Darker Than Love

by Charmaine Pauls

  Yet the senior officers investigating the matter didn’t take a stand for me. Circumstances were questionable, to quote my superior. A man will always be a man, he’d said. And I’d felt so betrayed, so utterly brutalized by the attack that all I’d wanted was to put the incident behind me. I told myself I’d get revenge on my attackers later, when I wouldn’t be as likely to get arrested for their deaths, but then Hanna’s health worsened, and I got my leukemia diagnosis.

  As illogical as it was, it felt like the universe was punishing me for something, and I chose to focus on survival in lieu of vengeance, on paying the bills with my deadly skills rather than seeking revenge on those who wronged me.

  “I want them to suffer as much as you did,” Yan says, bringing me back to the present. “To feel every ounce of what you felt, so they’ll never forget.”

  I want that too, so badly. Maybe that later is finally here. But no, Yan sniffing around my former unit is too dangerous for Gergo. As much as I crave vengeance, I need to dissuade Yan from this. “Those men are powerful. Most of them are still in the Special Forces, and the rest joined the government ranks.”

  He chuckles. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  “You’ll be making unwanted enemies.”

  “With as many as I have, what’s a few more?”

  Despite the situation, I smile at his light tone. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “It is.” He drags a finger over my lips. “I’m not going to force you to talk, but I’m going after them, with or without your relay of the event. I have a good imagination. I’ll put it to use when I decide what dues to dish out. Believe me, it’s going to get very creative.”

  I swallow. “It’s not worth it.” Or at least that’s what Gergo told me after the attack. He convinced me revenge wasn’t worth getting arrested or killed over, especially with my grandmother relying on me.

  “The fuck it’s not. You’re worth it.”

  The words hit a bull’s eye in my heart. “Take a good, hard look, Yan. I’m not a good person.”

  “You’re mine, and I like you fine how you are.”

  “I’m a killer for hire.”

  “You’re the closest thing to perfect I’ve seen in this fucked-up world.”

  Baffled, I stare into his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t tell me what I mean or don’t. I don’t mince my words.”

  No, he doesn’t. You’re the closest thing to perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Yan cares about me.

  He picks up the check. “Let’s go.” When he helps me to my feet, all traces of his gentleness vanish. “I want to swing by your friend’s place to see how she’s advancing with our painting.” And just like that, he’s back to being the dangerous man Gergo warned me about.

  24

  Mina

  We get back to Yan’s place in the late afternoon, after he’s assured himself our fraudulent painter is on schedule with the Salvator Mundi replica. Ilya is lounging on the couch with a beer. He informs us Anton is picking up the sniper rifles from their supplier. The apartment looks surprisingly clean. Ilya must’ve been busy. I hope that’s why he looks so disgruntled and not because the air between the brothers is far from cleared.

  Yan announces he has private business to take care of. While I hang the dress in Yan’s closet, I hear him asking Ilya if he’ll get it right this time—it meaning making sure I don’t escape.

  Ilya answers with a grumbled, “Fuck you.”

  Great. So the air isn’t cleared, after all.

  When Yan is gone, I make myself useful and keep out from under Ilya’s feet by doing the laundry and pondering what to cook for dinner. However, I’m too distracted for even such a mundane decision. I can’t stop thinking about Gergo’s daring appearance and Yan’s planned revenge on my assailants. I worry about Hanna, too. I wish I could call her.

  After going through the contents of the fridge for a third time, I slam the door with a sigh. It’s useless.

  “What do you feel like having for dinner?” I ask Ilya.

  He crosses his ankles on the coffee table. “Whatever.”

  “That’s not helpful.” Sighing again, I tidy the lounge by picking up the old magazines and Ilya’s empty beer bottle that’s leaving a wet ring on the wooden coffee table top.

  “Mina,” he exclaims when I straighten.

  I give a start. “What?”

  Pointing at my face, he jumps to his feet. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”

  “Shit.” I press my free hand under my nose so I don’t get blood on Yan’s immaculate mohair carpet and rush to the kitchen where I dump the bottle and magazines in the recycle trashcan before grabbing a kitchen paper towel. Tilting my head back, I wait for the bleeding to stop.

  “Let me see that,” Ilya says, coming up next to me.

  “It’s nothing. It happens sometimes.”

  He takes my elbow. “Come sit down.”

  “No. I don’t want to stain the carpet.”

  “Fuck the carpet.” He leads me to the table and pushes me down in a chair. “Do you need ice or something?’

  “No. It’ll stop in a minute.”

  “You say it like it happens a lot.”

  “Sometimes,” I say again.

  He takes his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling Yan.”

  “No.” I grab his arm.

  At the urgency in my tone, he gives me a quick look.

  “I don’t want to worry him for nothing,” I explain.

  “It’s not nothing.”

  “It’s a nosebleed. It’s not like a part of my face has been amputated.”

  He appears uncertain.

  “I don’t want to bother him,” I insist. “It’s a silly thing.”

  “None of the times my nose bled was silly.”

  I smile from behind the fumbled kitchen towel. “Because you got hit on the nose?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’m sorry Yan hit you because of me.”

  He sighs and rubs his neck. “Yan’s right. You should stop apologizing.”

  “I just want you to know I mean it. If I had a choice—”

  “Bullshit. You only had to ask. Yan would’ve taken you to see your grandmother.”

  “Do you believe yourself?” The dripping stops. I wipe my nose and stare at Ilya’s bruised face. “I’m not his girlfriend. This isn’t how it works between us.”

  “He’s different with you.”

  “So you’ve said, but it doesn’t change what we are. Besides, do you honestly think I want my grandmother to meet him?”

  He grins. “He’s not so bad, you know.”

  “Maybe you should tell him that sometime.”

  “Oh, he knows it. He doesn’t need a bigger head than what he already has.” Ilya ducks his head for a better look at my nose and frowns. “You better rinse that with cold water.”

  I get to my feet, but he holds me back with a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  My smile is the one I use when I assume a persona. “Absolutely.”

  “You’d tell me, right?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “If something was wrong.”

  Shit. I don’t want to lie to him more than I already have. I like him. Really like him. If not for this situation, I think we could’ve been friends. Maybe even despite the situation. God knows, I could do with a friend, especially now that Gergo is out of the picture. He used to be my go-to when I needed a shoulder.

  “Mina?” Ilya stares at me, his rough features pulled into a suspicious expression.

  “I’m okay now.”

  His frown says he disagrees. “Why don’t you go wash your face? I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  I smile at his kindness. “That’s sweet, but not necessary.”

  “I’m having a cup anyway. It’s no trouble.”

  In an impulsive gesture of gratitude, I throw my arms around him and give him a hug. “You’re a teddy bear, you kno
w that?”

  He splays his fingers over my lower back. “If you change your mind about us…”

  “Hey.” I move his wandering hand away. “We already had this discussion, remember?”

  “I can be more than cute and cuddly.”

  I grin up at him. “I don’t doubt that.”

  “If you give me a chance—” He stops at the sound of a key being inserted into the front door.

  I pull away and whisper urgently, “Don’t tell him. Please. He’ll fuss over nothing.”

  Ilya’s look is conflicted.

  “Please, Ilya.”

  He gives a tight nod.

  By the time the door opens, I’m already escaping to Yan’s bathroom. He walks in as I’m drying my face on a towel. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

  “What’s going on, Mina?”

  “Nothing.” I turn, gripping the vanity behind me. “Why?”

  He closes the distance, staring down at my face as he stops in front of me. “Why were you standing so close to Ilya? When I opened the door, you shot like a bullet from a barrel. Why were you running?”

  “I wasn’t running.”

  “He touched you.”

  “I hugged him.”

  “You hugged him.” The words are dangerously even.

  I have to diffuse the situation before it ends in another fight. “Not every touch is sexual. Hugs can be platonic.”

  “Explain to me why you had to hug him.”

  “Yan,” I say with a huff of frustration, trying to move around him.

  Grabbing my face in one big hand, he holds me in place. “Why did you have to hug him?”

  “He offered to make me a cup of tea.”

  “A cup of tea.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “That warrants a fucking hug?”

  “He’s your brother. Don’t you ever hug?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Not each other.”

  “Only the women you share?”

  “We’re not back on that subject.”

  “You started it.”

  A smoldering look invades his eyes. They turn a shade darker as his gaze runs over me. “You don’t hug him for anything, do you hear me? Not even if he offers you a diamond necklace. In fact, you don’t take anything from him either.”

  I blow out a frustrated breath. “Stop it. You’re overreacting.”

  His jaw flexes. “You want tea?”

  I shake my head meekly in his hold. “No.”

  “I’ll make you a fucking cup of tea.”

  “Yan, please.”

  “Please, what?”

  “Cut it out. I don’t want to fight.”

  “We’re not fighting, are we?”

  “Then what do you call this?” I motion between us.

  He reaches for my jeans with his free hand. “Setting boundaries.” The button pops free, and he keeps on watching my face as he pulls down the zipper. “Making sure you understand that this”—he yanks me against his erection by the waistband of my jeans—“is exclusive.”

  Before I can say anything, he slams his lips over mine. He kisses me savagely even as his fingers dip gently into my underwear. I’m already soft, wet. He groans into my mouth as he gathers the slickness and spreads it over my clit. I arch my hips toward the touch, searching for more friction. He nips my tongue and licks my lips, then spears two fingers through my folds and drives them deep inside while rubbing the pad of his thumb over my clit.

  The pleasure is instantaneous. My lower body heats, my knees growing weak. I grab his forearms and cling to him as he bends me backward and plunders my mouth. My neck aches from the strain, but I can’t think about anything other than how close to the edge his deft fingers are bringing me.

  “Mine,” he growls, breaking the kiss.

  Out of breath, I grip the vanity for support as he kneels and unties my laces. He removes my sneakers and my jeans. My panties follow next. Fastening his hands around my waist, he lifts me onto the counter and yanks off my T-shirt and bra. He doesn’t take the time to undress. He’s barely unfastened his belt and pulled down his zipper before he’s inside me. The intrusion is sudden and absolute, the stretch burning. I welcome it by snaking my arms around his neck, the discomfort reminding me I’m still alive, just like fifteen months ago when he fucked me for the first time. Like then and every time since, my body comes alive for him. He has a singular effect on me.

  “It’s never been like this,” I admit in a moment of heat, wrapping my legs around his hips.

  “Mina.” He smothers me in kisses and lifts me from the vanity.

  Grabbing the back of my thighs, he walks to the bedroom with my body still draped around him and his cock buried inside me. At the edge of the bed, he stops. Instead of lowering us onto the mattress, he pulls out until only the head of his cock is lodged inside, then slowly lowers me back over his length.

  “Fuck.” He stares into my eyes as he keeps a slow pace. “You feel as good as I knew you would. Better. Better than anything.”

  Switching positions, he sits down so that I straddle him. “Ride me. Use my body to get off.”

  The invitation is too tempting to let it pass. Yan likes to be in control. It’s not often he gives it away. Sensing his need to watch, I lean back and do exactly what he asked. I use him for my pleasure, moving at the right pace and depth for me. I look at his face when I touch my clit. He grits his teeth and leans back on his arms, giving me his body and permission to do with him as I please.

  Giving up this much control requires trust, especially for him. I push up on my knees and sink back down, taking him deeper. His gaze snaps to where we’re connected. His eyes are a dark shade of green, his whole body drawn tight. He’s close to coming, but he doesn’t take over. He lets me ride out our mating dance until my body reflects the tightness of his muscles with an answering spasm. Sweating with the effort of holding back, he curses as my inner muscles clench. It’s only when I break that he lets go. When pleasure rips through my body, he follows suit with a low groan, filling me, emptying himself into me.

  For a brief moment, I think about the possibility of creating a new life, about the choices and opportunities we’ll never have, and acute pain rips through me. Not that children would ever be an option with our lifestyles. Not that I expect this to ever go that far. It’s simply the fact that I don’t have a say and we’ll never get to choose. As illogical as it is, I’m mourning the ending when we’ve hardly had a beginning. I don’t want to admit what these emotions rippling through me signify. I only know I can’t let him go. I keep on rocking in his lap and kissing his lips to drag out the moment, willing it not to end. The invitation is long since over, but I still use him, this time not for my body but my soul.

  With a palm on my back, he pushes me to his chest. I turn my face to the side and stay like that. His heartbeat is an erratic but strangely soothing sound in the tangle of my thoughts and feelings. Practicalities I haven’t considered up until now bombard my mind. The end will be tough. I won’t be pretty. What will he do with me? Will he grant me the mercy of a hospice and morphine, or slit my throat once it gets bad? When he realizes I’m no longer of use to him, will he keep me or set me free? I can’t imagine he’d want to be by my side when my body is bone thin and my skin sagging.

  “Mina.” He drags his fingers through my hair. “Why are you so tense?”

  I haven’t noticed how I’ve locked my muscles. Making a conscious effort, I release them one by one.

  “Wasn’t it good?” he asks.

  “Perhaps too good.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “No,” I reply softly. “Definitely not a bad thing.”

  “Wrap your legs around me.” Standing, he pulls up his pants so he doesn’t trip over them and carries me to the shower.

  Like every time after we’ve fucked, he washes my body and hair. He towels me dry and plants a soft kiss on my spine. Studying my reflection in the mirror as I finger-comb my hair, he announces, �
�We’re going out for dinner.”

  “But we’ve been out for lunch.”

  “That was hours ago.”

  “Are we going with Ilya and Anton?”

  His expression hardens. He walks back to the room and yanks open the closet. Flipping through his shirts, he says, “We’re going alone.”

  I know better than to question him when his mood shifts like this.

  “No,” he says when I reach for a pair of jeans. “Put on the dress.”

  “That’s way too fancy.”

  “It fits the occasion.”

  “What occasion?”

  “We’re celebrating.”

  “We are?”

  He takes his phone from the pocket of his discarded pants, punches in his code, and turns the screen toward me.

  The photo makes my skin crawl. It’s the face of a man whose features are imprinted in my memory forever.

  “Recognize him?” Yan asks.

  I swallow.

  It’s one of the men who attacked me.

  “Where did you get this?” So fast, I want to add. And more importantly, did he find out anything about Gergo?

  He sweeps to the next photo, and I go cold inside.

  It’s the same man. I know it instinctively, like a soldier would feel the presence of an enemy without relying on sight, even though the man’s proud sneer and vain features are unrecognizable.

  They’re unrecognizable because his face is beaten to a pulp.

  25

  Yan

  I can’t tear my gaze away from Mina where she sits opposite me in the restaurant. She’s biting her lip as she studies the chef’s recommendations. I should do the same, at least pick the wine, but I can’t stop staring at her from over the top of my menu.

  I meant what I said at lunch. She’s the closest thing to perfect. In that nude-pink dress with the matching bag and shoes, she’s the prettiest woman I’ve seen. The crocheted cotton thread of the dress forms a delicate lace pattern that hugs her small body. If she shifts just so, I can glimpse her pink satin underwear. I got her a full bra and boy shorts with the dress in mind, but the modest undergarments don’t hide her round breasts or firm ass. The sight makes me hard. I can’t help but think about everything I want to do to her later.