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
It feels as if flocks of vultures are at war in my chest, picking the meat clean off my bones, but on the outside, I show nothing. I won’t give the pretty little bitch that pleasure. She framed me. As a terrorist, no less.
What we shared meant less than shit to her.
I don’t pause to dissect why that thought guts me. It just does. Perhaps because while I searched the streets for her like a crazed lunatic, she didn’t give a damn. While the delirious intimacy we’ve shared has been playing in a loop in my memory, she’s easily forgotten all about me, maybe the very second she escaped from my room.
No matter. I’m planning on reminding her. Thoroughly.
Sokolov regards her skeptically. “Is that right?” He seems to have a hard time believing she’s done the disguises.
The nostrils of her dainty nose flare, as if his doubt insults her honesty when we’ve already established her honesty is questionable at best.
“Why would I lie?” The anger that shows on her elfin face carries on her voice, but it doesn’t make it less musical. “I’ve already given you all those names. What’s one more in the grand scheme of things?”
An idea settles in my frayed mind. Call it hope. Call it stupidity. Call it raving fucking madness. “This will be easy to verify.” Not liking how close Sokolov stands to her, I impose myself in his space. If what she says is true—and that stupid part of me I can’t fully suppress still hopes she’s lying—I’ll be doling out the punishment she deserves. It’s my right, and mine alone. “She can show off her skill on me tonight.”
“And on me,” Ilya adds like an insolent child.
Like hell. Nobody touches her but me. She had a choice. She chose my bed. It’s me she fucked over when she gave me everything and nothing at all.
Sokolov asks more questions. She answers them all. During the exchange, I watch Sokolov closely. Because of Mina—or rather, my deceiving little Mink—Sokolov’s in-laws are dead. I know my former team leader well enough. He’s not going to let it slide. Even as he stands there, regarding her with a stony expression, I see what’s brewing in his mind. Mina’s execution is a given. The petite sniper isn’t walking away from here. Her tongue will never tangle in a kiss again, her pussy never stretching for a cock like it did for mine, as if it was the most perfect fit. A lie will never leave her lush lips again.
The cut on that lip bothers me. It doesn’t fit there. Neither do the bruises on her translucent, perfect skin. It’s a good thing the guys who delivered her are already gone, or they’d be leaving in body bags. Liar or not, they had no right to rough her up. I should’ve said to take her unharmed, not just alive.
Sokolov is playing her, letting her believe her cooperation will win her freedom, but I see the knowledge in her startling blue eyes. Mina is cleverer than that. She’s not some civilian girl we snatched off the street. She tells him what he wants to hear, but says she only met Henderson in person once, and she doesn’t know where our impersonators are, though she’s worked with them in the past.
When Sokolov finally leaves, I relax my guard enough to look Mina over properly. She’s holding up well. My chest swells with pride. Unwanted pride, but I can help it as little as I can help how my cock takes interest in her nearness. Despite the anger, there’s a warped sense of excitement inside me, joy that I finally have her back. The little traitor still fascinates me to no end.
That fascination won’t last much longer if she doesn’t drink and eat soon. We’ve stretched it out as long as we could.
Our thoughts are often in tune, Ilya’s and mine, and just as I’m about to offer her what would seem to any captive like a reward for cooperation, Ilya asks, “Are you hungry?”
She gives him a smile that’s way too friendly for my liking. “I won’t say no to water.”
His tone is gruff. “We’ll get you something to eat and drink.”
Bristling, I turn to him. “Good idea. Why don’t you run to the compound and get us a meal and some water?”
His face contorts with an expression I know well from our childhood, when we’d argue over chores. “Why me?”
I cross my arms. “You’re the one who offered her a meal.”
“You go get it.”
“Fine.” I turn to my pretty captive. “Sorry, but it seems room service isn’t operating today.”
Ilya curses under his breath, calling me colorful Russian names. I laugh at his back when he goes for the door like a fuming bull. When he’s gone and I look back at Mina, she’s studying me.
“Do the two of you always share women?”
I shrug like it doesn’t matter—which it hasn’t, until her. “We don’t mind.”
“At the same time, or do you always go first?” There’s a bite to her question.
Grabbing the armrests of the chair, I get into her personal space. “Both, actually.” I smile. “Jealous?”
She cranes her neck to accommodate my proximity. “You didn’t share me.”
Just hearing it makes the hair at my nape stand on end. “Did you want us to share?” I drag my fingers through the silky strands of her short hair, the platinum color streaked with dirt. She watches me warily, cleverly not trusting the gentle touch. “Is that your fetish, malyshka?” I pointedly use my brother’s ridiculously sweet nickname for her. Little one, it means in Russian.
“No,” she replies heatedly, almost as if offended.
The answer calms me enough to release her and take a step back. She’s so pretty, even soaked with sweat and covered in dirt. It makes me want to rip off my shirt and get a different kind of sweaty look on her. No woman has ever affected me like this. Yesterday, I might’ve adored her for it. Today, I hate her.
Turning on my heel, I march to the door. Like the professional killer she is, she doesn’t ask where I’m going or what I’m planning. She knows she won’t get an answer.
The guards are back. Just in case, I secure the chain, and lock the door from the outside. Then I go to our sleeping quarters at the compound in search of a bucket and soap. Once there, I grab a clean shirt and a new disposable toothbrush from my bag. A quick walk past the kitchen confirms Ilya is angrily slapping a sandwich together. I leave before he sees me. He’ll only launch into another gripe session.
Back at the shed, I fill the bucket with water from the outside tap and lock the door behind me again. Mina’s expression doesn’t change, but the quick rise of her chest gives away her fear.
She probably thinks I’m going to waterboard her.
I untie her legs and make quick work of removing her boots, socks, pants, and underwear before tying her ankles back to the chair. I don’t bother with removing the top and bra. Those I tear off. They’re dirty and blood-soaked beyond saving. On second thought, the pants and everything else can go into the trashcan, too. I’m not doing the little traitor’s laundry.
I wasn’t going to look at her, not like that, but she’s no longer an image from a favorite memory in my mind. She’s right here, naked and spread. On display. I can’t help it. I start at her narrow ankles and slide my gaze up her shapely calves to the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Between them lies my prize, the
prettiest pussy I’ve ever laid eyes on. I extend my exploration to her toned stomach and the navel piercing, a gold ring. Then the tattooed scribbling on her side. Her ribs are like the bones of a bird. With her arms stretched back, I can count each one.
The blue and black shades on her pearly-white skin are evidence that she’s taken a few punches in the gut. I ball my fists in rage. Seeing her marred like this does something to me, something that makes me want to kill.
To throw a bucket of paint on the Mona Lisa would be a sacrilege. This is no different. It’s a sin to spoil something so utterly perfect. After having lived in filthy, stinking conditions for all my childhood and most of my adolescent life, I’ve cultivated a taste for beauty and everything aesthetically appealing to the eye. I prefer dress shirts to casual wear, designer brands over no-name labels. And I can’t stomach seeing a priceless portrait vandalized.
Tearing my gaze away from the disturbing sight of her injured midriff, I go higher and am rewarded with those plump breasts. Her nipples are pink and delicate, like icing on a cake. The memory of how they tasted makes my mouth water.
I drag my gaze back to her face. She watches me quietly, accepting the inevitable law of our kind even as a fresh layer of sweat shines on her forehead. Most captives are tortured naked. Not only does it make it easier to access all the body parts, but it also adds an element of psychological vulnerability.
Dunking a sponge in the bucket, I soap it well. Her lips part slightly as I crouch down in front of her and bring the wet sponge to her foot. She jerks at the first contact, then gasps. The water is cold, but it’ll be a welcome relief once she gets used to it. It’s as hot as a furnace in here.
“What are you doing, Yan?”
Fuck. The way she says my name makes me harder than I already am. As strange as it is, touching her feels like a homecoming—not that I’d know what that feels like. I’ve never had a home, at least not in the safe, comfortable sense. “What does it look like?”
“Why are you doing it, then?” Her voice is soft, as soft as her smooth skin under the palm I glide up her calf.
Why indeed? Because she’s a Mona Lisa, and I’m fascinated with this strange woman who’s smaller than most, but does the job of big, merciless men like me. Because she’s pretty, and I can’t stop looking at her. Because maybe, just maybe, I still want to believe in her. Something about her touches a nerve of humanity I didn’t know I still had. Or maybe it’s because seeing her dirty brings back unwelcome, deep-buried memories of being filthy and hungry. I can still taste that misery. It tastes too much like stale bread and despair.
“Because I want to lay your body out in your coffin like the piece of art you are.” I say the last part like an insult, but honestly, she deserves a glass coffin like Snow White, so everyone can admire her as much in death as in life.
Her throat moves as she swallows, but I can’t make myself regret my cruel words.
The pain of her betrayal is too fresh, too raw.
“How are you going to do it?” she asks hoarsely.
“Do what?”
“Kill me.”
I imagine her lifeless body on the ground. Not by knife. Too messy for her paper-white skin. Not by strangling. It’ll leave bruises on her slender neck. Poison, maybe. A cruel death, but it would leave her unmarred.
“Cooperate,” I say, “and we may consider letting you go.”
Empty words. Meaningless. And her silence says she knows that.
Meticulously, I sponge her down, working my way down from her waist. I wash away the sweat and dirt. I wash away the smell of the men who captured her, even if said smell is only a concept in my mind. I trail the soapy sponge up the inside of her thigh, watching her face as I drag it over the delicate petals of her sex.
Memories of how hard her pussy worked to take my cock, of how beautifully she stretched for me and how tightly she gripped me when she climaxed, work me into a frenzy. Her lips part, the swollen bottom one stirring something fiercely protective in my chest. She squirms in the chair as I part her folds with two fingers and drag the sponge down her slit. Her chest rises and falls faster. I circle her clit twice before I stop the cruel teasing and move to her other leg.
I wash her stomach and sides, trailing my hands extra gently over the bruised skin to assess the damage to her ribs. Nothing seems to be broken, but she sucks in a breath as I poke around her flesh. Finally, I have a chance to study her tattoo. Tilting my head, I read the script.
In aeternum vivi. Adéla & Johan.
I’m mostly self-educated, which means I’ve taught myself all sorts of nonstandard stuff—like basic Latin. So I know what her tattoo says.
Forever alive.
What’s that about? I’ll have to ask her about it later.
Dipping the sponge in the bucket, I soak up a good deal of water and dribble it between her breasts. Mesmerized, I watch the rivulets run into the hollow of her navel, over the belly ring and her mound, and between her folds. Her nipples tighten, and I pay them extra attention with the sponge, as well as the under-curves of her breasts.
When I’m done playing with her breasts, I move to her neck. The arch of that column is elegant, delicate like the intricate detail of the hummingbird tattooed there. I looked it up after that night in Budapest. The pretty little bird is a symbol of life. A strange symbol for a killer to wear.
My attention moves to her beautiful face. My palm would easily cover all four of the senses situated there. If I stretch my hand just so, I could seal her eyes, nose, mouth, and block her ears with my fingers. Such a delicate thing. Maybe smothering would be the perfect way for her to go.
I carefully wash the dried blood from her split lip and confirm it’s the only cut on her body. The blood on her top isn’t from any other injury. Then I move to her hair, working water and soap through the short strands until they’re a pure platinum blond and none of the filth from the long journey or the dirty bench is left. Smoothing her wet hair back over her shapely head, I step back to admire my work.
There. She’s all shiny again. Except for the cut and bruises, but those will fade.
She’s staring up at me, her whole body covered in goosebumps and her nipples contracted. She’s confused. Probably wondering why I’m not dunking her head in the bucket instead. And we’ll come to that, but not like she thinks.
My cock is already hard from touching her, from seeing and smelling her, from feeling her warm breath on my face. I’m tempted to free it and sink into her, right here in the chair, but not like this.
A loud thud on the door yanks me from the moment. Ilya’s voice filters through the wood. “Open up.”
In his dreams. “Leave the food by the door.”
“What the fuck?”
“Do you have a hearing problem?”
He calls me every lowlife name he can think up. When he finally runs out of insults, there’s a sound of clinking cutlery, and then the angry stomping of receding footsteps.
I wait a good few seconds before I go to the door and peer through the crack. The guards have their backs turned to the door. No sign of Ilya. I open the door and retrieve the tray before locking it again. Mina gives me another one of those wary looks as I carry the tray over and leave it on the floor.
“Hungry?” I know the answer, but she hasn’t said a word to me since she brought up the killing bit and I have a craving to hear the sweet, birdlike sound of her voice.
“Thirsty,” she says on a croak.
Twisting the cap off the bottle of water, I tip it against her lips. She drinks greedily, taking everything she can get. In her position, there’s no knowing if another such mercy will be granted.
A quarter way through the bottle, I move it away to indicate she should go slower. She’ll vomit it all up if she drinks too fast. Understanding, she takes smaller sips. When half of the water is gone, I put the bottle aside and reach for the sandwich. I turn the bread sideways to check the filling. Ham and cheese.
Fucking Ilya. Couldn’
t he have come up with something a little more interesting?
Stepping between her legs, I offer her the bread. She opens her lips a little too wide, like the starving kitten she is. Her cut splits anew, but that doesn’t stop her from biting off a huge chunk of the corner.
“Small bites,” I remind her.
She chews and swallows, watching me as she eats, probably wondering if there’s poison in the food. I don’t bring the bread back to her lips. This time, I stand and wait. She leans toward me without taking her eyes away from mine, carefully taking the bite from my hand. It’s like winning the trust of a small, wild animal, teaching it to eat from your palm. I like it way too much. Then again, I can’t forget that wild animals, no matter how cute, won’t hesitate to bite the hand that feeds them. It’s in their nature.
The cut on her lip is bleeding again from all the stretching to accommodate the sandwich. Visions of those lips around the tormenting hardness of my cock assault me, but I push them away. I won’t allow my hope to grow until she’s passed—or rather failed—the test of disguising me.
Breaking off small pieces of the bread, I feed it to her to spare her further discomfort from the reopened wound. I alternate it with sips of water until she’s finished everything, except the last bit of water. I give her that to rinse her mouth after I’ve brushed her teeth and tell her to spit on the ground.
She looks infinitely better after eating, although still weak. There’s even a bit of color in her cheeks, the same peachy glow she had when I rocked my cock into her. Before she regains her strength and decides to put up a fight, I untie her, dress her in my shirt, and tie her up in the chair again.
Her gaze follows the path of my hands as I fasten the buttons. “It’s yours.”
Like I’d dress her in another man’s clothes. I swallow down a vicious laugh.
Darker Than Love Page 6