Bind Me (Capture Me #2)

by Anna Zaires

  If I had an island, I’d keep Yulia there, with nothing but her long blond hair to cover her.

  Her spoon clinks against her ceramic bowl—I don’t have paper plates for soup—and I tense, my gaze jumping to her hand. She’s just eating, though, her attention seemingly focused on her meal.

  Despite her calm demeanor, I don’t relax. She’s going to try something, I’m sure of it. I may have decided against making her pay, but that doesn’t mean I trust Yulia or expect her to trust me. Even if I told her I no longer plan to punish her, she wouldn’t believe me. Given a chance, she’d escape in a heartbeat, and the fact that she’s being so docile worries me. It’s a good thing I took the precaution of stashing all weapons from my house in the trunk of my car; it would’ve been too risky to have guns around when I let her eat untied like this.

  Naked and untied.

  I try not to get distracted by the sight of her nipples peeking through the veil of her hair, but it’s impossible. Under the table, my cock feels like it’s made of stone. I took the time to throw on a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt before leading Yulia to the kitchen, but I didn’t give her any clothes, and I’m starting to think that keeping her undressed like this is not such a good idea.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Yulia tucks her hair behind her ear, causing it to shift and mostly cover her breasts. I let out a sigh of relief and resume eating as my arousal slowly subsides.

  “You know, you never told me what happened that day with your plane,” she says midway through her soup, and I see that her blue eyes are trained on my face, studying me. Once again, I’m reminded that I’m up against a skilled professional. She might’ve seemed fragile after her nightmare, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a deep reservoir of strength.

  She must have it, else she couldn’t have done her job after that brutal attack.

  “You mean after they shot the missile at us?” I push my empty bowl aside. The fact that she can talk so calmly about the crash brings back some of my anger, and it’s all I can do to keep my voice even.

  Yulia’s hand tightens around her spoon, but she doesn’t back down. “Yes. How did you survive it?”

  I take a deep breath. As much as I hate talking about this, I want her to know what happened. “Our plane was equipped with an anti-missile shield, so it wasn’t a direct hit,” I say. “The missile exploded outside our plane, but the blast radius was so wide that it damaged our engines and caused the back of our plane to catch fire.” Or at least that’s the theory our engineers have come up with based on the remnants of the plane. “We crashed, but I was able to guide us to a cluster of thin trees and bushes. They softened our landing somewhat.” I pause, trying to keep my fury under control. Still, my voice is hard as I say, “Most of the men in the back didn’t survive, and the three who did are still in the hospital with third-degree burns.”

  Her face whitens as I speak. “So was your boss at the front with you?” she asks, putting down her spoon. “Is that how the two of you survived?”

  “Yes.” I take another breath to battle the memories. “Esguerra came into the pilot’s cabin to talk to me right before it happened.”

  Yulia’s forehead creases with tension. “Lucas, I—” she begins, but I raise my hand.

  “Don’t.” My voice is razor sharp. If she starts lying right now, I may not be able to control myself.

  She freezes and looks down at the table, instantly falling silent. I can feel her fear, and I force myself to take another breath and unclench my hands—which had unconsciously curled into fists on the table.

  When I’m sure I’m not going to snap, I continue. “So yeah, we were both at the front, and we survived,” I say in a calmer tone. “Esguerra was nearly killed afterwards, though. Al-Quadar sniffed out that he was in a hospital in Tashkent, not far from their stronghold, and they came for him.”

  Yulia’s head jerks up, her eyes wide. “The terrorists got your boss?”

  “Just for a couple of days. We got him back before they did too much damage.” I don’t go into the details of the rescue operation and how Esguerra’s wife risked her life to save him. “His eye was the main casualty.”

  “He lost an eye?” She looks stunned, and her reaction awakens the old seedling of jealousy in me.

  “Yes.” The word comes out sharp. “But don’t worry—he got an implant, so he’s still as pretty as ever.”

  She falls silent again, looking down at her bowl. It’s still half-full, so I say gruffly, “Eat. Your soup is getting cold.”

  Yulia obeys, picking up her spoon. After a few spoonfuls, however, she looks up at me again.

  “He must hate me a lot,” she says softly. “Your boss, I mean.”

  I shrug. “Not as much as he hates Al-Quadar. Or I should say, hated Al-Quadar.”

  She blinks. “They’re gone?”

  “We wiped them out,” I say, watching her reaction. “So yes, they’re gone.”

  She flinches, so subtly that I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been staring at her. “The whole organization? All their cells?” She sounds incredulous. “How is that possible? Weren’t governments worldwide hunting them for years?”

  “They were, but governments are always… constrained.” I smile grimly. “When you’re trying to be better than the thing you’re hunting, it’s hard to do what it takes. They have their hands tied by laws and budgets, by public opinion and democracy. Their constituents don’t want to see stories on the news about children killed in drone strikes or terrorists’ families abused during interrogations. A little waterboarding, and everyone’s up in arms. They’re too soft for this fight.”

  “But you and Esguerra are not.” Yulia puts down her spoon, her hand unsteady. “You’re willing to do what it takes.”

  “Yes, we are.” I can see the judgment in her eyes, and it amuses me. My spy is still an innocent in some ways. “The Al-Quadar stronghold in Tajikistan was one of the last big cells remaining, and from there, it was just a matter of finding the few that were still scattered around the world. It wasn’t difficult once we threw all our resources at it.”

  She stares at me. “I see.”

  “Eat your soup,” I remind her, seeing that she’s not eating again.

  Yulia picks up her spoon, and I get up to get myself another bowl. By the time I return to the table, I see that she has nearly finished her portion.

  “Do you want more?” I ask, and she shakes her head, once again letting me catch a glimpse of her nipples.

  “I’m full, thank you.”

  “Okay.” I force myself to start eating instead of staring at Yulia’s breasts. When I look up again, she has her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped tightly around them. It makes me wonder if she saw the lust on my face and was reminded of her nightmare.

  Thinking about that—about what happened to her at fifteen—infuriates me all over again. I want to dig up Kirill’s corpse and shred it into pieces. I know it’s ironic as hell that I’m outraged over a rape when I’ve done things most people would deem a thousand times worse, but I can’t be rational about this.

  I can’t be rational about her.

  “So, Lucas, what made you decide to work here?” Yulia asks, dragging me out of my thoughts, and I realize she’s trying to feel me out, to understand me better so she can manipulate me. I can deflect her question, but she was open with me earlier, so I figure I owe her some answers.

  A little honesty will do no harm.

  “Esguerra pays well, and he’s fair to his people,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What else can one ask for?”

  “Fair?” Yulia frowns. “That’s not your boss’s reputation. ‘Ruthless’ is how most people would describe him, I think.”

  I chuckle, inexplicably amused by that. “Yeah, he’s a ruthless bastard, all right. However, he generally keeps his word, which makes him fair in my book.”

  “Is that why you’re loyal to him? Because he keeps his word?”

  “Among other reasons.” I also a
ppreciate Esguerra’s loyalty to his own. He’s taken care of the people on this estate after his parents’ death, and I admire that. But all I say is, “A seven-figure salary helps for sure.”

  Yulia studies me, and I wonder what she sees. An amoral mercenary? A monster? A man just like Kirill? For some reason, this last bit bothers me. I may not be much better, but I don’t want her to see me that way.

  I don’t want to feature in her nightmares.

  “So when did you meet Esguerra?” she asks, still in her information-gathering mode. “How did you end up working for him?”

  “They didn’t tell you that?” I imagine she must’ve been briefed extensively on my boss, since he was her original assignment. And possibly on me, since I accompanied him.

  “No,” Yulia replies. “That wasn’t in either of your files.”

  So she did study up on us. “What was in my file?” I ask, curious.

  “Just the basics. Your age, where you went to school, that sort of thing.” She pauses. “Your discharge from the Navy.”

  Of course. I shouldn’t be surprised she knows about that. “Anything else?”

  “Not really.” Yulia pauses again, then says quietly, “It didn’t even mention whether you’re married or otherwise attached.”

  A peculiar warmth unfurls in my chest. Pushing my empty bowl aside, I lean forward to rest my forearms on the table. “I’m not,” I say, answering the question she didn’t pose. “In fact, I haven’t been with anyone but you since Moscow.”

  Yulia gives me an unreadable look. “You haven’t?”

  “No.” I don’t bother explaining how I’ve been too obsessed with her to think about any other woman.

  Getting up, I take the bowls to the sink, then turn to face her. “Let’s go, beautiful. Breakfast is over.”

  7

  Yulia

  As Lucas leads me to the living room, I reflect on what I just learned. What Lucas told me about Al-Quadar fits perfectly with the information in Esguerra’s file. Lucas’s boss is merciless with his enemies, and I’m one of them.

  By all rights, I should’ve already been killed in some gruesome way, yet I’m alive, fed, and unharmed. Now that I’m thinking more clearly, I realize Lucas’s decision to manipulate me emotionally rather than torturing me physically is a stroke of unbelievable luck. My feelings may be wounded, but my body is whole, some minor soreness aside. I have no doubt that he’s playing me, but it’s possible that at least some of his game is real.

  It’s possible that his desire for me is temporarily stronger than his hate.

  I tested that theory when I came out of the bathroom, first by showing vulnerability, then by being subtly friendly. When my captor seemed to respond well to that, I brought up the plane crash, a topic that had provoked him before. The fact that he didn’t attack me—that he actually conversed with me, telling me some of his story—is beyond encouraging.

  It means that some of the sympathy he displayed earlier may be genuine.

  Feeling hopeful, I glance at Lucas as he walks beside me. He has a fresh coil of rope in his hands, and when we stop in front of the chair where he had me tied before, I do my best to assume a vulnerable expression.

  “Do you really need me naked?” I ask, letting my eyes glisten with tears. It’s easy to bring them up; my emotions are still ricocheting from hurt to anger to lingering longing for comfort. “It’s cold when the air conditioning comes on.”

  He hesitates, and I give him a desperate, pleading look. I’m only half-acting. It’s a small thing, clothes, but being dressed would make me feel more human. More importantly, though, Lucas granting me this request would mean that my strategy of playing on his emotions is working.

  “All right,” he says, giving in as I hoped. “Come with me.” Leaving the rope on the chair, he takes my arm and brings me to the bedroom.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a T-shirt. “You can wear this for now.”

  Trying to hide my ecstatic relief, I accept the piece of clothing and pull it over my head, noting the heat in Lucas’s eyes as he watches me do so. It’s a man’s shirt—his shirt—and it’s long enough to cover me to mid-thigh.

  “All right, let’s go,” he says when I’m dressed, and leads me back to the chair. As he ties me up, I look at his big, sun-darkened hands looping the rope around my ankles and wonder if he’s feeling the same electric tingle that I am. It’s fucked up that I still want him, but it may also aid me in escape.

  It may help propagate this new, more amicable dynamic between us.

  When he’s done tying me up, Lucas stands up and says, “I have to get some things done. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say, keeping a poker face.

  With a lingering glance at me, Lucas departs, and I let my relieved smile break across my face.

  * * *

  After a while, my ebullient feeling fades, replaced by a combination of boredom and discomfort. The chair is hard under my butt, and the ropes bite into my skin every time I try to change my position. The minutes begin to stretch, passing by slowly and monotonously. I keep looking at the window, waiting for the mystery girl to return, but she doesn’t. There’s only an occasional lizard running over the window screen.

  Sighing, I look down and ponder the other tidbit that gave me hope. If Lucas didn’t lie, my dark-haired visitor wasn’t his girlfriend.

  He doesn’t have a girlfriend at all.

  The knowledge is like a balm to my ragged feelings. I don’t know why it matters to me whether Lucas is single, married, or hooking up with a dozen women, but the fact that he’s not cheating on that girl with me makes me feel better about last night. I didn’t wrong another woman. Whatever’s going on with me and Lucas is just between the two of us. Nobody else is going to get hurt.

  Of course, I have to allow for the possibility that he lied, that this is all part of his interrogation technique, but I’m inclined to believe him on this. There are no signs of a woman’s presence in his house: no decorations or picture frames, no hair dryers or feminine products in the bathroom.

  This place is a bachelor residence, right down to the almost-bare fridge, and if I hadn’t been so terrified and exhausted yesterday, I would’ve noticed that obvious fact.

  Yawning, I look at the window again. Another lizard runs by. I watch it and wonder what it’s like out there, in the jungle beyond these walls. Every part of me aches to be out there, to feel the warm sun on my skin and hear the singing of birds. The small glimpse I got yesterday hadn’t been enough.

  I want to be outside.

  I want to be free.

  Soon, I promise myself, shifting in the hard chair. I now understand the game Lucas is playing, and I can play along. I’ll be his sex doll for as long as he lusts after me, and I’ll seem weak and open. I’ll tell him everything except the information he seeks, and I’ll let him think that he’s prying the secrets out of me, that his soft interrogation is working. This way, he won’t resort to harsher methods for a while, and I’ll use this time to formulate a real escape plan, something more promising than a desperate attack with a broken toothbrush.

  I’ll also work on building a bond with Lucas.

  Lima Syndrome. That’s what they call the psychological phenomenon where the captor sympathizes with the captive so much that he releases said captive. I studied it during training, as there was a high probability I’d be captured one day. Lima Syndrome is not as common as its inverse, Stockholm Syndrome, where the captive falls for his or her captor, but it does occur. I’m not foolish enough to think that I’ll be able to get Lucas to release me, but it’s possible that I could get him to lower his guard and do little things that would make my escape easier.

  Like letting me wear clothes.

  Yawning again, I watch yet another lizard scurry across the window, and I imagine that I’m small and green. Small enough to slip out of my bonds and slither through the vents. If I could do that, I’d be the best spy in the world.

 
; It’s a silly thought, but it comforts me, taking my mind off what awaits me if my plan fails. My eyelids grow heavy, and I don’t fight it. As I nod off, I dream of little green lizards and my baby brother, who’s laughing and chasing them around a jungle park.

  It’s my most joyful dream in years.

  * * *

  “Yulia.”

  I wake up instantly, my heart jumping, and look up.

  Lucas is back—and he’s not alone. In addition to my captor, there is a short, balding man standing in front of me, his brown eyes regarding me with a detached curiosity. His clothes are casual, but the bag in his hands appears to be a medical kit.

  My stomach drops. I was wrong about Lucas waiting to use the harsher methods.

  Before I can panic, the short man smiles at me. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr. Goldberg. If you don’t mind, I’d like to examine you.”

  Examine me?

  “To make sure you’re not injured,” the doctor explains, undoubtedly reading my confused expression. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  Right, okay. I take a deep breath, my fear easing. “Sure. Go right ahead.” I’m tied to a chair wearing nothing but Lucas’s T-shirt, and the man is asking if I’d mind a doctor’s examination? What would he do if I said I minded? Apologize for the intrusion and go away?

  Apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in my voice, the doctor turns to Lucas and says, “I’d like the patient to be untied, if possible.”

  Lucas frowns, but kneels in front of me and begins working on the rope around my ankles. Glancing at the doctor, he says tersely, “I’m going to stay here. She’s creative with household items.”

  “But—”

  At a hard look from Lucas, the doctor falls silent. Lucas finishes untying my ankles and moves around me to undo my hands. I wiggle my feet surreptitiously, restoring circulation, and think longingly about the bathroom.