Darker Than Love

by Charmaine Pauls

  A brunette enters and sits down at the bar counter. She’s classically beautiful. Expensive dress. She leans over and says something to the bartender. Drumming her red fingernails on the countertop, she turns on her seat to scan the room. I pay attention, because it’s my job. Paying attention means the difference between life and death. This isn’t death. I know her type. Her gaze lands on me. She makes direct eye contact and smiles.

  Draping my arm over the back of Mina’s chair, I lift a finger to caress her ear. I trace every silver hoop pierced through the shell before dropping my hand to her neck to stroke the outline of the hummingbird tattoo.

  At the rejection, the woman turns her attention to Ilya. It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

  “Excuse me.” He pushes back his chair and saunters to the bar.

  They strike up a conversation as her drink arrives. By the time her glass is empty, Ilya’s arm is around her shoulder. It’s a pose I know well. We’ve played the game together enough times. They order a round of shooters. And another. My brother glances at me, and the brunette follows his gaze. He says something, and she gets up.

  Anton stops talking when she comes over to our table and takes Ilya’s seat.

  Placing a hand on my leg, she smiles brightly. “Hi, handsome. I hear I’m up for double the fun.”

  I remove her hand. “You heard wrong.”

  She pouts. “And here I was getting all excited. Your brother over there is paying for the room. You may as well”—her voice drops an octave—“take advantage.”

  Next to me, Mina goes rigid.

  “What’s wrong?” Anton mocks. “You can’t disappoint the lady’s fantasy. Go if you like. I’ll keep our guest occupied.” At guest, he looks at Mina.

  Fucking Ilya. I’m going to kill him. And then Anton, too.

  In a few strides, I’m at the bar and in my brother’s face. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “What we always do. Why does that surprise you?”

  “You’re acting like a moron.”

  “I’m not behaving differently than normal. You are.”

  The shooters must’ve gone to his thick head. “That”—I point at the brunette who’s still sitting at our table—“was unwarranted.”

  His gaze narrows. “You’re fucking exclusively now?”

  “How I fuck is none of your business.”

  “Are you trying to push me away? Is that it?”

  “What?” I stare at him in disbelief. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “No.” His tone is bitter. “It doesn’t. That’s the whole point.”

  “What the fuck?” Did my brother smoke something? “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what? Stuff it. I’m taking her upstairs and fucking her. Join us if you want, or don’t. I don’t care. At least I was willing to share.”

  “What is this? You give me something so I have to give something back?” I grab his arm. “Nothing you do will ever convince me to share Mina, so get it out of your dense skull once and for all.”

  He jerks out of my hold. “Fuck you. What happened to all that talk about brothers watching out for one another?”

  “Ilya,” I warn, “don’t let this come between us.”

  He sneers. “Too late.”

  “Yan,” Anton says urgently but softly, walking fast toward me. He tilts his head in the direction of the door.

  I spin around just in time to see Mina disappear through the frame.

  16

  Mina

  With my nose pinched shut, I run through the lobby toward the bathroom, slam a palm on the door, and rush to the vanity. When I let go, blood splatters on the white marble of the basin.

  No.

  Fuck.

  I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and, tilting back my head, press it under my nose until the trickling stops.

  Bracing my hands on the countertop, I look at my face in the mirror.

  Not this.

  On the outside, I’m like a granite statue. Inside, I’m shaking.

  The bruises scared me this morning, but I hoped. I hoped they were remnants of our rough sex. Shock and disappointment fill my chest until my heart drowns in despondency. All I want to do is scream, but I slam a fist on the counter instead. The blow hurts, the pain sharp and sobering as shame overcomes me.

  Don’t be pathetic, Mina. Pull yourself together.

  I don’t know anything. Not yet.

  Sniffing, I stare at the mess that’s my face. This won’t do. This won’t do at all. Straightening my spine, I wet a paper towel and clean the blood off my skin. I’ve barely dumped the bloodstained towel in the trash when a loud tap sounds on the door.

  “Mina!”

  Yan.

  “In here,” I call out. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  The door bangs against the wall. My keeper storms through it, his green eyes like wild, poisonous ivy.

  “What are you doing?” He looks around the empty bathroom as if he expects to see someone else—or as if he thought he’d catch me climbing through a window.

  Can’t blame him. I’ve done it once, and I would’ve done it again if he hadn’t tagged me like a dog.

  “Jeez.” I turn and lean on the vanity, all cool, casual mockery. “Can’t a girl pee in peace?”

  He regards me closely, searching for the lie. “You’re not any girl.”

  No, I’m not. I give a wry laugh. “So what? Do I have to ask permission to use the bathroom?”

  His answer is curt. “Yes.”

  “Fuck, Yan.” My turmoil spills into anger. “I think we’ve established I don’t have a fucking chance at escaping. You can cut me some slack.”

  His beautiful eyes harden. “Watch your mouth.”

  “Or what?”

  “Want to lose more freedom? I have no problem keeping you locked up in my flat.”

  I shut my mouth. The very point of helping him with this job is gaining freedom. I need that now more than ever.

  He smiles coldly. “Glad you understand.”

  My body sags, the fight leaving me abruptly. All I feel now is tired, and it scares the hell out of me.

  Closing the distance, Yan puts his hands on my shoulders. “It wasn’t what it looked like back there.”

  The unwelcome image of him in bed with Ilya and the brunette slips into my mind. Like earlier in the bar, the idea constricts my chest. I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but it does. It hurts like the continuous prick of a tattoo needle.

  I stare up at his face, taking in the hard lines of his handsome features. He doesn’t belong to me, I know that. Or I should. “What you do is none of my business.”

  “I’m not going to have sex with someone else while I’m fucking you bareback.”

  My snort is as crude as his words. “That’s most considerate. Thanks for not giving me STDs.”

  He catches my head between his broad palms. “Drop the sarcasm. It’s not about diseases. Using a condom with someone else will solve that risk easily enough.”

  The someone else cuts into my heart. “Then why bother to abstain? Go ahead. Fuck her.”

  His hand fists in my hair. “You don’t tell me what to do. In case you’re slow in figuring it out, it’s the other way around.”

  “Oh, I’ve figured it out.”

  His jaw flexes. “Then what’s your problem?”

  “I don’t get it,” I say honestly. “I don’t understand you.”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “If it’s not about diseases, then what’s it about?”

  “Principle.”

  I laugh. “Are you telling me you actually have some?”

  His gaze turns sharp, the green of his irises cooling further. “Careful, princess. You’re skating on thin ice.”

  He’s right. I’m risking his anger and for what? A warped sense of jealousy? I still. Fuck. I cannot be jealous. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this situation, this very wrong situation. Yet a litt
le voice deep inside says I keep on telling him “yes” every time he asks me if I want sex.

  “While we’re on the topic”—he releases my hair and drags his fingers over my scalp, as if soothing the sting he’s inflicted—“it works both ways. You don’t sleep with someone else. You don’t even look at another man.”

  I blink up at him. “Like who?”

  “Ilya.”

  Ah, twin rivalry. Is that what this is about? “You were happy enough to share before.”

  His eyes darken. “You’re different.”

  “How?”

  “No one has ever belonged to me.”

  It’s not a compliment, nor a sweet declaration of feelings. It’s a warning, a reminder of who we are, of what I am to him. An object. A toy. A convenient fuck to keep his bed warm. An enemy to lock up while he lives his life freely.

  Someone to kill once he’s done with me.

  I push the knowledge away because I can’t look at it too closely. It hurts too much.

  He tilts back my head, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Do you understand?”

  “I’m not stupid,” I say softly.

  His gaze skims over my lips. “Stupid is the last thing I’d take you for.”

  “Then you didn’t have to barge in here chasing me. You know I won’t run.”

  “Just making sure you get how this works.” His words are full of a dark promise.

  “You’ve been crystal clear.”

  He nods. It’s a small peace offering. “Let’s get out of here before someone needs the bathroom.”

  Anton is waiting outside when we exit. He informs us Ilya and the woman have gone upstairs.

  “Don’t worry,” he says to Yan. “Ilya signed in under a false name.”

  “Great,” Yan says. “In that case, you get to stay here to make sure Ilya doesn’t do something foolish in a fit of drunken rage—like paying with a credit card.” And ignoring the long string of cusswords flying out of Anton’s mouth, he drags me off.

  At Yan’s place, I unpack my new clothes. He makes space for me in his closet, and I hang the dress next to the dry-cleaning bags with his pressed shirts and pants. It seems wrong there, out of place, but I have bigger worries on my mind.

  After arranging the disguise material on the bed, I wrap each item in the provided tissue paper and seal it in a plastic bag. I make sure nothing is squashed or creased when I pack it back into the case and store it on the top shelf of the closet where it’ll stay dry and cool. Even that simple task exhausts me.

  I need energy. I need to eat, but the mere thought of food makes me queasy.

  Wearily, I take off the clothes I’ve been wearing since yesterday, dress in a new T-shirt and sweatpants, and go in search of Yan. I find him working on his laptop on the couch.

  He looks up when I lean on the doorframe, and trails his gaze over me in a slow evaluation that ends in a frown. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

  He’s observant. And as dangerous and cruel as he can be, he’s not always unkind. Sometimes, like now, he seems almost considerate.

  I walk over and sit down next to him, folding one leg under myself. “How did you get into this business?” At his raised eyebrows, I clarify, “Killing people.”

  He smiles. “How did you?”

  “I told you in Colombia.”

  “Tell me more.”

  He’s not going to give me anything unless I give him something first. “When I left the military, I needed money. An old comrade told me about a job that involved taking out a drug dealer. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I was part of the operation. It kind of set the ball rolling.”

  His lips twitch. “It kind of set the ball rolling, huh? As simple as that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Who was your first kill?”

  I tell him honestly, “The men who murdered my parents. They were never convicted. Lack of evidence. Shortly after I joined the military, I tracked them down and popped them.”

  He regards me curiously. “And how did it feel?”

  “Fantastic.” When he says nothing, my defensive hackles rise. “Do you think less of me now?” Horrible. Evil. Sociopathic. That’s what society would call me. Emotionally dysfunctional would be a more suitable term. Not that what he thinks matters.

  His lips curve in a peculiarly warm smile. “No, not at all, princess.” His gaze shifts to my side. “Is that who they are, Adéla and Johan? Your parents?”

  My ribcage tightens, constricting my lungs. It’s a relief to be honest with someone for once, but my parents are off limits. I can’t even talk about them to Hanna.

  “In aeternum vivi,” he says when I don’t reply. “Forever alive.”

  I blink at him, briefly startled out of my memory-induced funk. “You know Latin?”

  “Some phrases.”

  He doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate, so I decide to change the subject. “I told you about my first. It’s only fair you do the same.”

  He stares at me, then says evenly, “The man who killed my uncle.”

  My breath catches, a dark curiosity gnawing at me. “How did you do it?”

  “Knife. I was sixteen. I didn’t have enough money for a gun—not that I would’ve wasted a bullet on that scum.”

  Of course. Admiration, dark and perverse, rises within me. I know normal people would deem it wrong, utterly deviant, to cheer on a sixteen-year-old in his quest for bloody vengeance, but I’m not normal, haven’t been since I was six. I’m proud of Yan for doing this, even as something inside me squeezes at the pain he must’ve felt at the loss of his family—pain that I’m only too intimately familiar with. “Were you and your uncle close?”

  To my surprise, he chuckles. “Not remotely. He was a drunk and an abusive bastard.”

  “Then why avenge him?”

  “He was family.” He says it like it makes perfect sense, and it does.

  Even bad blood runs thicker than water.

  I want to know more, want to hear all the gruesome details about that first hit of his, but that can wait. There are other things I’m more curious about.

  He’s turned his attention back to his laptop, so I nudge him with a touch of my knee. “Your turn.”

  He looks up. “For what?”

  “For telling me how you got into the business.”

  He hesitates, then closes the laptop. “We enlisted in the army, then were recruited into Spetsnaz.”

  “You and Ilya?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old were you when you enlisted?”

  “Seventeen. We lied about our age.”

  So a year after his uncle’s murder. I study him, cataloguing his thick dark hair and the hard, symmetrical lines of his face. “How old are you now?”

  He smirks. “Does it matter?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Too much for your own good.”

  “I’d say…” I can’t help my grin. “About forty-five? Fifty?”

  He gives me a narrow-eyed look. “Thirty-three.”

  “Ah. Who could’ve guessed?” I fake surprise, but he doesn’t smile at my joke. “How did you end up working with Sokolov?”

  “He headed the anti-terrorism unit of Spetsnaz, which we joined later. When he went rogue after his wife and son were killed in a bombing, we followed.”

  “I’m assuming you’re no longer a team.” Not after Yan disobeyed Peter’s order to kill me.

  “I’m the leader now.” His voice hardens a little. “Peter’s out.”

  “Does that bother him?”

  “He left the team of his own volition, so I assume not. But even if he wanted back in, it’s too late. It’s my team now. My business.”

  Tilting my head, I study him. “It sounds as if you didn’t get on.”

  “We had our philosophical differences, but it had nothing to do with not getting on. I’ve just never been good at taking orders.”

  “Then why did you follow him in the first place?”

  He g
ives me a level look. “Why do you think?”

  “Money.”

  Yes, of course. Everyone needs money. Some love it. Some love it more than others, splurging on flashy cars or designer houses. Yan has under-floor heating—which he uses even in the summer, so his feet won’t be cold walking from his bed to his bathroom—and Egyptian cotton. He doesn’t use his money to show off with a Porsche or a flashy house, but to buy the luxury of comfort. As adults, we tend to compensate for what we didn’t have as children.

  “What about your other family?” I ask.

  “What about them?”

  I can’t help but throw a jab. “Am I not going to meet them?” Under normal circumstances, if I’d moved in, he would’ve introduced me to his mother by now.

  “You’ve met him.”

  “Ilya? There’s no one else?”

  “No.”

  Short and sweet. He doesn’t like to talk about it. “Why did you lie about your age to join Spetsnaz?”

  His features harden. “We were living on the streets.”

  My heart lurches. I’ve been to Russia a few times. I’ve seen their winters, have walked some of their streets. And picturing sixteen-year-old Yan and his brother there, freezing, hungry, and alone… “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “I have nothing to be ashamed about,” he says harshly.

  “Of course not.” I look at my hands.

  “What happened to your grandmother?”

  I lift my head quickly, my pulse jumping. “How do you know about my grandmother?”

  “Do you really have to ask me that?”

  Fuck. It makes sense that he would’ve done a background check on me, but I’ve kept communication with my grandmother private. I never speak about her to anyone. Caring about someone is a liability in our business.

  His green gaze sharpens. “I asked you a question, Mina.”

  He’s going to find out soon. It’s better I tell him than make him think I’m hiding something—because I am hiding something, and I can’t afford for him to go sniffing around. “She’s in a private clinic. She suffers from Parkinson’s.”

  He studies me closely. “A private clinic where?”