by Anna Zaires
I lick my cracked lips. “Yes. And maybe something like a sandwich?”
His eyebrows lift. “Really? A sandwich? You must be on the mend. How about eggs? I tried making an omelet recently, and it didn’t come out awful.”
“You did?” I stare at him. “Okay, sure, I’ll gladly have some eggs.”
Lucas smiles and disappears through the doorway. Twenty minutes later, he comes back carrying a tray with a delicious-smelling omelet and a steaming cup of Earl Grey.
“Here we are,” he says, placing the tray on the nightstand and picking up the plate with the fork. Spearing a piece of omelet, he holds up the fork and commands, “Open up.”
“I can feed myself,” I begin, reaching for the plate, but he moves it out of my reach.
“Too weak to swat a fly, remember?” He gives me a steely look. “Now sit back and open your mouth.”
Sighing, I obey, feeling uncomfortably like a two-year-old as Lucas sits on the edge of the bed and feeds me with the nonchalant efficiency of a nurse. However, the glint in his eyes is distinctly un-nurselike, and to my shock, I realize he’s enjoying this on some level.
He likes me helpless and dependent on him.
To test my theory, I watch him closely the next time he brings the fork to my mouth. And there it is: the moment my lips close around the fork, his gaze dips to my mouth and lingers there, his hand tightening on the handle of the utensil. The blanket bunched around my lap is blocking his lower body from my view, but I suspect that if I checked, I’d find him hard, his thick cock bursting out of the confines of his jeans.
A spiral of heat snakes down my spine, and my nipples tighten under the blanket. My body’s reaction catches me off-guard. I’m hardly in shape to be thinking about sex. Nonetheless, I’m cognizant of a growing slickness between my thighs as Lucas continues feeding me, leaning over me each time he brings the food to my lips.
The omelet is good—Lucas really did learn how to make it—but I barely register the rich, savory flavor, all my focus on the twisted eroticism of the situation. In a way, Lucas’s insistence on taking care of me is an extension of his desire to possess me, to control me completely. Weak and ill, I’m at his mercy more than ever, and for some perverse reason, the knowledge turns both of us on.
Before long, the omelet is gone, and I slump back against the pillows, equal parts stuffed and exhausted by the simple act of eating. Arousal or not, I’m still not well. Lucas puts a straw in my tea and lets me drink down half a cup, and then I fade out again, my body demanding yet more rest.
* * *
When I wake up again, I feel moderately stronger, and I remember some of the nightmares I had during the night.
“Can I please see my brother?” I ask Lucas when he brings me a sandwich and a bowl of soup. “I’d really like to talk to him.”
Lucas shakes his head. “You’re not well enough yet.”
“I’m fine. Please, I really need to talk to him.” I put my hand on Lucas’s thigh, feeling the hard muscle through the rough material of his jeans. “I just want to see him with my own eyes.”
“I don’t want you to tire yourself out,” Lucas says, but I can tell he’s wavering.
“How about this?” I push myself up to a straighter sitting position. “I’ll eat, and then if I don’t fall back asleep, you’ll let him come by. Just for a little while. Please, Lucas.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ll eat, and I’ll think about it.”
I nod eagerly and dig into my sandwich, consuming it in several big bites. Lucas insists on feeding me the soup himself, his pale eyes heavy-lidded as he brings the spoon to my mouth. I don’t object; I’m too excited by the idea of seeing Misha, and I don’t mind this weird kink my captor seems to have developed. Also, I don’t want Lucas to realize that I’m not as recovered as I thought. Once again, eating has tired me out, and I’m beginning to feel uncomfortably warm, as though the fever is returning.
Fortunately, Lucas doesn’t catch on to that, so when I don’t fall asleep immediately after my meal, he messages Diego to bring Misha to see me.
“I’m going to give you ten minutes with him,” Lucas says, dressing me in one of his T-shirts. “But the second you feel tired—”
“I’ll end it and rest,” I say, curving my lips in what I hope is a bright, healthy smile. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”
Lucas frowns as he feels my forehead, but at that moment, there is a knock on the door.
My brother and Diego are here.
“Ten minutes,” Lucas warns, tucking the blankets around me. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”
I nod. “Can you please put a chair a few feet away from the bed? I don’t want Misha to catch this bug.”
Lucas does as I ask before leaving the room, and a few moments later, my brother walks in.
“How are you feeling?” he asks in Russian as soon as he enters the bedroom, and I put my hand up, not wanting him to get too close. Though I suspect I’m past the contagious stage of this illness, I still feel more like a germ-infested rag than a person.
“I’ve been better,” I say, waving Misha toward the chair Lucas prepared for him. My skin is hurting again, but my brother doesn’t need to know that. “How are you? How are they treating you?”
Misha hesitates, then shrugs. “All right, I guess.” He sits down in the chair, and I notice that his hands are not handcuffed this time.
“They let you walk around untied?” I ask, surprised, and my brother nods.
“They don’t leave me alone with weapons, and I’m handcuffed at night, but yeah, I have some freedom.”
“Good.” I rack my brain for a good place to start, then decide to just come out with it. “Michael,” I say quietly, “where are your adoptive parents? How did you end up with UUR?”
He gives me a stony look. “Uncle Vasya said he told you everything.”
“He told me… some things. But I’d like to hear it from you.” After Obenko’s betrayal, I have zero trust in my former boss’s version of the story. “Do your parents know what you were doing? Did they agree to your training?”
Misha looks at me silently.
“Mishen’ka…” My bones ache as I sit up straighter. “All I want is to know a little bit about your life. You have no reason to believe me, but eleven years ago, I made a bargain with Vasiliy Obenko—your Uncle Vasya. I promised him I’d join UUR in exchange for his sister adopting you and providing you with a good life. That’s why I left: because I wanted you to have the kind of life we had before our parents were killed, the kind of life I couldn’t provide for you in the orphanage…”
As I speak, Misha shakes his head. “You’re lying,” he says, jumping to his feet. “You left. Uncle Vasya told me you joined the program because you didn’t want the responsibility of a baby brother… because you were tired of being in the orphanage. He felt bad that you left me behind, and he told Mom about me and then…” He stops, his chest heaving. “He wouldn’t have lied to me about this. He wouldn’t have.” He repeats that as if trying to convince himself, and I realize that my brother is not as sure of Obenko as he appears. Has he already had a chance to witness the man’s ruthlessness?
“I’m sorry,” I say, lying back against the pillows as my brief burst of energy wanes. “I wish that were true, but for your uncle, his country always came first. You know that, don’t you?”
Misha’s lips flatten, and he shakes his head again. “No. He said you’re good at twisting things.”
“Misha…”
“It’s Michael.” He folds his arms across his chest. “And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Okay.” I’m still too sick to argue with a traumatized teenager. “Just tell me one thing… Are they good people, those adoptive parents of yours? Did they treat you well?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Misha nods and sits down in the chair. “They did—they are.” His gaze softens a little. “Mom makes potato pancakes on the weekends, and Dad plays tab
le tennis. He’s really good at it. I used to play with him every evening when I was little.”
Tears of relief fill my eyes at the genuine emotion in his voice. Whatever caused him to end up in UUR, Misha loves his adoptive parents—loves them like I loved our Mom and Dad.
“Do you see them often?” Now that my brother is actually speaking to me, I find myself desperate to hear more about his life. “Since you started training, I mean? Are you staying at the dorms, or do you still live at home? What do your parents think of you doing this?”
Misha blinks at my rapid-fire questions. “I… I see them once a month now,” he answers slowly. “And yes, I’m staying at the dorms. Mom didn’t want that, but Uncle Vasya said it would be best, said it would help me with the transition and everything.”
I nod encouragingly, and he continues after a brief pause. “They’re mostly okay with me joining the agency. I mean, they understand that we serve our country.” His gaze slides away as he fidgets in the chair, and I read between the words.
His parents might’ve understood, but they were less than happy to have their adolescent son recruited to the cause.
“Do you think they’re worried about you?” Ignoring my growing exhaustion, I push myself to an upright sitting position again. “Would they have heard about what happened?”
“They—” His voice cracks as he looks back at me, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, I think they must know by now. Someone would’ve notified Mom about Uncle Vasya.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.” I bite my lip. “I’m really sorry that it happened like that. Believe me, if I could undo it—”
“Don’t.” Misha stands up, his hands clenched. “Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not—”
“That’s enough.” Lucas’s voice is knife sharp as he enters the room, approaching my brother with furious strides. “I told you, you’re not allowed to upset her.” Grabbing Misha by the back of his shirt, he drags him toward the door, growling, “She’s sick. Which part of that don’t you understand?”
“Lucas, stop.” I throw off my blanket, my pulse leaping in sudden fear. “Please, he didn’t do anything.”
Lucas instantly lets go of Misha and crosses the room toward me as I swing my feet to the floor, about to get up despite a wave of dizziness.
“What are you doing?” Glaring at me, he grabs my legs and places them back on the bed, forcing me back into the half-sitting position on the pillows before caging me between his arms. His eyes gleam with fury as he leans in, his face centimeters from mine. “You are to rest, understand?”
“Yes.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
Apparently that satisfies Lucas, because he straightens and turns toward my brother. “Let’s go,” he says, jerking his thumb toward the door, and Misha shoots me an apologetic look before exiting the room ahead of Lucas.
Exhausted, I slide down the pillows and close my eyes.
My brother is all right for now, but this is no place for him. I need to get him back to his parents.
He has to go home.
33
Lucas
After I escort Michael out of the house and hand him over to Diego, I return to the bedroom to find Yulia asleep again. Though the bruises from Kirill’s assault are barely visible now, deep blue shadows lie under her eyes, and her face is pale and thin. She lost weight during the illness, and she once again looks disturbingly fragile, like a glass figurine that could shatter at the slightest touch.
I must be a pervert, because I want her anyway.
Taking a deep breath, I undress and climb into bed beside her. The pillows are all bunched up, so I arrange them more comfortably and lie down, pulling her against me. She’s still wearing the T-shirt, but I don’t mind the barrier between our bodies.
It keeps my lust for Yulia under control, helps me maintain the illusion that I’m a dispassionate caretaker rather than a man who’s had to jerk off twice a day for the past week.
Last night, I didn’t sleep, so I should be out like a light, but I’m wide awake as I feel the heat rising off her skin again. The fucking fever is back. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Yulia, but I couldn’t resist the plea in her big blue eyes. I still don’t know the full story with her brother—the boy refuses to answer any questions—but I know she loves him.
She ran away to save him from me.
Closing my eyes, I berate myself for the hundredth time for not listening to her. Over the past several days, I’ve had a chance to replay our pre-escape conversations in my mind, and I see that I have no one but myself to blame for the misunderstanding. If I’d let Yulia speak, I would’ve known who Misha was, and I would’ve promised not to harm him.
Even I have limits.
Yulia mumbles something in her sleep, burrowing closer to me, and I kiss the delicate shell of her ear, my chest tightening as I feel her burning skin. She’s not nearly as sick as last night, but she’s still far from well.
Carefully disentangling myself from her, I go to the bathroom and return with a cool wet towel. When I remove the T-shirt and run the towel over her body, Yulia wakes up, blinking at me with dazed blue eyes, but before I’m done wiping her down, she falls asleep again.
I turn off the light and get in bed beside her again, pulling her into my arms. My body heat is not optimal right now, but I’ve noticed she sleeps better when I’m holding her. She’s less prone to nightmares that way.
Closing my eyes again, I try not to think about the source of her nightmares, but it’s impossible. Yulia’s illness has derailed my normal work routine, but I’ve made sure that the search for Kirill is proceeding uninterrupted. Unfortunately, other than some vague rumors and a few false leads, there’s been nothing in the past few days. It’s like the bastard just vanished. It’s feasible he didn’t survive his wounds, but in that case, we should’ve found a body or heard something about a funeral.
No, my gut instinct tells me Yulia’s former trainer is alive—likely in horrendous pain, but alive. I’ll have to step up my efforts to find him when Yulia is well.
First, though, I need to get her well.
Kissing her temple, I snuggle her closer, ignoring the lust stiffening my cock. With any luck, Yulia’s improved appetite means she’s on the mend, and I will soon have her strong and healthy again.
If not, Goldberg will wish he’d never been born.
* * *
To my relief, over the next two days, Yulia’s recovery continues with no further relapses. Her appetite returns with a vengeance, and I find myself scouring the Internet for simple but nutritious recipes. I’m still pretty terrible in the kitchen, but I’ve discovered that with enough focus and concentration, I can make basic dishes by following instructions and watching online videos—something I’ve never been motivated to do before. But with Yulia completely dependent on me, it feels wrong to feed her only sandwiches and cereal.
I want her to eat well so she regains her health.
“What are you doing, man?” Diego asks when he enters my kitchen and sees me chopping up vegetables for stew. “I’ve never seen you cook before.”
“Yeah, well, I’m expanding my skill set,” I say, depositing all the vegetables into a large pot before glancing at my open laptop for the next step in the process. “It’s never to late to learn, right?”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Diego gives me a dubious look. “Why didn’t you just ask Esguerra’s housekeeper to make some extra food for you? She usually doesn’t mind.”
“I’m not Ana’s favorite person right now,” I say, carefully measuring out a teaspoon of salt. “You know, with Rosa and all.”
“Oh, right.” Diego sits down at the table and watches me with evident fascination. “She’s pretty upset about the whole thing, huh?”
“You could say that again.”
Though Nora’s intervention saved Rosa from our interrogation and subsequent punishment, the maid has been under house arrest for the past week while Esguerra is deciding what to do
with her. If it weren’t for Nora’s friendship with the girl, it would’ve been easy, but Esguerra doesn’t want to upset his wife by executing her close friend.
Besides, neither one of us is completely certain that Nora told the truth, which means there’s still a chance the maid could’ve been working for someone else.
Now that Yulia is feeling better, I’m going to question her about that—and about everything else.
“So that’s it? You’re a master chef now?” Diego says as I pour the suggested amount of water into the pot and cover it before turning on the stove. “Does that mean Eduardo and I can come over for dinner?”
“Fuck, no. Make your own damned stew.”
Diego bursts out laughing, but quickly sobers up when I turn to face him.
“Enough chitchat,” I say, wiping my hands on a paper towel. “Fill me in on the new trainees and where we are with the recruiting efforts.”
The guard launches into his daily report, and I sit down at the table, keeping an eye on the pot to make sure it doesn’t boil over.
* * *
When the stew is done, I check on Yulia and find her napping in the armchair in the library, dressed in another one of my T-shirts. I brought her here after lunch when she insisted on getting up, claiming she was tired of lying in bed all day. Judging by the book on her lap, she fell asleep while reading.
Frowning, I brush my hand over her forehead to check for fever. To my relief, her skin feels normal to the touch. She’s still not fully recovered, but Goldberg was right not to let me panic.
I glance at the clock.
Four p.m. Plenty of time before dinner.
Making a decision, I quietly exit the room and head outside. I need to do my rounds with the guards and catch up with Esguerra. With any luck, Yulia will nap for the next couple of hours while I do some work, and then we’ll have a nice meal together—our first normal meal since her return.
I can’t fucking wait.