by Anna Zaires
“I lied,” she says. Then her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “But you said you knew. When I asked you not to kill him, you said you knew. What did you mean? Why did you—”
“I thought he was your lover, okay?” Anger—at myself this time—clips my words. “Why did you lie about being an only child?”
Yulia moistens her lips. “Because I didn’t trust you.”
Of course—and apparently, with good reason. I force myself to take another breath. In a calmer tone, I ask, “Are you hurt? Did that fucker hurt you?”
She stiffens again. “How do you—”
“I hacked into this facility’s video feed,” I say. Releasing her wrist, I raise my hand to run my fingertips over the swelling on the left side of her face. “Did he do this?” I ask, trying to suppress my fury. “Did he hit you?”
“He…” Yulia swallows. “I fought, so he hit me. Then you—” She stops. “How did you find this place?”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to be distracted. “Did he rape you?”
“He tried, but no.” Her gaze drifts down. “Not this time.”
“This time?” I all but explode on the spot. “He hurt you before?”
She looks up, seemingly startled. “I told you about that. You don’t remember?”
“That was—”
“Kirill, yes.” Her bruised lips flatten. “They lied to me about him. He was alive. Alive and training Misha…” She glances down at the boy, who’s been utterly silent during our conversation. I don’t know how much English he understands, but judging from the stunned look on his face, he must’ve gotten at least some of it.
I can see Yulia is about to start talking to him, so I grip her chin firmly to bring her attention back to me. “We’re going to get him,” I promise grimly. “He won’t get away this time.”
To my surprise, Yulia’s mouth curves in a small smile as I lower my hand. “It’s okay. I took care of him.”
“What?”
“He’s dead—or will be shortly, if he’s not already.” Yulia’s smile sharpens. “He’s in my cell. Or at least his body should be there.”
I’m about to tell her to take me there when Eduardo enters the room. “He’s gone,” the guard says with evident disgust. “The bastard somehow made it to one of the SUVs in the backyard and squealed out of here. There must’ve been another exit down here. He bled the whole way to the car, though, so he’s hurt pretty badly. Maybe he’ll bleed out on his own.”
Yulia’s eyebrows draw together. “Who are you—”
“He’s talking about Kirill.” I fight to keep my voice level. “I saw a shadow move in the hallway earlier, when you and Misha were doing your best to bash my head in. He must not have been hurt as badly as you thought, or else—”
“I shot his cock and balls off.” Yulia’s curt statement makes me—and all the other males in the room—flinch instinctively. “Also, I put a bullet in his side,” she says, and before anyone can respond, she rushes out of the room, running down the hallway toward her cell.
“Keep an eye on him,” I tell Eduardo, nodding at Yulia’s brother, and then I take off after her, determined not to let her out of my sight ever again.
25
Yulia
Lucas is here. He promised not to hurt my brother. Kirill might have escaped.
I can’t process any of it, so I don’t even try. As I burst into the cell where Kirill attacked me, I see right away that Eduardo was right.
Kirill is gone.
There’s blood all over the place. I turn to follow the trail leading out of the room, but Lucas is already there, looming in the doorway like a human mountain. His hard jaw is shadowed with blond stubble, and his eyes are the color of an iced-over lake. With his SWAT-like gear and machine gun, he looks like the ultimate merciless soldier.
I want to flee from him and jump into his arms at the same time.
I do neither. Instead, I say dully, “He’s gone.” I know I’m stating the obvious, but all forms of higher thinking seem to be beyond me at the moment. My head is throbbing with pain, and my knees feel like they might buckle at any moment. The adrenaline that sustained me during my fight with Lucas is gone, leaving me trembling in the aftermath.
Kirill almost raped me again. Lucas saved me. Lucas had thought Misha was my lover.
I shake my head, a hysterical laugh escaping my throat.
“Yulia…” Lucas reaches for me, frowning, and my laughter intensifies. I can’t stop laughing, not when he pulls me into his embrace, his M16 digging into my back, and not when he rocks me against him, whispering soothing nothings into my ear. He promises that he’ll find Kirill for me, that he’ll make sure the fucker suffers, but I’m not listening to him. My mind is like a ping-pong ball, leaping from one insane fact to the next.
Lucas is in Ukraine. My brother is here with me. Lucas doesn’t intend to kill him—though he did when he thought Misha was my lover.
My hysterical laughter turns into equally hysterical sobbing. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t stop. All the heartache and stress of the past few hours coalesce into an expanding ball in my throat, and no matter how much air I draw in, I can’t stop feeling like I’m suffocating.
Misha could’ve been killed. He could still be killed if Lucas changes his mind. I want to plead for my brother’s life again, but all I can manage is a choked sound that devolves into another sob.
“Hush, sweetheart, it’ll be all right…” Lucas’s voice is a soft rumble in my ear. “I’ll protect you from him, I promise.”
Bending down, he picks me up, cradling me against his chest, and I wind my arms around his neck, pressing my face into his throat. Almost instantly, I feel calmer, my sobs easing as he carries me down the hallway.
When we pass by the room where I left my brother, however, I see that it’s empty, and the choking sensation returns. “Where is he?” My voice takes on a higher pitch as I push at Lucas’s shoulders. “Where’s Misha?”
“I assume Eduardo brought him upstairs, which is where I’m taking you now,” Lucas says, pressing me tighter against him. “Don’t worry, baby. He’s going to be fine, and so will you.”
His words reassure me somewhat. I still don’t trust Lucas, but I don’t see what he has to gain by lying to me in this instance. As he told me, if he wanted Misha dead, he would’ve already killed him.
“What are you going to do with him?” My tone is a tiny bit calmer as I pull back to look at my captor. “With us, I mean?”
“You’re coming with me, and so is your brother.” Lucas’s eyes glitter as he takes the stairs two at a time. “Now relax—we’ll sort all the rest of it soon.”
And before I can ask anything else, he steps out into the ruins of the first floor of the house.
* * *
The next several hours are hazy in my mind. I recall seeing Obenko’s bloodied corpse as Lucas carried me out of the wreckage, but I must’ve passed out soon after that because I don’t remember the drive to the airport or the plane taking off. My last semi-clear recollection is of my brother sitting in the car next to me, his eyes red and swollen and his hands handcuffed behind his back.
A few times during the flight, Diego shakes me awake and makes me tell him my name and how many fingers he’s holding up. The first time that happens, I ask about my brother, and Diego points to a blanket-covered bundle on the couch across the cabin.
“We gave him a sedative so he wouldn’t keep fighting us,” the guard explains. “Your brother didn’t take the other agents’ deaths well.”
I try to get up to make sure Misha is all right, but my whole body lodges a violent protest, beginning with my skull, and I fall back into my plush seat with a pained groan, fighting a wave of nauseating dizziness.
“Don’t try to move,” Diego says, buckling me in with the seatbelt. “Lucas thinks you might have a concussion. He said I’m to watch over you while he’s flying the plane.”
“But Misha—”
“He’s fine.” Di
ego walks over and pokes Misha’s shoulder. My brother makes an incoherent noise, and the guard says, “See? He’s sleeping. Now relax. We’re already over the Atlantic and should be home soon.”
“Home?” I try to think through the throbbing pain in my temples.
“Our compound.” The young Mexican grins. “The wind is at our back, so we’ll be landing in no time.”
I want to argue that Esguerra’s compound is not my home, but the pain in my head intensifies, and I fade into unconsciousness again.
* * *
“—a lot of bruising on her back, face, and stomach, and yes, a mild concussion. I’m going to give her some pain medication, so she can rest comfortably. There’s no need to wake her up; it’s not that severe of a head injury. Her body’s just been through a trauma and needs to heal. The more she sleeps, the better. I suggest you take it easy as well; you’re not doing your ribs any favors with all this activity.”
The voice is somewhat familiar. Prying open my eyelids, I see Lucas standing next to a short, balding man—the doctor who inspected me when I was first brought to the estate. What was his name? Stifling a groan, I turn my head to take in my surroundings and realize I’m in Lucas’s bedroom, lying on his large comfortable bed.
I’m also clean and naked under the blanket. Lucas must’ve undressed and washed me while I was passed out.
“Where’s Misha?” My words come out in a barely audible croak. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Where’s my brother?” Judging by drawn shades and bedroom lights being on, it’s already evening or maybe even night.
Lucas and the doctor turn to face me at the same time. Lucas’s mouth is set in a hard line, but the moment I try to sit up, he crosses the room in a couple of strides and sits down on the edge of the bed. “You are to rest.” His tone is harsh, but his touch is gentle as he pushes me back down. “Don’t move.”
He starts to get up again, and I grab his hand in desperation. “I need to see Misha.”
Lucas hesitates for a moment, then says gruffly, “Fine. I’ll have him brought here. But you rest, understand?”
I tighten my grip on Lucas’s hand. “Where are you holding him?” Now that we’re out of immediate danger, a new fear takes hold of me. My brother is here, in Esguerra’s compound, in the hands of men who can snuff out his life as easily as squashing a bug. If I hadn’t stopped Lucas in that basement, he would’ve likely killed Misha—just as he’d killed Obenko and the other agents.
My captor is dangerous, and I can’t forget that.
“Misha—or Michael, as he told us he prefers to be called—is staying in the guards’ barracks,” Lucas says, his jaw muscle flexing. He seems angry about something, but I have no idea what. “Diego and Eduardo are keeping an eye on him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll call Diego and have your brother brought here.”
I release Lucas’s hand, and he gets up. “Give her the pain meds,” he instructs the doctor. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The man nods, and Lucas walks out after giving me one last hard look. Even with the pain squeezing my temples, I understand his silent warning:
Behave or else.
If he’d asked me, I could’ve told him that his caution is unwarranted. Not only am I feeling like a truck ran me over, but Lucas has my brother. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t go anywhere without Misha—which must be why Lucas had him brought here, I realize with a shudder.
“Here you go,” the doctor says, extending his hand toward me, and I automatically accept the two pills he gives me.
“Thank you, Dr. Goldberg,” I say, finally recalling his name.
The short man gives me a kind smile and helps me sit up, putting two pillows under my back as I clutch the blanket to my chest. He also gives me a bottle of water, which I use to wash down the pills. There’s no point in resisting; the pills might cloud my mind, but the headache is doing that already. Even after sleeping the whole trip, I feel sluggish and exhausted, my body aching all over.
“You should rest,” Dr. Goldberg says, then turns away to rummage in his bag as I tuck the blanket tighter around my naked chest, pinning it in place with my arms.
As if obeying his instruction, my eyelids get progressively heavier, my thoughts beginning to drift as the doctor stands there, quietly humming under his breath. I’m almost asleep when I suddenly remember something he said earlier.
“Is Lucas hurt?” I sit up straighter, my sleepiness fading in a rush of worry. “You mentioned his ribs.”
Dr. Goldberg turns around, eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh, that. Yes, cracked ribs take time to heal. He’s supposed to abstain from physical activity, not run around like Rambo.”
I frown. “When did he crack his ribs?” From the way the doctor is talking, it sounds like an older injury.
Dr. Goldberg gives me an owlish look. “You don’t know?” Then his face clears, and he shakes his head. “Of course you don’t know. What am I thinking?”
“Did something happen here?”
He hesitates, then says, “I think it’s best if Kent fills you in.”
“Fills her in on what?” Lucas asks, walking into the room, and I see my brother come in after him, his hands handcuffed in front of his body.
“Misha!” I almost jump from the bed, injuries be damned, but at the last moment, I remember that I’m naked under the blanket. Flushing, I tighten my arms at my sides and give my brother a smile instead. “How are you doing?” I ask in Russian. “Are you okay?”
Misha stares at me, and I see color creep up his neck as he glances from me to Lucas and then to Dr. Goldberg.
I turn to my captor. “Lucas, would it be possible—”
“You have five minutes,” he growls and strides out of the room. The doctor follows him out, closing the door behind him, and I find myself alone with my brother for the first time in eleven years.
26
Lucas
The moment the door to the bedroom closes, I turn to Goldberg and say, “Prepare the trackers. I want them implanted before you leave.”
The doctor blinks at me. “Tonight? But—”
“She’s already on pain meds, and as banged up as she is, she’ll hardly feel the discomfort.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You can use a local anesthetic to make sure there’s no pain when they go in.” Pausing, I frown at Goldberg. “Unless you think this will impede her recovery?”
“No, but…” He gives me a wary look. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”
“Excuse me?”
Goldberg sighs and says, “Never mind. I can see you’re set on this. I’ll prepare for the procedure.”
He walks over to the couch and sits, opening his doctor’s bag to take out a syringe with a thick needle and the sterilized implants I gave him earlier. The trackers are tiny, about the size of a grain of rice, but capable of transmitting a signal from anywhere in the globe. I watch him for a few moments, then walk over to the window and stare blindly outside, trying to contain the fury simmering in me.
Kirill escaped.
He hurt Yulia, and then he fucking escaped. I don’t know how he managed it—if Yulia was right about the damage she inflicted, he should’ve been at death’s door—but the fucker drove away in the SUV, and we couldn’t give chase without alerting the authorities to our presence in their country. As is, given all the explosions and gunfire, it was bound to be only a matter of time before we got in trouble. Our safest bet had been to hightail it out of the country as fast as we could, and that’s exactly what we did.
Of course, we only did that because Yulia had been injured, and I wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. Otherwise, I would’ve chased down the bastard and worried about getting out of the country later.
Thinking about that—about Yulia beaten and nearly raped—sends fresh rage surging through me. I don’t know which one of us I’m angrier at: Yulia for lying about being an only child and running away, or myself for not doing proper due diligence before jumping to concl
usions.
Misha is her brother, not her lover.
Her fucking teenage brother.
During the flight, I had time to think about everything, and in hindsight, it’s obvious how my jealousy had blinded me to the truth. The idea of Yulia in love with another man had been so intolerable I refused to listen to her pleas.
My obsession with her nearly got her killed.
“Lucas?” Goldberg’s voice cuts into my thoughts. When I spin around to glare at him, the doctor says cautiously, “I think their five minutes are up. If you want me to do the procedure, I’m ready.”
“All right.” I force my tone to even out. “Let’s go.”
Misunderstanding or not, Yulia won’t escape from me ever again.
27
Yulia
The second the door closes behind the doctor, I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, making sure the blanket covers my chest. My head pounds with the movement, but I say, “Mishen’ka—”
“It’s Mikhail—or Michael, since you’re so fond of the English language,” my brother snaps, his light-colored eyebrows drawing together in a ferocious frown. “I’m not a child.”
“No, I can see that.” Ignoring the throbbing in my temples, I study his features, noticing the changes brought about by adolescence. At fourteen, he’s already begun the transition into manhood, his face leaner and harder than I recall seeing in pictures as recent as from a few months ago.
Suppressing an irrational urge to cry, I begin again. “Michael”—the formal American version of his name feels foreign on my tongue—“I want to talk to you about… well, about everything.”
He just stands there, looking tense and angry, so I plow on. “I’m sorry about Obenko—your uncle, that is. I know he meant a lot to you. And Mateyenko… They were good agents. They truly cared about their country, and I know Obenko cared about you…” I realize I’m rambling, so I take a breath and say, “Listen, I know the men holding us seem scary, but I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. Lucas said he won’t hurt you, and I—”