Darker Than Love

by Charmaine Pauls

  While the stew cooks, I tidy up the mess I made of the kitchen.

  It’s too early for dinner when the food is ready, but the men keep on sniffing the air with hungry looks. Yan packs away his laptop and Ilya sets plates on the counter while Anton cuts the bread. They dish up big portions. When they’re seated at the table, I serve myself and grab a fork. I prefer eating at the kitchen counter. I don’t want to strain the air with my presence at the table. Yan glances at me, but says nothing.

  Soon, the men are so absorbed in the meal, they almost forget about my presence. The hearty food makes them jovial. They laugh and chat in Russian, letting me see a very private side of them.

  Before long, they take seconds, scraping the bottom of the pot, and the conversation turns to Casmir Dimitrov. Yan must’ve been serious about never letting me go, or they wouldn’t speak so openly. They’re weighing pros and cons, deciding how to best separate him from his guards. Anton suggests kidnapping his wife. Ilya says it’s better to take his dog. Apparently, he paid a fortune for the Samoyed, and gossip is he loves the animal far more than his trophy wife.

  “If you take something from him,” I say, “you’ll cause a war. It’s better to offer him something he doesn’t have.”

  The men stop talking and turn in their seats to look at me.

  Anton regards me as if he’s pondering whether I’m worth a response. After a beat, he says, “The man has everything.”

  “Not the Salvator Mundi,” I say as an idea comes into my head. A dangerous one, but if it works…

  “What’s the Salvator Mundi?” Ilya asks.

  “A painting by Leonardo da Vinci,” Yan replies. “It made big news when it was sold for four hundred and fifty million dollars to a Saudi prince in 2017. Two weeks before the unveiling at the Louvre Abu Dhabi, the painting mysteriously disappeared. To this day, nobody knows where it is.”

  “No one’s going to offer him the Salvator Mundi,” Anton says.

  I smile. “Natasha Petrova will.”

  “Who’s Natasha Petrova?” Ilya asks.

  Yan leans back in his chair. “The most notorious stolen arts dealer.”

  “He won’t fall for it.” Anton pushes away his plate. “He’ll want to speak to her in person.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “I could disguise myself to look like her.”

  Anton smiles with contempt. “Why would you help us?”

  I shrug. “Debt repayment.” And more. I have my reasons, but I keep my face carefully blank.

  Anton snorts.

  “Look,” I say, “take it or don’t. I’m trying to be nice, but I don’t owe you anything. The job with Henderson wasn’t personal.”

  At the mention of Henderson’s name, Anton’s face darkens with anger.

  “Mina,” Yan says with a warning in his tone, “if we want your opinion, we’ll ask for it.”

  “No,” Ilya says, “she’s got a point. Anyway, it’s not like we have a better idea.”

  Yan turns on his brother with a cutting look. “Dimitrov will see right through her. She’s not even the same build or height as Natasha Petrova.”

  Ilya frowns. “How do you know what Petrova looks like?”

  “She’s been in the news enough.” Yan gets up and takes a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “Remarkably, there’s never enough evidence to warrant an arrest, which means ties in high places, such as the government.”

  “Some say she’s the president’s mistress,” Anton adds.

  Ilya leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “Which president?”

  Yan fills their glasses with a shot of vodka. “Some say Russian, some say American, and others say both.”

  Ilya whistles. “If the chick is that famous, it will be tough imitating her. Unless the meeting takes place on a video call.”

  Yan takes a sip of his vodka. “Then what, wiseass?”

  “I offer him a deal,” I say. “Private viewing. Just the two of us. His guards stay outside. Not an unreasonable request, considering how fragile the painting is. Even the carbon dioxide we exhale has a damaging effect on something so old. In the meantime, you’ll be in position.”

  “He’s not stupid,” Yan says. “He’ll let you go inside first. The location will be monitored.”

  “I can wear body pads and heels. By the time he realizes I’m not Natasha, it’ll be too late.”

  Yan toys with his glass. “What about the painting? He’d want to see it before he agrees to a meeting.”

  “I have a friend.” I shift my weight. “She makes excellent replicas. It will look real enough on a photo or video. We can fake the authenticity certificate.”

  “This can work,” Anton muses.

  “No,” Yan says harshly. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “For who?” Anton’s tone turns snide. “For your waitress?”

  Yes, there is a risk, but only if Casmir smells a rat. “I can pull it off.”

  “She pulled off the Henderson job,” Ilya reminds them.

  Anton downs his vodka and slams the empty glass down on the table. “I’m in.”

  “Me too,” Ilya says.

  “Looks like you’re outvoted,” Anton says to Yan.

  Yan crumples his napkin in his fist. “This isn’t a fucking democracy. I’m the leader.” He jabs a thumb at his chest. “I’ll decide.”

  “Will you?” Anton’s lips quirk. “In whose best interest? Ours or hers?” He gives me a dirty look.

  Yan looks at me from under his lashes, his jaw bunching. After a moment, he says, “Fine, but I do the risk control.”

  “I can live with that,” Anton says.

  Ilya smiles at me. “You’re in, Mina.”

  Not moving his eyes away from me, Yan says in a measured tone, “Don’t think for a second this makes you part of the team.”

  “I’d never be so presumptuous.”

  He lets it go, but I feel his gaze burn into the back of my head when I turn to scrub the pot.

  After dinner, Ilya and Anton play a game of cards while I rinse the dishes and Yan packs the dishwasher. My mind is working at full speed. This will indeed be dangerous, but it beats being nothing more than Yan’s new toy. More importantly, this might give me a chance to let Hanna know I’m all right. I hate to make her worry. I also have to warn Gergo. The Delta Force men are dead, but the threat is far from over. If Yan digs a little deeper, he’ll discover my secret. And if he knows Gergo trained me, he’ll ask questions. If I’m to get a message to Hanna and Gergo, I need a measure of freedom—freedom the job with Casmir will win me. Plus, I could always use the money to pay for Hanna’s care.

  Drying my hands on the dishcloth, I turn to Yan. “How soon do you want to make a move? With Casmir, I mean.”

  He regards me suspiciously. “Soon.”

  “My friend will need time to make a high-quality replica. A month, at least.”

  “She has three weeks.”

  “Impossible.”

  He gives me a dark look. “Three weeks.”

  “I know where to get quality material for the disguise. If we’re going to make it work, we need the best.”

  “Let me know where, and I’ll pick it up.”

  “My supplier won’t trust you. He’s right here in Prague. It won’t take me long. I can already meet with him tomorrow.”

  I give a start when he yanks the dishcloth from my hand and grabs my wrist. Ilya and Anton look on quietly as he pulls me behind him to the room. The door has barely slammed when he pushes me up against the wall, my wrist still clamped in his iron grip.

  Planting a palm next to my face, he leans in. “I’m many things, but I’m not a fool.” His voice is brutally soft, his look dangerous. “Don’t ever make that mistake.”

  An internal shiver runs through me.

  “You can lie to Anton, but not to me. Never to me. Understand?” He emphasizes the order with a hard squeeze of my wrist. “Now, tell me again. Why are you willing to help us?”

  I meet his eyes squarely, giving
him a small portion of the truth. “I need money.”

  “You want me to pay you?”

  “Will you let me go back to my waitressing job?”

  He laughs. “In your dreams.”

  My gaze flits to the bed. “You’d rather I earn it in a different way?”

  He curls the fingers of his free hand around my neck. “If I wanted a whore, I’d get one.”

  “Explain to me how this is different.”

  The look in his eyes turns cruel. “Whores deserve more respect than you. At least they’re honest about why they fuck.”

  The jab drives deep, hurling me back into the past where a chorus of whore, whore, whore taunts me as the circle of men plant their boots in my stomach. Violently, I shove the mental image away and force myself back to the present that somehow, on a deeper level, hurts worse than the memory over which my mind has painted a big, red keep-out sign.

  I want to hit Yan, hurt him. With my neck and one arm pinned against the wall, the best I can do is plant a fist in his side. He doesn’t even grunt. He taunts me with his eyes, mocking my smaller and weaker body as he holds me still. I try to kick, but he hooks a leg around my thigh. Silently, he laughs at me, challenging me to do my best, all so he can demonstrate his superior male strength.

  I hate him.

  I hate that he can restrain me with his hands and hurt me with his words.

  I hate that despite it all, my body heats where his erection grows against my stomach.

  I’m out of defenses. He took them all. I have nothing left but the dirtiest insult of all. Sucking in a deep breath, I spit in his face.

  He flinches. Both of us freeze. There’s a moment of shock in his unmovable demeanor, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, his gaze turning into pure ice.

  Fuck. I regretted it the moment I did it, but it’s too late to take it back.

  Letting go of my neck, he slowly wipes the back of his hand over his face. The promise of retribution in his expression is unmistakable. I utter a shriek when he grabs my face in his big hand, digging his fingers into my cheeks. Before I can make another sound, he crashes his mouth into mine. The kiss is hard and punishing. He doesn’t spare me, not even when I taste blood on my tongue. He swallows my breaths, kissing me so viciously my jaw aches.

  Something inside me gives, and the helpless anger transforms into lust. I channel all the emotional pain into desire. His roughness ignites a fire that burns up my legs and gathers in my core. It should frighten me. It should repulse me. Instead, I moan in agreement when he yanks my arms up and pulls the T-shirt over my head. I reach for the buttons of his shirt, but he swats my hands away, lifting them back up over my head. He pops the button of my jeans, pulls down the zipper, and shoves them over my hips. Grabbing my waist, he spins us around. My feet leave the ground as he flings me through the air. I land with a thump in the middle of the bed. He strips as he advances—shirt, shoes, pants, briefs, and socks. His erection is big, proud, angry.

  “Stay,” he growls when I instinctively start to scoot back.

  I pause. He grabs my ankles and drags me to the edge of the bed, then yanks off my sneakers and socks. He almost rips the panties as he pulls them off with the jeans. Bending my knees, he positions his cock and drives the head through my folds. I gasp at the sudden invasion. I’m wet, but he’s too big.

  He’s impatient. He takes me with a few shallow strokes until my inner muscles relax. I push myself up on my elbows to watch. When my inner muscles turn softer around him, he drives home with a hard thrust. My arms give out. Swallowing a scream, I collapse onto my back.

  Leaning over me, he whispers against my swollen lips, “Do you want this?”

  Always the same question. Always the same answer.

  He teases me with a steady rhythm, making it feel so good I almost lose my reason.

  I grab his forearms, digging my nails into his skin. “Wait.”

  He stops.

  “Condom,” I say breathlessly. I don’t want to repeat our mistake.

  “I gave you a birth control shot.”

  “You did what?”

  He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain. He takes my body like he took my life, without making excuses. The physical possession is more than fucking. It’s a statement, proof that his power over me stretches further than defeating me with strength or words.

  When I’m close to coming, he climbs onto the bed and pulls me on top of him. Gripping my ass, he sets the pace, keeping release just out of my reach. Sadistically, he watches the agony on my face as he cups my breasts over the lace of the bra and denies me relief. It’s a lesson, a demonstration of who holds the power.

  Sweat covers my body. My skin is slick. I’m raw inside. “Yan.”

  He slaps my ass, grabbing a handful of flesh. “Who owns your life?”

  I don’t want to say it, don’t want to admit it. Stubbornly, I bite my cheek.

  His fingers tighten on my thighs as he increases his assault, bringing me so close I want to cry with frustration. I need just a little more. When I reach for my clit, he grabs my arms and bends them behind my back.

  “All you have to do is say it.” He slows his movements to a leisurely roll of his hips.

  I grit my teeth so I won’t beg.

  “One word, Mina.”

  I can’t take it anymore. I break. “You.”

  He lets go of my arms to grip my hips. Bracing me, he gives me what I want, what I’ve earned with a word.

  He slams up and orders, “Touch yourself.”

  I drag circles with my finger around my clit. He watches with concentration, learning what pleases me. When the orgasm hits, I don’t have enough strength left to remain upright. I fall over his chest even as he picks up his rhythm to find his own release. He comes shortly after, his seed bathing my body with more proof of what I’ve become.

  Depleted, I lie sprawled out over him.

  Beaten.

  In his bed, I lost the war I started against the wall.

  15

  Yan

  The woman lying on my chest doesn’t cry, but she wants to. I know what vanquishment looks like. Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her close and give her what I can, whatever I’m capable of. I hate her for what she’s done, but I own her. That gives me a responsibility toward her.

  My anger is gone. It burned out with the wild sex, vanished when my cock softened and slipped out of her body with my seed. What’s left in the wake of our fire is a wet spot on the sheets and the cold ashes of reason. With that comes a tinge of regret. Ilya was right. Mina fucked me with her own, justified motivations. I had no right to see more into it.

  Whatever the case, she’s here now, and she’s staying.

  Rubbing her back, I ask, “What do you need the money for?” Because I said things and I feel guilty. A strange sentiment for me.

  It takes her a moment to answer. “A girl has to live.”

  “Taking care of you is my job now.”

  “Am I not allowed to be proud?”

  I admire that. It pisses me off that I find it endearing. Unnecessary, but cute. Still, my voice is harder than intended when I ask, “And exactly how much were you hoping to earn?”

  She intertwines her fingers on my chest and rests her chin on her hands. “How much is the hit worth?”

  I smile. Nice try.

  She shrugs when I don’t bite. “A million.”

  I raise my brow.

  She huffs. “Five hundred thousand?”

  She looks so hopeful with her big, doll-like blue eyes I can’t help but drag my fingers through her hair. Fine. What is giving her a little pride when I’ve taken her freedom?

  “Tell me what you’re going to do with the money.”

  She bends her legs and crosses her ankles. “Shoes, handbags, jewelry.”

  Why does the thought of her splurging on the things women like send a jolt of heat straight to my chest? I’ve never wanted to play house, but imagining her wearing pretty things, dresses to lo
ok good just for me, has an unexpected appeal. She’s joking a little. Her half-smile says so, but I suddenly want that: the shoes, handbags, and jewelry. The illusion.

  I tangle my fingers in her hair. “You know what will happen if you let the information slip, right, princess?” Despite all the sweetness she makes me feel, I can’t go soft.

  “Yes.” She doesn’t wince or blink. She gets me. She understands how it works because she’s part of my world.

  “Good.”

  She pulls on my chest hair. “Does that mean it’s a yes? Five hundred?”

  I catch her hand. “We’ll see.”

  She presses her cheek to my chest, but not before I glimpse her smile. “Who ordered the hit?”

  Whether I like it or not, she’s in on this. She’s in on my life, because I’m never letting her out of my sight again. “Government.”

  “Czech?”

  “Yes. Dimitrov is a thorn under their skin.”

  “And they can’t arrest him without starting a crime war.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I need my phone and laptop.”

  “You don’t.”

  “People will start asking questions if I don’t reply to my messages.”

  “What people? You don’t have any friends.” I checked, especially to make sure there weren’t any boyfriends.

  “I have employers. Bar gigs.”

  “Taken care of.”

  She lifts her head. “What?”

  “My hacker set up an auto-reply.”

  Her pretty features tighten. “With what excuse?” She looks like an angry little kitten.

  “You’re traveling around Europe.”

  “I can’t be on holiday indefinitely.”

  “You needed a break. You’ll earn your way as you go, like a backpacker. The profile suits you, no?”

  “What about my apartment? I have to pay the rent.”

  “You moved.”

  “What?” she cries out, pushing on my chest. “What about my clothes and furniture?”