing him would break her heart, though she was already preparing herself for it. Because the man who had just walked out of the house wasn’t a man who wanted to love.
As she closed her eyes, a single teardrop fell.
chapter twenty
Emma Jane made her way downstairs the next afternoon after a shower and change of clothes. The sleeveless blue-and-white print summer dress was one of her favorites. Barefoot, her hair left down to fall around her face in soft waves, she felt able to face whatever newcomers Ilya had brought in.
The fact that he knew them so well made it easier. He’d trained them, he said, and tattooed the dragons they obviously carried.
She’d spent some time trying to research the dragon tribes, as the articles online called the far-flung families. There seemed to be a running debate among several historians as to when the Dragonovich family might have begun, though it was readily agreed they’d originated in the mountains of Romania.
Either way, it was obvious she wasn’t going to find the answers she needed without asking Ilya, and he seemed a bit testy when it came to the subject of his past or his family.
After she made it downstairs and stepped into the kitchen, she came a stop as she saw the young woman standing in front of the coffeemaker, hands on her hips. Long black hair was confined in a braid, and she was wearing black cargo pants and a black tank top with combat-type boots.
She swung around as Emma Jane came to a stop, and surveyed her with brown-gold eyes in a delicate, almost kittenish face. As she stood there, Emma Jane glimpsed the dragon on the inside of her right arm. The dragon Ilya said he’d inked.
“Can I help you?” Emma Jane asked, realizing this must be the woman Ilya had met outside with the small group of men.
“You must be Emma Jane.” The girl looked back at her with a hint of a relieved smile. “I am Sabina Dragonova, Ilya’s cousin.” She glanced back at the coffeemaker, then to Emma Jane once again. “May I make coffee?” She gestured to the pot. “I think I am going to go into withdrawal any moment.”
Emma Jane stepped forward and moved to the coffeemaker herself.
“There should be cinnamon rolls in the microwave if you want some to go with the coffee.” Emma Jane gestured to the device before turning back to the coffeemaker.
“Perfect,” a sound of bliss, and the woman stepped to the microwave and carefully removed the cinnamon rolls Emma Jane had baked that morning. “Ilya sent Sylvanus and Sawyer to town for food. I hope it is not pizza.” She gave a shake of her head. “I am tired of pizza.”
Emma Jane stepped back from the coffeemaker as the hot liquid began spilling into the pot.
“Where’s Ilya now?” she asked as Sabina carried a cinnamon roll to the table, placing it carefully on a paper towel before turning to the coffeepot.
“He is at your barn talking to our commander, Django,” she answered, causing Emma Jane to frown as Sabina sat down across
the table from her.
“Ilya has a commander?” she asked.
Sabina frowned. “Django is our commander. We are the Dragon’s personal security.” She gave a little roll of her eyes. “Whenever he allows us to be. He does not enjoy playing with us, I think.”
Emma Jane barely held back her smile.
“Sabina, Django needs to gag you.” Ilya stepped into the kitchen from the hall, his gaze flicking between Emma Jane and Sabina. “I thought you were supposed to be unpacking the group’s supplies.”
Sabina sighed at the rebuke. “There was no coffee, Dragon,” she complained. “I told you I must have coffee. I did unpack as I was asked, though, before seeking it out.”
She lifted her cup with a charming grin as Ilya moved to the counter, leaned against it, and crossed his arms over his chest while leveling one of those icy looks on her.
“Uncle Gustov will be very upset with you if I have nightmares again, Dragon,” she pouted. “Do not look at me like that.”
“Sabina…” he began warningly.
“For God’s sake, let her drink her coffee and eat her cinnamon roll,” Emma Jane demanded, staring at him with a frown. “What’s wrong with you, Ilya? I’m sure she’s not on the verge of spilling any deep, dark dragon secrets.”
Ilya slid that look to her.
Yeah, that was going to get him real far.
“You know, Ilya, that look would be more effective if that silly-assed tattoo of yours didn’t seem to be winking at me.” Emma Jane stared at the tattoo, hoping to catch it again.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the way Sabina froze in shock, the cinnamon roll barely an inch from her lips. She recovered quickly, though. Emma Jane could feel the other girl’s tension.
“Emma Jane, tattoos do not wink,” he explained to her, again. “It is ink, carefully applied by a master, I admit, but in no way alive.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the ink.” She shrugged. “Now get some coffee and stop hovering over me or go be grouchy elsewhere. I have a headache and I’m not in the mood to deal with your attitude.”
He moved to her instantly then, caught her chin between his fingers, and lifted her face to him. She frowned at the abrupt movement, then caught sight of the scarring against the tattoo again and wanted to cry out in rage.
“You should take the pills the doctor gave you,” he chastised her. “You would not hurt.”
“No, I’d be drugged out and unable to think. I’d never keep up with what the hell was going on around here then,” she told him, pulling her head back from his hold. “Would you just sit down or something?”
He stepped away from her and moved back to the coffeemaker, where he poured himself his own cup before turning back to them.
“Sylvanus and Sawyer will be back with dinner soon. It seems Sawyer slapped down the idea of pizza.” He ignored Sabina’s muttered, “Thank God.” “I believe Sylvanus texted something about enough ravioli and breadsticks to feed an army.”
Emma Jane nodded, wishing she’d gotten her own coffee. As the thought went through her mind, Ilya set his cup in front of her and pushed it closer.
“Drink, Emma Jane,” he said, his voice softening. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
She was all for being stubborn, but the damned headache was becoming irritating. She lifted the cup and sipped, thinking somehow that it tasted better for Ilya having drunk from it first. Which was ridiculous.
This was hopeless, she thought. She was going to cry if he left, and she really couldn’t see him staying. Her home wasn’t opulent, it wasn’t anything like he was used to, but she loved it. Her blood, sweat, and tears stained the kitchen floor. She’d starved for the farmhouse sink for several months. She’d loved this house, fixed it up, repaired it, and given it all her love at a time when she didn’t think anything or anyone could get past the hard knot of grief inside her.
“Sabina, take your coffee and return to the barn, I’m sure Django needs you by now,” Ilya ordered as Emma Jane seemed more distracted by the moment.
“Yes, I have been away for a while.” Sabina rose from her chair, refilled her cup, and with nothing further made her way from the house.
“You didn’t have to run her off,” Emma Jane told him as he took Sabina’s chair.
“Django depends on her expertise with electronics,” he told her. “She’s new to the group and still trying to find her confidence. Thank you for taking time for her.”
He hid a smile as she gave him a dark look. “I didn’t take time for her. She was here and so was I. But she seems nice.”
“She’s a good soldier…”
“She’s a woman. A young woman,” Emma Jane burst out, her expression distressed now.
“She’s also a soldier, Emma Jane, just as any young woman in the military is a soldier. She’s highly trained in her area of expertise, and fully capable and proven in protecting herself as well as her team.”
He was trying to be easy on Emma Jane’s sensibilities. Son of a bitch, she was far too soft for the truth of the life Sabina had lived, let alone what Ilya had survived. She had no idea the monsters and the crazies who were in the world. And he didn’t want her to know.
It was his job to protect her from it and hers to remain as innocent as possible, so he always remembered what he was fighting for.
“You mean she’s been forced to kill,” she whispered, her hands gripping the coffee cup desperately.
Yeah, she was too damned intelligent sometimes, he thought to himself, not for the first time.
“Emma Jane, the former Soviet Union is not often a kind place to grow up without a massive amount of power to back you. It is not America. The dragon tribes are stronger than many smaller groups, but still, we have our own problems and those who would harm us disappear from the face of this earth. If they did not, then young women such as Sabina would disappear instead.”
It wasn’t just Lorena who targeted the Dragonovich family. There were those who believed in the mythic tales of their tribe, suspected Ilya’s bloodline, understood his legacy, and feared it. The former president of the Soviet Union had been one of those men. Because if it was what Ilya wished, he could step into that political arena and with little trouble gain the people’s loyalty.
And it was the bloodline that would assure it, rather than Ilya himself. He’d never felt challenged enough to even attempt it though. Being a ruler had never appealed to him. He much preferred working in the shadows.
“Children shouldn’t be tortured,” she whispered painfully. “A baby should be loved, cherished.” The pain in her eyes and in her voice had him stilling, wondering at the emotion that resonated in her voice.
Her heart was too tender, and too much was happening to her at once. Learning she was in danger, that the reason for it stemmed from his inability to stay away from her. That would be enough to screw any woman’s head up, let alone one as innocent as his Emma Jane.
“Yes, they should be, but even in America many are not,” he reminded her. “Do not dwell on my past. I refuse to do it myself. I survived what I faced where others did not, and came to the other side stronger. Sometimes honor will only get a man killed. I do not believe I’d enjoy being dead.”
Ilya allowed an edge of amusement to touch his voice, hoping to draw Emma Jane from whatever thoughts were tormenting her. She only shook her head, though, and turned to gaze out the window, looking out on the front drive just in time to see Ronan and the sheriff’s cruiser pulling in.
“Eric’s in sheriff mode,” she said with a frown. “Something’s wrong.”
Rising to his feet, Ilya pulled his phone from his pocket and sent the team a “clear” alert to assure them that Ronan and Eric were considered safe.
They’d seen the men’s pictures but hadn’t yet met them. Until they did, who they thought they were wouldn’t matter. They’d still put them in their kill sights until they knew for sure.
“Why do I have a feeling this isn’t going to be good?” Emm
a Jane sighed as Eric stepped from the sheriff’s SUV, a file in hand, before striding to Ronan’s truck.
Ronan stepped out of his vehicle and they seemed to disagree for moment as Emma Jane watched with a frown. Ronan and Eric hadn’t seriously disagreed in years.
The two men started up the sidewalk to the house, with Eric leading the way. Ronan was still trying to convince him of something, though Eric didn’t seem to be paying much attention.
“I’ll let them in,” he told her. “Drink your coffee.” He pointed imperiously to the cup before turning away and heading for the front door.
Drink her coffee. She was going to have to do something about his propensity for orders. She didn’t do orders well. Hell, she had enough problems with suggestions from most people.
Sipping at the coffee, she grimaced at the cooling liquid and placed it back on the table. She pushed the cup aside as Ronan and Eric came into the kitchen. Ronan’s expression was concerned while Eric’s was set in what she called his sheriff mode.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as Ilya moved behind her, obviously taking a protective stance.
Eric removed his cap and shook his head before wiping his hands over his hair.
“I have to ask this and I hate it like hell.” Eric grimaced, replaced the hat, and ignored Ronan’s glare. “Has either of you seen Matt since the night he broke into the house?”
Well, that wasn’t what she was expecting.
“Matt?” She shook her head in confusion. “He hasn’t been back, Eric. I would have let you know if he had.”
Eric lifted his gaze to Ilya. “You?”
“You’d have been the one helping me hide the body if he had,” Ilya drawled. “What’s this about?”
Eric and Ronan shared a speaking look before her brother turned back to her.
“Come with me, EJ, you don’t want to be here for this,” he sighed.