Bind Me (Capture Me #2)

by Anna Zaires

  * * *

  As the days drag on without me getting any closer to a viable escape plan, I console myself with the knowledge that I’m using the time to recover from my ordeal at the Russian prison and rebuild my strength. Between sitting most of the day and consuming every bite of food—no matter how boring—Lucas puts in front of me, I’m steadily putting on weight, my body regaining the curves it lost during my weeks of near-starvation. By the time I’ve been in Lucas’s house nine days, I’m no longer a skeleton—and I’m desperate for something other than sandwiches and cold cereal with milk.

  “You know, you seriously should let me try cooking,” I say after yet another sandwich for lunch. “I can make omelets, soup, chicken, lamb, mashed potatoes, salad, rice, dessert—anything you want, really. If you don’t trust me with a knife, you can help me by cutting things up. I’ll just add seasoning and things like that. You’ll be perfectly safe—unless you store rat poison in your kitchen.”

  He laughs, making me think he’s going to ignore my offer, but that afternoon, he brings in several boxes of food, including all kinds of fruits and vegetables, two types of fresh fish, several whole chickens, a dozen lamb chops, and an entire collection of spices.

  “Where did all of this come from?” I ask, eying the bounty in astonishment. There’s enough in those boxes to feed five people—assuming one knows how to prepare it all, of course.

  “Esguerra gets weekly deliveries, so I took some for us,” Lucas says. “I figure it’s time to test your cooking skills.”

  I can’t conceal my startled joy. “You’d trust me to cook?”

  “I’d trust you to direct me.” He grins. “You’ll sit there”—he points at the kitchen table—“and tell me exactly what to do. I’ll follow your orders, and who knows? Maybe I’ll learn something.”

  “Okay,” I agree, more than a little excited by the prospect of ordering Lucas about. “I can do that. Let’s start by putting everything away, and tonight, we’ll make lamb chops with garlic-dill potatoes and green salad.”

  17

  Lucas

  As I peel potatoes and chop garlic under Yulia’s guidance, she lounges in the kitchen chair, her blue eyes bright with amusement.

  “You know you don’t have to take half the potato off with the skin, right?” Grinning, she glances at the pile of mangled potatoes on the counter. “Haven’t you ever done this before?”

  “No,” I say, doing my best not to cut too deeply into my current root vegetable. It’s harder than it seems. “And now I know why.”

  “They didn’t make you peel potatoes in the Navy?”

  “No, that’s a thing of the past. We had private contractors who handled the mess halls.”

  “I see. Well, you need a potato peeler,” she says, crossing her long legs. “Like with everything else, a specialized tool helps.”

  “A peeler. Got it.” I make a mental note to order one. I also do my best to keep my eyes off those bare, distracting legs. Four days ago, I finally got Yulia some clothes of her own, but they’re of the skimpy summer variety, and I’m now realizing my mistake.

  In a white midriff-baring top and tiny jean shorts, Yulia’s no-longer-starved body is impossible to ignore.

  “Okay, that’s enough potatoes, I think,” she says, getting up. Her flip-flops—the only shoes I got her—make a slapping noise on the tile floor as she comes toward me. “Now we need to take the garlic, mix it with dill, salt, and pepper, and place everything on a frying pan. You have oil, right?”

  “Oil. Check.” I grab a bottle of olive oil from a cabinet to my left. “Do I pour it over the potatoes?”

  She props her hip on the edge of the countertop. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  I frown, not appreciating the mockery.

  She bursts out laughing. “Lucas, seriously. Have you never fried anything in your life?”

  “Nothing that was edible afterwards,” I grudgingly admit. “I may have tried it once or twice and given up.”

  “Okay.” Yulia manages to stop laughing long enough to explain, “You pour oil into the frying pan. No, not so much—” She seizes the bottle from me before I can pour out more than a quarter of its contents. Laughing hysterically, she grabs a paper towel and dips it in the oil, mopping up the excess. “We’re not deep-frying the poor potatoes,” she explains when she’s able to talk again.

  “All right,” I say, watching as she picks up the potatoes and the garlic and deposits everything into the oiled pan. Her movements are fast and sure, her slim hands moving with graceful economy.

  She wasn’t lying when she said she knows what she’s doing.

  “I wish we had fresh dill,” she says, grabbing one of the bottles from the spice rack. “But I think the dried one will also work. Next time, if you like this dish, do you think you could get us some fresh herbs?”

  “Sure.” Fresh herbs. I make another mental note. “I can get us anything.”

  “Great. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll season this myself. The potatoes won’t be any good if you dump the entire salt shaker in.” She looks like she’s about to start laughing again.

  “Be my guest,” I say, moving the knife I used to peel the potatoes behind me. “This mess is all yours.”

  And for the next half hour, I watch as Yulia whirls around the kitchen, humming under her breath. She seasons and fries the potatoes, bathes lamb chops in some kind of marinade, and washes greens for the salad. She’s practically vibrating with excited energy, and for the first time, I realize how little I’ve seen this side of her—how subdued she usually is in my presence.

  It’s not surprising, of course. Though I haven’t hurt her, she’s my prisoner, and I know she still doesn’t trust me. No matter how much I push for answers, she either changes the topic or refuses to respond. It frustrates me, but I force myself to remain patient.

  Once Yulia realizes I truly don’t intend to harm her, she’ll hopefully see the light and give up the people who fucked up her life. For now, all I can do is keep her reasonably comfortable—and restrained—until the trackers I ordered arrive.

  “All done,” she says when the oven alarm goes off. Smiling brightly, she bends to take out the lamb chops, and my cock hardens at the sight of her ass in those tiny shorts.

  If the lamb didn’t smell so delicious, I would’ve dragged Yulia to bed right then and there.

  As it is, while she carries the dish to the table, I have to take several deep breaths to control myself. It’s ridiculous. I’ve always had a strong sex drive, but around Yulia, I’m like a randy teenager watching his first porn. I want to fuck her all the time, and no matter how often I take her, the desire doesn’t diminish.

  If anything, it grows stronger.

  It takes a few more breaths before my erection subsides enough for me to help her set the table. By then, Yulia’s got the salad arranged prettily in a bowl and the frying pan with the potatoes sitting on a neatly folded towel in the middle of the table. I presume the latter is to keep the hot pan from burning the table surface—a clever solution my parents’ housekeeper used as well.

  Finally, we both sit down to eat.

  “Yulia, this is amazing,” I say after demolishing half of my plate in under a minute. “The best I’ve had in a long, long time.”

  She gives me a happy smile and picks up her lamb chop. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? I love it.” I can’t remember the last time I had a meal this satisfying. The savory potatoes are perfect with the rich lamb and the crisp, lemony greens of the salad. “If I could eat this three times a day, I would.”

  Yulia’s smile widens. “Good. I thought about making dessert too, but I figured we’ll be too full from this. We’ll just have some grapes instead.”

  “Whatever you say,” I mumble through a mouthful of potatoes. “It’s all good.”

  She laughs and digs into her own food. We eat in easy, companionable silence, and when most of the food is demolished, I put away the leftovers and wa
sh the dishes. I do it automatically, without thinking, and it’s only when I sit down to eat the grapes that it strikes me how content I feel.

  No, more than content.

  I’m fucking happy.

  Between the meal, Yulia’s bright smile, and the anticipation of taking her to bed, I’m thoroughly enjoying this evening. And it’s not just today, I realize as I grab a handful of grapes.

  This past week, ever since I decided to keep Yulia, has been my happiest in recent memory.

  “So, Lucas,” Yulia says before I can digest the revelation, “tell me something…” Her soft lips twitch with a poorly suppressed smile. “How did you get this far in life without ever peeling a potato?”

  I pop a grape into my mouth as I consider her question. “I suppose I had a pampered upbringing,” I say after swallowing the grape. “We had a housekeeper, so neither of my parents did any chores, and they didn’t force me to do them. Later on, when I was in the Navy, we ate whatever was served to us, and after that…” I shrug, recalling the hardscrabble days of camping out in the jungle with small groups of men as lawless and desperate as myself. “I guess I just saw food as sustenance. As long as I didn’t go hungry, I didn’t think about it much.”

  “I see.” She eyes me thoughtfully. “What made you decide to leave home? It’s a big leap to go from a family with a housekeeper to enrolling in the Navy.”

  “I suppose it was.” My parents certainly thought I’d gone insane. “It just seemed like the right thing to do at that point in my life.”

  “Why?” Yulia seems genuinely puzzled. “You don’t have a draft in the United States. Did you feel called to defend your country?”

  I chuckle. “Something like that.” I’m not about to tell her about the thug I killed in that Brooklyn subway station, or the sick rush I got from seeing his blood spill over my hands. She already fears me; she doesn’t need to know I became a killer at seventeen.

  “That’s very admirable of you,” Yulia says, and I can hear the skepticism in her voice. “Very self-sacrificing.”

  “Yeah, well, someone had to do it.” I bite on another grape, letting the cold, sweet juice trickle down my throat. I want her to drop this topic, so I add, “Just like someone had to be a spy, right?”

  Predictably, she clams up, her face assuming the shuttered expression she always wears when I get too close to that subject. “Would you like some tea?” she asks, rising to her feet. “I saw there was some Earl Gray in one of those boxes.”

  I lean back in my chair, watching her. “Sure.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had tea, but I got it because I remembered Yulia drinking it at the Moscow restaurant where we first met. “I could go for a cup.”

  She puts on some water to boil and readies two cups for us, her movements as graceful as usual. Everything about her is graceful, reminding me of a dancer.

  “Did you ever do ballet?” I ask as the thought occurs to me. “Or is that a stereotype about Eastern European girls?”

  Yulia turns to face me with a cup in each hand. “It is a stereotype,” she says, her tense expression fading. “In my case, though, it’s true. My parents had me take ballet lessons from the time I was four. They thought it would help me overcome my shyness.”

  “You were shy as a child?”

  “Very.” She walks back to the table. “I wasn’t a cute kid—far from it. Other children often mocked me.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine you as anything but beautiful.” I accept the cup Yulia hands to me. “How does one go from a not-cute kid to the hottest woman I’ve ever seen?”

  Warm color sweeps over her high cheekbones. “I’m not exactly Helen of Troy.” She sits down, cradling her cup. “My mom was pretty, though, so I think I got some of her genes. They just kicked in later, after I went through puberty. Oh, and braces helped, too.” She gives me a wide smile that shows off her straight white teeth.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I say wryly. “Total ugliness to total gorgeousness, just like that.”

  She shrugs, blushing again, and I have a sudden mental image of her as that shy child.

  “I bet you were cute,” I say, studying her. “All that blond hair and big blue eyes. You just didn’t realize it. That’s why they took you from the orphanage, isn’t it? Because they saw your potential?”

  Yulia stiffens, and I know I ventured too close to the forbidden subject again. My mood darkens as I reflect on the fact that over the last several days, I’ve made zero progress with her. She may smile at me, cook for me, and willingly take me into her body, but she still doesn’t trust me one bit.

  “Yulia.” I move my tea to the side. “You know this can’t go on forever, right? You’re going to have to talk to me one day.”

  She looks down into her cup, her body language all but screaming for me to back off.

  “Yulia.” Holding on to my temper by a thread, I get up and walk over to pull her to her feet. Holding her arms, I stare into her mutinous gaze. “Who are they?”

  She remains silent, her thick eyelashes lowering to conceal her thoughts.

  “Why won’t you tell me about them?”

  She doesn’t answer, her eyes trained somewhere on my neck.

  My grip on her arms tightens, and she flinches, tensing in my hold. Realizing I’m inadvertently hurting her, I force myself to unlock my fingers and drop my hands. I’m getting angry, which is not good. The fact that I’m not willing to torture her means I have to gain her trust to get answers, and this is not the way to do it.

  Taking a breath to regain control, I lift my hand and tuck her hair behind her ear, being careful to keep the gesture gentle and nonthreatening. “Yulia.” I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “Sweetheart, they don’t deserve your loyalty. They ruined your life. What they did to you was wrong, don’t you see that? I told you I’ll protect you—from them and from anyone else who wants to harm you. You don’t have to be afraid to talk to me. I’m not going to turn on you once I have this information—you have my word on that.”

  Her eyelashes sweep up as she meets my gaze. “So what are you going to do if I tell you about them? What’s going to happen to the agency?”

  I suppress my pleased smile. This is the closest she’s come to giving in. “We’re going to take care of them.”

  “The way you took care of Al-Quadar?” Her eyes are wide with what appears to be curiosity and hope. “You’ll wipe them out?”

  “Yes, you’ll be safe from them. By the time we’re done, nobody connected to the organization will be around to hurt you.” I intend my words as a reassurance, a promise of better things to come, but as I speak, I see color leaching from Yulia’s face.

  She steps out of my reach, her lashes descending to hide her gaze again, and a sudden suspicion stirs within me.

  “Yulia.” I catch her arm as she turns away. Spinning her around to face me, I stare at her pale face. “Are you protecting them? Are you protecting someone there?”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the tension on her face, the fear that she’s trying so hard to hide. This goes beyond simple loyalty to an employer, beyond concern for coworkers.

  She’s terrified for them—like someone would be for a person one loves.

  Stunned, I release her arm and step back. I don’t know why this possibility never occurred to me. I’d been so hung up on the idea that they fucked up her life, I never wondered whether there might be someone Yulia cares about in Ukraine.

  Whether she might have a lover who’s not an assignment.

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the evening functioning on autopilot. Esguerra and I have another late-night call with Asia, so I tie Yulia up in my office, letting her read while I take care of business. She’s unusually wary around me, watching me like I might attack her at any moment, and her fear adds to the rage bubbling deep within my chest. It takes everything I have to hand her a book and walk out of the room without grabbing her and demanding answers.

  W
ithout resorting to violence that I can’t and won’t use on her.

  As I listen to our Malaysian suppliers argue over the quality of the latest batch of plastic explosives, I try to keep my thoughts from straying to my captive, but it’s impossible. Now that the idea is lodged in my mind, I can’t push it away.

  A lover. A man Yulia cares about and wants to protect.

  The mere thought of that fills me with murderous fury. Who is he? Another operative from her agency? Someone she met during her training, perhaps? It’s not out of the question. She would’ve been very young when she met him, but girls that age fall in love all the time. He could’ve been another trainee, someone she felt close to because they shared the same experiences. Or he might’ve been older—an instructor or an already-trained agent. Kirill couldn’t have been the only one who noticed the ugly duckling blossoming into a swan.

  The more I think about it, the more likely it seems. They could’ve met during her training and continued their romance later on. Just because Yulia’s job involved getting close to men for information doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had a genuine relationship on the side. And if she did have one, another agent would’ve been the most logical choice for a lover. Someone from her organization would’ve understood her profession, forgiven her for doing what she had to do.

  Accepted that she let me fuck her while she was in love with him.

  The pencil I’ve been toying with during the call snaps in my hands, the crack startlingly loud in the pause during the conversation. Esguerra lifts his eyebrows, shooting me a cool glance, and I force my hands to unclench from the broken pieces of the pencil.

  I can’t give in to this anger. I can’t allow myself to lose control. I need to figure out a new strategy, something that doesn’t rely on Yulia ultimately trusting me.

  If I’m right about her lover, she’ll never give me the answers I seek.

  She’ll protect her agency because he’s part of it.