Bind Me (Capture Me #2)

by Anna Zaires

  * * *

  Yulia is still reading when I step into my office, her blond head bent over the open pages of a Michael Crichton techno-thriller. She’s holding the book on her lap—the only position the ropes securing her to the armchair allow.

  At the sound of my entry, she looks up, her gaze filled with wariness. She’s expecting me to push for information, and her fear is like gasoline on the flames of my fury.

  Far be it from me to disappoint my prisoner.

  “Why are you protecting them?” I cross the room and stop in front of her. My voice is cold, though the anger coursing through my veins is hot enough to burn. “What do they mean to you?”

  Yulia’s gaze drops to my stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” I crouch in front of her, so we’re at the same eye level. Extending my hand, I grip her jaw and force her to look at me. “You don’t want us to go after your agency. Why?”

  She’s silent as she holds my gaze.

  “Is there someone there you’re protecting?”

  Her eyes widen slightly, and I catch a glimpse of panic in their blue depths. “No, of course not,” she says quickly.

  She’s lying. I know she is, but I play along. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

  “Because they don’t deserve your vengeance.” Her words tumble out, fast and desperate. “They were just doing their job, protecting our country.”

  “So it’s all about patriotism for you? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Of course.” A pulse is throbbing visibly in her throat. “Why else would I do this?”

  “Maybe because they took you when you were a fucking child.” My hand tightens on her jaw. “Because the only choice they gave you was to whore for them or rot in the orphanage.”

  Yulia flinches at my harsh words, her eyes filling with tears, and I stop, fighting a swell of rage. Realizing my fingers are digging into her skin, I unclench my hand and lower it to my lap. My palm immediately curls into a fist, and she shrinks back against the chair, as if afraid I’ll hit her.

  I relax my hand with effort. “Yulia.” I manage to moderate my tone. “They’re fucking monsters. I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

  She closes her eyes, and I see a tear trickling down her cheek. “It’s not that simple,” she whispers, opening her eyes to look at me again. “You don’t understand, Lucas.”

  “No?” Unable to resist, I raise my hand and wipe the streak of wetness off her face. My touch is almost gentle, the worst of my violent anger receding at the sight of her tears. “Then explain it to me, beautiful. Make me understand.”

  “I can’t.” Another tear escapes, undoing my work. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” There’s only one reason I can think of for her continued silence. My suspicions were correct. Yulia has someone there she’s protecting—someone she can’t tell me about because she knows what will happen if I learn of his existence.

  Because she knows he’ll die at my hand.

  She doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she says quietly, “May I please use the restroom? I really have to go.”

  I stare at her, my fury deepening. In less than five days, I’m going to Chicago, and I’m still no closer to getting real answers.

  I will never get any closer for as long as she loves him.

  As I look at her tear-streaked face, an idea comes to me, one I would’ve once dismissed as too cruel. Now, however, with this new knowledge fueling my rage, I can’t see any other way. I can’t keep Yulia locked up in my house forever; at some point, I’ll have to give her more freedom, and when I do, I need to be certain there’s nowhere she can run and hide.

  I need to make sure she can’t go back to him.

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out my switchblade and cut through her ropes while she watches me, pale and visibly terrified.

  Schooling my face into a hard, impassive mask, I take hold of her slim arm and pull her to her feet. “Let’s go,” I say, my voice like ice.

  As I lead her down the hallway, my resolve firms.

  It’s time for the gloves to come off.

  One way or another, Yulia is going to talk tonight.

  18

  Yulia

  My pulse hammers with anxiety as we walk silently to the bathroom. I can feel Lucas’s anger. It’s different from what I’ve seen from him before—colder and more controlled. He’s both furious and resolved, and that frightens me more than if he had just exploded at me.

  He lets me go into the bathroom alone as usual, and I close the door behind me, leaning against it to gather my thoughts and calm my frantic heartbeat. The food I ate at dinner is like a brick in my stomach. I haven’t felt the bite of terror in over a week, and I’ve forgotten how powerful it can be.

  He lied. He lied when he promised not to hurt me. I could see the dark intent on his face, feel the barely restrained violence in his touch.

  He’s going to do something to me tonight—something terrible.

  Feeling sick, I use the toilet and wash my hands, going through the motions despite my panic. The knowledge of Lucas’s betrayal is like a spear through my chest. In the beginning, I suspected he may be playing me, but as the days went on, I slowly began to lose my natural distrust of him, to believe that the bizarre domesticity of our arrangement might continue for some time.

  To hope he truly won’t hurt me.

  Dura. Dura, dura, dura. The Russian word for fool is like a jackhammer in my skull. How could I have been such an idiot? I know what Lucas is. I see the demons that drive him. My captor is a man who walked away from a good, safe home to embark on a life of danger and violence, and he didn’t do it out of love for his country.

  He did it because it’s his nature—because he needed to find an outlet for the darkness within.

  I’ve known others like him. My instructors. Obenko himself. They all share this trait, this inability to be part of a peaceful society and abide by its laws. It’s what makes them so good at their jobs—and so dangerous.

  When conscience is nonexistent, it’s easy to do what needs to be done.

  “Yulia.” A knock on the door startles me, and I realize I’ve just been standing there, absorbed in thought. “Are you done?” Lucas’s deep voice breaks my paralysis, and I spring into action, my fear drowned under a wave of adrenaline.

  “Almost,” I call out, raising my voice to be heard over the running water. “Just need to wash my face.”

  Leaving the faucet on to mask the sounds of my movements, I kneel and open the cabinet under the sink. There, among extra toilet paper rolls and tubes of toothpaste, is the object I hid for just such an eventuality.

  It’s a small metal fork I snitched from the kitchen two days ago, slipping it into my shorts pocket while Lucas was washing the dishes. He’d left it inside the kitchen drawer that holds napkins and other small items, likely without realizing it was there. I took it while getting fresh napkins for the table and hid it here, hoping I’d never need to use it.

  Well, I need it now. The little fork is not much of a weapon, but it’s sturdier than a plastic toothbrush.

  Ignoring the part of me that revolts at the idea of injuring Lucas, I take the fork, slip it into the back pocket of my shorts, and close the cabinet.

  I can’t allow him to break me.

  My brother’s life depends on it.

  * * *

  Lucas takes me to the bedroom, once again leading me there without speaking. I don’t make the mistake of jumping him as soon as I come out—I won’t catch him by surprise the second time. Instead, I walk as calmly as I can, trying not to focus on the little fork burning a hole in my pocket. I know Lucas always looks at my hands, so I keep them loose and relaxed at my sides, fighting the instinct that screams to protect myself, to strike now.

  “Strip,” Lucas says, stopping in front of the bed. His pale eyes are hooded as he releases my arm and steps back. I can feel the hung
er within him. It’s dark and potent, despite the cold anger evident in the hard lines of his face.

  This won’t be a tender lovemaking session. He’s going to hurt me.

  It takes everything I have to reach for the edge of my short tank top and pull it up over my head, baring my breasts to his gaze. My throat is so tight I can scarcely breathe, but I drop the tank top and face him without flinching. The worst thing I can do is show him how terrified I am—and how desperate.

  “The rest,” Lucas prompts when I pause. His expression is unchanging, but I see the growing bulge in his jeans. “Get it all off—or I will.” His arm muscles flex, betraying his impatience.

  I force my lips into a teasing smile. “Oh, yeah?” Slowly, very slowly, I reach for my zipper, praying that my hands don’t shake. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

  At my challenge, Lucas’s nostrils flare and he does precisely what I counted on.

  He reaches for me and hooks his fingers through the top of my shorts, yanking me against his hard body. I gasp playfully, as if excited by his roughness, and while he’s distracted, I slip my right hand into my back pocket, grab the fork, and strike.

  In a blur of motion, my hand flashes toward his face, the fork targeting his eye at the same time as my knee jerks up, aiming for his balls. Each injury might disorient him for a few crucial moments, and the two together should give me enough time to run.

  It should’ve worked—with any other man, it would’ve worked—but Lucas is not like any other man. As fast as I am, he’s even faster. In a split second, he jerks back. The fork grazes his cheekbone and my knee hits his inner thigh, and then he’s on me, twisting my right arm behind my back in a swift, merciless motion. His fingers squeeze my wrist, making my hand go numb. The fork slips out of my fingers, and in the next instant, I’m on my stomach on the bed, his big body pinning me down. I can feel his erection throbbing against my ass, sense the rage and lust radiating from him, and the old fear flares, the memories washing over me in a sickening tide.

  No. Please, no. I can’t move, can’t breathe. I’m pinned, helpless as rough male hands rip away my clothes. The man on top of me wants to punish me, to hurt me. I struggle, but I can’t do anything, and the dark panic engulfs me, sends me spinning out of control.

  “No, please, no!” I’m scarcely aware of my screams and cries, of the pleas that tear from my throat. All I can feel are his hands dragging my shorts down my legs and his knees digging into my thighs to hold me restrained. There’s no tenderness in his touch, nothing but raw, vengeful lust, and the terror is all-consuming as his fingers invade my body, thrusting in violently as I scream and sob in pain.

  “Stop, please stop!” It’s no longer Lucas on top of me, no longer the man who gave me pleasure. It’s the brutal monster of my nightmares, the one who ripped me apart body and soul. The edges of my consciousness recede, spiraling into the past. “Don’t! Please stop!”

  The monster doesn’t stop, doesn’t listen. “Who am I?” he growls, his fingers relentless. “What is my name?”

  “No, stop!” I thrash under him, mindless with fear. I don’t understand what he’s saying, what he wants from me. I need to get away. I need him to release me. “Let me go!”

  “Tell me my name, and I’ll stop.” There’s something wrong with that statement, something that should give me pause, but I can’t think, can’t concentrate on anything but the dark, swirling terror.

  “Let me go!”

  His fingers push in deeper, his voice hard and cruel. “Tell me my name.”

  “Kirill!” I scream, desperate for any hope, no matter how slim. I’d do anything, say anything to make him stop.

  He doesn’t stop. “My full real name.”

  “Kirill Ivanovich Luchenko!”

  “Who am I?”

  “My trainer!” The darkness consumes me, destroys me. “Please, stop!”

  “Your trainer where?”

  “At UUR!”

  “What is UUR?” His body presses down on me, suffocating me with its weight. “What does it stand for, Yulia?”

  “Ukrainskoye—” The oddity of it all finally penetrates my terror, and I freeze, my mind flitting in agony between the present and the past. It doesn’t make sense. Everything is different, everything is wrong. The fingers inside me are rough, but they’re not ripping me apart, and there’s no cologne.

  There’s no cologne.

  “What does it stand for?” the man repeats, and for the first time, I hear the strain in his familiar deep voice.

  A voice that’s speaking English.

  No. Oh God, no. The realization is like an arrow puncturing my lungs.

  It’s not Kirill on top of me.

  It’s Lucas.

  It’s always been Lucas.

  He made my nightmare come true, and I broke.

  I told him everything.

  19

  Lucas

  Yulia stills underneath me, her slim body wracked by violent tremors, and I know she’s no longer there, in that old place of her terrors.

  She’s back here with me.

  It should feel good, this victory. Her former trainer’s name and the agency’s initials are a solid lead. Our hackers will scour the net, and it’s only a matter of time before they locate Yulia’s bosses and her lover.

  I’ve fulfilled the task I set out to complete.

  Except for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a victory. My chest aches dully as I withdraw my fingers from Yulia’s body, and there’s an emptiness inside me, a void where rage and jealousy used to live.

  I hurt her. Not much—maybe not at all, in the physical sense. She hadn’t been totally dry, and I was careful not to injure her. But I hurt her nonetheless.

  I took the horror of her past and used it to break her. Knowing her fear of sexual violence, I let her get scared enough to attack, and then I retaliated in the way she dreads most.

  I recreated the conditions of her nightmare to bring back that terrified fifteen-year-old girl.

  “Yulia.” I move off her and sit up, the ache in my chest intensifying when she just lies there, trembling. Extending my hand, I gently stroke her back, unable to find the right words. Her skin is cold and clammy under my fingertips, her breathing unsteady. “Sweetheart…”

  She twists away, her body contorting into a small ball of naked limbs. Her shorts are still around her knees, but she doesn’t seem aware of that. She’s just rolling up tighter and tighter, as if trying to make herself disappear.

  “Come here, baby.” I can’t help reaching for her. She’s stiff as I draw her into my lap, every muscle in her body rigid with tension. I know my touch is the last thing she wants right now, but I can’t let her deal with this on her own.

  Even knowing about her love for another man, I can’t leave Yulia alone.

  Her face is wet against my shoulder as I hold her, stroking her back, her hair, the sleek muscles of her calves. The peach scent of her skin teases my nostrils, but my lust for her is muted for the moment, leaving me free to focus on her comfort. With her knees drawn up to her chest, Yulia seems no bigger than a child, her entire body fitting on my lap. Her fragility weighs on me, adding to the heavy pressure around my heart. I don’t know what to do, so I just hold her, letting my warmth soothe her chilled flesh. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t fight me, and it’s enough for now.

  It has to be enough.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur when her shaking begins to ease. The words probably sound as hollow to her as they do to me, but I persist, needing her to understand. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but we had to move past this standoff. You would’ve never trusted me enough to tell me about UUR. And now it’s over. It’s done. I promised I wouldn’t harm you if you talked, and I won’t. It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Once her lover is dead, she’s going to be mine and mine alone.

  Yulia doesn’t say anything, but after a few more minutes, her breathing normalizes and her shak
ing stops. Even her skin feels warmer, though her body is still rigid in my embrace.

  “Are you tired, baby?” I whisper, moving my hand over her back in small, soothing circles. “Do you want to go to sleep?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I feel her stiffening even more.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you,” I say, guessing at the source of her tension. “We’ll just go to sleep, okay?”

  Still no response, but I’m not expecting any at this point. Cradling her against my chest, I get up and carry her to her side of the bed, then gently place her on top of the sheets. Yulia immediately rolls away from me, wrapping herself in the blanket, and I let her be while I take off my clothes and get the handcuffs.

  Lying down beside her, I pull away the blanket and reach for her left wrist. “Come here, sweetheart. You know the drill.”

  She doesn’t resist when I snap the handcuffs around her wrist and mine. It should’ve been uncomfortable to sleep like this, with our left wrists locked together, but I’ve gotten so used to it that it feels entirely natural.

  As soon as I have Yulia secured, I pull her against my chest, holding her from the back. When my groin presses against her ass, I feel rough material against my bare cock and realize she managed to pull up her shorts while I was undressing. I consider letting her sleep like this, but after shifting a few times in search of a better position, I reach for the shorts’ zipper.

  “I’m just going to hold you,” I promise, tugging the shorts down her legs while she lies rigid and unresisting. “You’ll be more comfortable as well.”

  Kicking the shorts away, I pull her back into the spooning position, marveling at the perfect way her naked body fits into my arms. Before I met Yulia, I didn’t get the appeal of cuddling with a woman, but now I can’t imagine not holding her as I fall asleep.

  Of course, normally I hold Yulia after sex, I realize as my cock stiffens against her ass. Sleeping is a lot easier after I’ve fucked her a couple of times.