by Anna Zaires
“Do you like to watch TV?” I ask as I tie her ankles to the chair. I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed and content. Soon, I’ll get the answers I need, and I’ll be able to give her more freedom.
For now, the least I can do is alleviate her probable boredom.
“TV?” Yulia gives me a bewildered look. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“Any preferences? Shows? Movies? News channels?”
“Um, anything, really.”
“Okay.” Finished with the rope, I turn her chair to face the large television on the opposite wall. “How about Modern Family? It’s light and funny. Have you seen it?”
“No.” She’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted green whiskers.
“Okay, then.” Suppressing a smile, I turn on the TV and select the first season of the show from the files I’ve stored on there. “I have some work to do before dinner, but this should keep you entertained.”
“Sure,” she says, looking so adorably confused that I can’t help myself. Bending down, I press a kiss to her parted lips, swallowing her startled gasp. The delicious warmth of her mouth makes my cock twitch, and I force myself to straighten and step back before I get carried away.
As unbelievable as it is, I want Yulia again.
Inhaling deeply, I turn away, determined to regain control. “I’ll see you soon,” I tell her over my shoulder and stride out of the house.
As much as I’d like to spend all day fucking my prisoner, there’s work to be done.
* * *
I spend the first couple of hours in Esguerra’s office, ironing out the logistical details of his Chicago protection with him and the guards I’m planning to bring with us. There’s a lot to coordinate, as Nora’s parents will need extra protection during and after our visit, in case some of Esguerra’s business associates decide that using his in-laws as leverage is a good idea. It’s doubtful—everyone knows what happened to Al-Quadar when they tried it with his wife—but it’s always good to be cautious.
Some people’s stupidity verges on suicidal.
Just as we’re about to finish, Esguerra’s wife walks in. Her dark eyes widen when she sees us all sitting there. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“What is it, baby?” Esguerra rises to his feet and comes toward her, his eyebrows drawn together in a worried frown. “Is everything okay? How are you feeling?”
Nora shoots me and the guards an embarrassed look before turning her attention to her husband. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” she says hurriedly. “I wanted to ask you about something, but it can wait.”
“Are you sure?” Esguerra’s voice softens, as it often does when he speaks to his petite wife. “I can step out—”
“No, please don’t. Really, it’s not important.” Rising on tiptoes, she presses a quick kiss to his jaw. “I’m going to be by the pool. Come find me when you’re done.”
“All right.” Nora steps out and Esguerra gazes after her, frowning. I can see that he wants to follow her, but doesn’t want to seem even more obsessed with her than we already know him to be. If he were anyone else, the guards would rib him about this for weeks to come. Instead, we all keep our faces expressionless as our boss returns to the table.
It doesn’t take long to finish hammering out the security logistics. As soon as we’re done, the guards return to their duties, and Esguerra heads out to find his wife, leaving me alone in his office to catch up on a couple of emails. I decide to use this opportunity to video call our Hong Kong supplier and procure the tracker implants for Yulia. To my disappointment, the old man informs me that he’s only going to be able to get them to me in two weeks—exactly when we’ll be in Chicago.
“Is there any way you can do it sooner?” I ask, not liking the idea of leaving Yulia unsecured for so long, but the man just shakes his head.
“No, I’m afraid not. The ones Mr. Esguerra got that time were a prototype, and we’ll need to manufacture the ones for you from scratch. The coating is highly specialized, so it will have to be custom-ordered—”
“Never mind. I understand.” I’ll just have to assign some trustworthy men to watch over my prisoner in my absence. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chen.”
Disconnecting from the video call, I get up and exit Esguerra’s office.
There’s one more thing I have to take care of today.
* * *
Ana, Esguerra’s middle-aged housekeeper, opens the door for me.
“Hello, Señor Kent,” she says in her accented English. “Are you looking for Señor Esguerra? He just went upstairs to take a shower.”
“No, I’m not looking for him.” I smile at the older woman. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She steps back, letting me into a large, luxurious foyer. “Nora is by the pool. Would you like to speak to her?”
“No, actually.” I pause, looking around before glancing back at the housekeeper. “Is Rosa here? I’d like to ask her something.”
“Oh.” Ana seems startled, but recovers quickly, saying, “Yes, she’s in the kitchen, helping me with dinner. Come, this way.” She leads me through a set of double doors and past a wide curving staircase.
When we enter the kitchen, I’m greeted by a mouthwatering smell of roasted garlic. Rosa herself is standing next to a gleaming sink with her back turned to us, cutting up vegetables.
“Rosa,” Ana calls out to the girl. “You have a visitor.”
The maid turns toward us, and I see her brown eyes widen as a flush spreads across her face. “Lucas.”
“Hello, Rosa,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Do you have a minute?”
She nods and quickly wipes her hands on a towel. “Yes, of course.” A bright smile appears on her lips. “What can I do for you?”
I turn to look at the housekeeper, but Ana is already hurrying away, having correctly deduced that I want privacy.
“Thank you for the soup,” I say, deciding to ease into it. “It was excellent.”
“Oh, good.” Her smile widens. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Wait.” I frown. “You made it, not Ana?”
Rosa turns beet red. “I did—I’m sorry I lied to you earlier. It was just that—”
“Rosa,” I interrupt, holding up my hand. I want to spare the girl any unnecessary awkwardness. “Thank you. It was a wonderful soup, but I’d rather you didn’t make it again for me. Or anything else for that matter, all right?”
She looks like I just slapped her across the face. “Of c-course,” she stammers. “I’m sorry, I—”
“And I need you to stay away from my house,” I continue, ignoring the tears pooling in the girl’s eyes. I’d sooner face a dozen terrorists than do this, but I have to drive the point home. “It’s not safe for you. My prisoner is dangerous.”
“I just—”
“Look,” I say, feeling like I was just cruel to a child, “you’re a beautiful girl, and very sweet, but you’re much too young for me. You’re what, eighteen, nineteen?”
Rosa’s chin lifts. “Twenty-one.”
“Right.” It strikes me that she’s only a year younger than Yulia, but I’ve never thought of the Ukrainian spy as being too young for me. Still, I continue without missing a beat. “I’m thirty-four. You should find someone closer to your own age. A nice guy who’ll appreciate you.”
“Of course.” To my surprise, the maid regroups, pulling herself together with startling composure. Her tears dry up, and she gives me a steady smile, though a flush still colors her cheeks. “You don’t have to worry, Lucas. I won’t bother you anymore.”
I frown, unsure whether I can take her at face value, but she’s already turning away, her attention on the vegetables once more.
II
The Breaking
15
Yulia
Over the next week, Lucas and I settle into an uneasy routine. He has sex with me every chance he gets—which is at least a couple of time
s at night and once during the day—and we eat all of our meals together in the kitchen. The rest of the time I spend watching TV while tied to the chair, or sleeping cuffed at Lucas’s side.
“Do you think it would be possible for me to read something?” I ask after two days of binging on TV shows. “I love books, and I miss reading them.”
“What kind of books?” Lucas appears unusually interested.
“All kinds,” I answer honestly. “Romance, thrillers, science fiction, nonfiction. I’m not picky—I just love the feel of a book in my hands.”
“All right,” he concedes, and the next day, he takes me to a small room next to the bedroom. Like the rest of his home, it’s sparsely furnished. However, it’s much cozier, boasting a desk, three tall bookshelves filled with books, and a plush armchair next to a bay window that faces the forest.
“Is this your library?” I ask, surprised. I’ve always thought of my captor as a soldier, someone more interested in guns than books. It’s easier to imagine Lucas wielding a machete than peacefully reading in this room.
“Of course it’s mine.” Leaning against the door frame, he gives me an amused look. “Who else’s would it be?”
“And you’ve read all of these?” I approach the shelves, studying the titles. There must be hundreds of books there, many of them mysteries and thrillers. I also see a number of biographies and nonfiction works that range from popular science to finance.
“Most of them,” Lucas replies. “I tend to order in bulk, so I always have something new to read when I have downtime.”
“I see.” I don’t know why I’m so shocked to discover this aspect of him. I’ve always suspected that Lucas is keenly intelligent, but somehow I’ve let myself buy into the stereotype of a hardened mercenary, a man whose life revolves around weapons and fighting. The fact that he went straight from high school to the Navy only added to that impression.
I underestimated my opponent, and I need to be careful not to do that again.
Stopping in front of the bay window, I turn to look at him. “When did you manage to acquire all these books?” I ask. “I thought you spent a few years on the run after you left the Navy.”
Lucas’s gaze hardens for a second, but then he nods. “Yes, I did. I keep forgetting how much you know about me.” He crosses the room to stand in front of me. “I got most of these books within the past year, after Esguerra decided we should make this compound our permanent home. Before that, we were traveling all over the world, so I kept a few dozen of my favorites in storage. And before that, I didn’t own many belongings at all—made it easier to move around.”
“But that’s not what you want anymore,” I guess, studying him. “You want to own things, to have a home.”
He stares at me, then lets out a bark of laughter. “I suppose. I never thought of it that way, but yeah, I guess I got a little tired of never sleeping in the same bed twice. And owning things?” His voice deepens as his gaze travels over me. “Yeah, there’s something to that. I like having things I can call my own.”
My cheeks heat up as I look away, pretending I’m interested in the view outside the bay window. Lucas’s extreme possessiveness hasn’t escaped my notice. I know my captor believes he owns me, and for all intents and purposes, he does. He controls every aspect of my life: what I eat, when I sleep, what I wear, even when I go to the bathroom. When I’m not tied up, I’m with him, and for much of that time, we’re in bed, where he does whatever he pleases with me.
If I didn’t want him as intensely as he wants me, it would be hell.
“Yulia…” Lucas’s voice holds a familiar heated note as he steps behind me. His big hand gathers my hair to move it to one side, exposing my neck. Leaning down, he kisses the underside of my ear and slides his free hand under the man’s shirt I’m wearing as a dress. Delving between my legs, he finds my sex, and I can’t suppress a moan as he penetrates me with two fingers, stretching me for his possession.
And for the next hour, as Lucas fucks me bent over the arm of the chair, books are the furthest thing from our minds.
* * *
After that time in the library, the quality and variety of my entertainment improves. Instead of watching TV all day, I spend a portion of my alone time reading by the bay window. I also gain the concession of a more comfortable seat and having my hands handcuffed in the front—that way, I can actually hold and read a book. Every morning after breakfast, Lucas secures me to the armchair with ropes, leaving my handcuffed hands just enough range to turn the pages, and I read there until lunch, at which point he comes to feed me and let me stretch my legs.
“You know, I’m not a dog who uses the bathroom on a schedule,” I dare to complain one day. “What if I really have to go, and you’re not home?”
To my relief, he doesn’t point out how spoiled I’ve become. Instead, later that day, he gives me a small device that resembles an old-fashioned pager.
“If you press this button, I’ll get a text,” he explains. “And if I can, I’ll come to you. Or send someone else to help you.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling genuinely grateful and increasingly hopeful.
Maybe one day he really will let me go, or at least give me enough freedom to enable my escape.
Of course, I know I can’t rely on that. Every day, Lucas spends a portion of the mealtimes interrogating me, and even though I’ve successfully stonewalled him thus far, I’m afraid he’ll eventually lose patience and resort to more surefire methods of extracting information.
It hasn’t been that long, and I can already feel his frustration growing.
“You don’t owe them a damn thing,” he says furiously when I refuse to talk about the agency for the fifth time. “They took you when you were a fucking child. What kind of bastards send a sixteen-year-old to a corrupt city like Moscow and tell her to sleep her way to government secrets? Fuck, Yulia”—he slaps his palm on the table—“how can you be loyal to those motherfuckers?”
How, indeed. I want to scream at him, tell him that he doesn’t understand anything, but I remain silent, looking down at my plate. There’s nothing I can say that won’t expose Misha to danger and ruin his life. My loyalty is not to Obenko, the agency, or even Ukraine.
It’s to my brother—the only family I have left.
To my relief, Lucas lets my non-response slide, ultimately changing the topic to the plot of a post-apocalyptic thriller I read that day. We discuss it in great detail, as we frequently do with books and movies, and we both agree that the author did a good job of explaining why the scientists couldn’t prevent the Gray Goo from taking over the world. The meal concludes on an amicable note, but my determination to escape is reinforced.
Eventually, Lucas will get fed up with my silence, and I don’t want to be around when he does.
16
Yulia
As I plan my escape, I realize that I’m faced with three major obstacles: the fact that I’m tied up when Lucas is not around, the military-level security of the compound, and Lucas himself. Any of those three would be enough to contain me, but when all three are combined, escape is all but impossible.
On the surface, it shouldn’t be difficult. When Lucas is home, he usually keeps me untied, letting me eat at the table and even do a few stretches and body-weight exercises to keep fit. However, he always keeps a watchful eye on me during those times, and I know I won’t win in a physical battle with him. Even if I managed to grab a knife, he’d probably wrestle it away from me before I could inflict a serious injury. A gun would be a different matter, but I haven’t seen anything more deadly than a kitchen knife inside the house. I know Lucas usually carries weapons—I saw him with an assault rifle that first day—but he must leave them in the car or some other location outside.
Contrary to appearances, I’m more likely to escape when he’s not around.
To that end, every time Lucas ties me up, I test the rope to see if he left some slack in it, and every time, I discover he didn’t. The bo
nds are always just tight enough to keep me restrained without cutting off my circulation. I don’t want to leave betraying marks on my skin, so I don’t tug at the rope too hard. Even if I managed to get free, I’d still need to get past guard towers and through a jungle patrolled by Esguerra’s men and high-tech drones—assuming Lucas didn’t catch me before I got that far.
For me to stand a chance, I need my captor far away, and I need to know the patrol schedule.
I begin by trying to get the latter out of Lucas when we’re lying in bed, relaxed and satisfied after a lengthy sex session.
“How did you get this?” I ask as I trace my fingers over a bruise on his ribcage. “The compound wasn’t attacked, was it?”
My concern is only partially feigned; the idea of Lucas getting hurt in any way bothers me. He seems invulnerable, every inch of his body packed with hard muscle, but I know that won’t save him from a bomb or a gun. In his line of work, life expectancy is much shorter than average—a fact that makes me sick with worry when I dwell on it too much.
“No, nobody would attack the compound,” Lucas says, a smile curving his lips. “I got this bruise in training, that’s all.”
“I see.” Acting on some irrational impulse, I press a small kiss to the injured area before looking up to meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t someone attack the compound? Doesn’t your boss have a lot of enemies?”
“Oh, he does.” Lucas’s eyes darken as he slides his hand into my hair and guides me lower, toward his stomach. “But they would be suicidal to come here. The security is too tight. And now”—he pushes my head toward his rising erection—“I want something else that’s tight.”
Hiding my disappointment, I close my lips around his cock and apply the strong suction he likes.
Lucas is too smart to give me the security details I need—which means I’ll have to figure out something else.