by Anna Zaires
“Listen, Michael,” I say finally, “I’m working on getting you back to your family. I told you, your parents were notified that you’re okay, and as soon as things in Ukraine settle down a bit—”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” Misha stops and turns to face me. “Do you want to leave? If you had a chance to get away from him, would you take it?”
I stop too, struck by the question. In the last month, I haven’t thought about escape at all. Even if I didn’t have the trackers embedded under my skin, the fact that Lucas found me in Ukraine showed me there’s nowhere I can run. Even if I somehow managed to escape again, Lucas would just come after me and bring me back.
That’s not what Misha wants to know, though.
“No,” I say quietly, holding my brother’s gaze. “I wouldn’t leave if I could.”
He nods. “That’s what I thought.”
He resumes walking, and I hurry to catch up with his long strides. Misha seems to have grown another inch or two since we’ve been here, his shoulders broadening and filling out. I suspect when he’s fully grown, he’ll have Lucas’s height and build. For now, though, he’s still a boy—and I’m still his big sister.
“Michael, listen to me.” I fall into step beside him. “Just because I don’t want to leave doesn’t mean I’m not working to make it happen for you. Please believe me. I’m doing everything I can to get you home.”
“I know.” He glances at me, his brow furrowed with a frown. “I just wish you’d come with me when I leave. A lot of people here hate you, you know.”
“I know.” I smile to chase away the stressed look on his face. “But don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”
“Because you have him.”
“Lucas? Yes.” I’ve noticed that my brother doesn’t like to refer to Lucas by his name, preferring to just say “he.” “He’ll keep me safe.”
Misha is still frowning, so on impulse, I reach over and ruffle his hair playfully. “You know, this mop on your head is getting long. Want me to give you a haircut, or are you trying to grow a ponytail?”
“Eeww, no.” Misha grimaces and reaches up with his hand. His fingers disappear in the thick blond strands. “Yeah, I guess I do need to cut it,” he says grudgingly. “Are you good at giving haircuts?”
“I’m sure I’ll manage.” I grin at his dubious expression. “If I screw it up, we’ll just ask Lucas to fix it—he gives himself a buzz cut every other week.”
At the mention of Lucas, Misha tenses again, and his gaze slides away. “That’s okay,” he mutters, suddenly fascinated by an ant hill to our left. “I’m sure whatever you do will be fine.”
I sigh but let it go. I can’t force my brother to like Lucas. The brutal attack on the black site and Obenko’s death left an indelible impression on his young psyche. Misha regards Lucas as the enemy, and rightly so.
If Lucas hadn’t realized who Misha was, my brother would’ve been one of the casualties of that attack.
We walk without talking for a few minutes, but as we approach the edge of the forest, I touch Misha’s arm, bringing him to a halt. “I’m sorry about what happened that day,” I say when he turns to face me. “Truly, I am. If I could go back and change things, I would. The last thing I wanted was to endanger you or the others, believe me.”
Misha stares at me, then says slowly, “It wasn’t your fault… not really. I’m sorry I said that before. Besides, if they hadn’t come—” He stops, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What?”
“You probably would’ve been killed.” His words are barely audible. Turning away, he continues walking, and I hurry after him, my stomach knotted tight.
“Who told you that, Michael?” Catching up with him, I grab his arm, bringing him to a stop again. “Why did you say that?”
“Because it’s true.” Misha’s face is shadowed, his forearm tense in my grip. “I overheard Uncle Vasya talking about it with Kirill Ivanovich. I didn’t want to believe it at first—I thought maybe I misunderstood, or took their words out of context—but the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. They were going to kill you and tell me you ran off with your lover.” He draws in an unsteady breath. “They were going to lie, like they’ve lied about you all along.”
“Oh, Michael…” I release his arm, my heart clenching at the pain in his eyes. I can’t even fathom how agonizing this betrayal must be for him. Obenko had been my boss and mentor, but for my brother, he had been so much more. Misha must’ve fought so hard against this knowledge, seeking to deny the truth for as long as he could. “Maybe you did misunderstand,” I say, unable to bear his distress. “Maybe it was—”
“No, don’t. You’ve been saying this all along, and I was too stupid to believe you. And then when you showed me those pictures last week…” Shaking his head, Misha takes a step back. “I should’ve listened to you from the start. I just didn’t want to believe what you were saying, you know?” His face contorts. “He was dead and—”
“And he was your uncle, a man you looked up to, and I was the sister who left you when you were three.” I keep my voice soft and even. “You had no reason to believe me over him. I understand… and I understood then too.” I inhale to ease the constriction in my throat. “And I’m sorry, Michael. I’m really, truly sorry that things worked out this way.”
Misha’s expression doesn’t change. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his voice strained. “Uncle Vasya—Obenko—is a liar, and I’m an idiot for believing him. Kent said—” He stops again, his face reddening for some reason.
“Lucas?” I stare at Misha blankly. “You talked to him?”
“Yesterday,” Misha mumbles, and begins walking again. “When he took me back to the barracks after dinner.”
“What did he say?” I ask, falling into step beside him. Misha doesn’t respond, so I say more firmly, “What did he say, Michael?”
“He said Kirill Ivanovich hurt you when you were my age,” he says reluctantly. “And that Obenko told you they took care of him and they didn’t.” He glances at me, his face now pale. “Is it true? Did he”—he stops, blocking my way—“do something to you?”
Oh God. The rush of blood to my brain almost makes me dizzy. My cheeks turn hot, then cold as rage fills my stomach. How dare Lucas tell this to a fourteen-year-old? I never wanted Misha to know about Kirill. From what I’ve been able to pry out of him, it seems my brother has suppressed most of what happened to him at the orphanage. He remembers that it was bad, but he doesn’t know the extent of it. Something like this could bring back those horrible memories, and even if it doesn’t, I don’t want him exposed to that kind of ugliness. It’s bad enough that Misha’s uncle deceived him; now my brother is going to think the whole world is made up of awful people.
For a moment, I’m tempted to deny everything, but that would make me just one more person who’s lied to Misha. “Yes,” I say, my voice strained. “It’s true. But I was a little older than you—fifteen—and they did keep him away from me after they learned what happened.”
Misha’s hands curl as I speak. “Are you making excuses for them?” His voice rises incredulously. “For these… these monsters? After everything they’ve done to you? I thought Kent was making it up so I’d hate him less, but he wasn’t, was he? That’s what the two of you were talking about back at the black site. I heard you, but there was so much going on I didn’t really register it. Kirill hurt you, and I…” His face twists painfully. “Oh, fuck, I trained with the guy. I liked him.”
“Mishen’ka…” Pushing my anger at Lucas aside, I reach out to touch Misha’s shoulder, but he steps away, shaking his head.
“I’m such an idiot.” Stumbling over a root, he catches himself on a tree and continues to back away, muttering bitterly, “I’m such a fucking idiot…”
“Michael.” Pushing my concerns about his suppressed memories aside, I make my voice stern. “I don’t want you to use that kind of language. Do you understand? You
’re not an idiot, and you’re certainly not a fucking anything. There was no way you could’ve known this, just like you couldn’t have known that Obenko was lying. Nothing about this situation is your fault.”
Misha blinks. “But—”
“No buts.” Wiping all emotion from my face, I come closer and stop in front of him. “I don’t want to hear any more whining. What’s done is done. It’s in the past. This, here and now, is the present. We’re here, and we’re not going to look back. Yes, we’ve been through some bad things, and we’ve known some bad people, but we survived and we’re stronger now.” Softening my voice a little, I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Misha whispers, his fingers tightening around mine. “We are.”
“Good.” I release his hand and step back. “Now let’s go. Diego told me he might take you to shooting practice this afternoon, since you’ve been good and all. You don’t want to be late for that.”
I turn and begin walking, and Misha trails next to me, the bitterness on his face replaced by a look of bewilderment. I’ve never spoken to him like that before, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
Despite my simmering fury at Lucas, I smile as we approach his house.
I’m Misha’s big sister, and it feels good to act like one.
42
Lucas
“How could you do this?”
The minute I walk through the front door, Yulia stalks toward me, all long legs and flowing blond hair. Her blue eyes are narrowed into slits, her nostrils all but breathing fire.
“Do what?” I ask, confused. I did receive a rather gruesome update from Ukraine this morning, but I don’t see how Yulia could’ve found out about that. “What are you talking about?”
“Misha,” she hisses, stopping in front of me. Her hands are clenched at her sides. “You told him about Kirill.”
“Oh.” I almost smile but think better of it. Yulia looks ready to deck me, and given her restored health, she might land a blow or two before I subdue her. Keeping my expression carefully neutral, I say in a reasonable tone, “Why shouldn’t I have told him? He deserves to know the truth. You know that part of his anger is because he feels deceived, right? Nobody likes to be manipulated.”
Yulia’s teeth snap together. “He’s fourteen. He’s still a child. You don’t tell children about brutal rape—especially children with his kind of background. Kirill was his trainer. Misha admired him—”
“Yes, exactly.” I catch her wrists as a preemptive defense measure. “Your brother kept talking about the bastard and all the things he taught him. Do you think that was good for him? Healthy? How do you think Michael would’ve felt when he found out that you let him respect your rapist? And he would’ve found out, believe me. Truth has a way of coming out.”
Yulia’s wrists are stiff in my grasp, but she doesn’t kick me or try to get away. I take it as a sign that I’m getting through to her and say, “Also, he’s not a child. Not really. You know your brother already slept with a girl, right?”
“What?” Yulia’s mouth drops open.
“Yes, he told Diego about it.” I use her shock to pull her closer, molding her lower body against my hardening cock. “The trainees went out to a club a few months ago, and he hooked up with an older girl there. He’s crazy proud of it, like any teenage boy would be.”
Her throat works. “But—”
“Don’t worry. He used protection. Diego asked.”
And before Yulia can recover from that, I lower my head and kiss her, enjoying the way she struggles before melting against me.
It takes a long time before we sit down to dinner that evening, but I don’t regret a minute of the delay.
* * *
As our new life together continues, I find myself increasingly obsessed with all things Yulia. Everything about her fascinates me: the way she hums under her breath when she’s cooking, how she stretches in the morning, the purring moan that escapes her lips when I kiss her neck. Her body has filled out again, her sickly pallor fading, and one look at her golden beauty is all it takes to get me hard these days. I fuck her every chance I get, and it’s not enough. I want her constantly, with a need that consumes me. Every time I take her, it’s the best feeling ever, yet I’m still left craving more.
Sometimes I think I’ll go to my grave wanting her.
If it were just a sexual itch, I might’ve been able to handle it. But my hunger runs deeper. I want to know everything about her, every tiny detail of her life. I don’t like thinking of my past, so I’ve never had much interest in that of other people, but with Yulia, my curiosity knows no bounds.
“You know, you never told me your real name,” I say as we’re eating lunch one day. “Your last name, I mean.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Why do you care about that?”
“Because I do.” I put down my fork and stare at her intently. “You have no one to protect anymore, so please, tell me, baby.”
She hesitates, then says, “It’s Molotova. I was born Yulia Borisovna Molotova.”
Molotova. I make a mental note of that. I haven’t forgotten what she told me about the headmistress of her orphanage, and I intend to use this information to track the woman down. I debate disclosing this to Yulia, but I’m not sure how she’d react, so I decide to keep quiet for now.
Changing the topic, I ask, “Have you ever killed anyone? Not in a fight or as self-defense, but outright.”
To my surprise, Yulia nods. “Yes, once,” she murmurs, looking down at her plate.
“When?” I reach across the table to cover her slender hand with my palm. “How did it happen?”
“It was during training, as the last part of the program,” she says, her gaze veiled as she looks up at me. “None of us were supposed to be assassins, but they wanted to make sure we’d be able to pull the trigger if it came to that.”
“So what did they do? Have you kill someone?”
“In a way.” She wets her lips. “They brought in a dying homeless man. He had Stage Four liver cancer. He only had a few days to live at best, and he was in terrible pain. They shot him full of drugs, and then, instead of a paper target, they strung him up. Our goal was to make a killing shot.”
“So all of you shot at this one guy?”
“Yes.” Yulia’s fingers twitch under my palm. “We used marked bullets, and he was autopsied afterwards to see whose bullets hit the target. A couple of trainees couldn’t bring themselves to shoot.”
“But you could.”
“Yes.” She pulls her hand out of my grasp but doesn’t look away. “The autopsy revealed that three bullets hit his heart.”
“Was yours one of them?” I ask, leaning back.
“No.” Her gaze is unflinching. “Mine was found in his brain.”
* * *
That night, Yulia clings to me with a passion bordering on desperation, and I realize my questioning brought back some bad memories. I know I should leave her alone, let her live in the present the way she clearly wants to do, but the questions keep gnawing at me, and I finally give in.
“Have you ever slept with a man of your own initiative?” I ask as we lie tangled together after a long bout of sex. By all rights, I should be sinking into sleep, but my body hums with energy and my thoughts keep returning to this topic.
Yulia stiffens in my arms. Turning over, she pulls back to look at me. “What do you mean? I was only forced that one time—”
“I mean, did you ever date anyone who wasn’t an assignment?” I say, placing my hand on her hip. “Go to bars, clubs? Hook up with a guy just for fun?” I’d intended the question to be a casual one, but as I say the words, I realize that Yulia with another man will never be a casual topic for me.
I want to commit murder at the mere thought that someone who wasn’t me touched her.
Yulia’s gaze lights with comprehension. “No,” she says softly. “I never dated. It wouldn’t have been fair to the guy.”
“So
there was a guy?” My jealousy sharpens. “Someone you wanted?”
“What?” To my relief, she seems startled by the notion. “No, there was no one. I just meant that I was always on assignment, so I would’ve been a terrible girlfriend.”
“So not even a casual hook-up?” I press.
“No.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t see the point. I had classes and school assignments on top of my job, and I didn’t have much free time.”
“So you’re telling me that other than your three assigned lovers and myself, you’ve never been with anyone else?”
Her face tightens. “You’re forgetting Kirill.”
“I’m not forgetting him.” The fact that we still haven’t found him or his body is like a festering splinter under my skin. Suppressing the flare of rage, I say evenly, “He was your assailant, not your lover.”
“In that case, yes.” Yulia’s blue eyes are clear and guileless as she looks at me. “I’ve had four lovers, including you.”
I stare at her, hardly able to believe my ears. My seductive spy—the beautiful girl who used her body to get information—has slept with fewer men than an average college student.
“What about you?” she parries, propping herself up on one elbow. “How many women have you slept with?” The look in her eyes is a mirror image of my earlier jealousy.
“Probably not as many as you think,” I say, pleased by her possessiveness. “But definitely more than four. Like your brother, I started fairly young, and… well, I wasn’t much of a relationship guy back then.”
Her eyes narrow. “Really? And you are now?”
“I’m in a relationship with you, am I not?” I say, my cock stirring at the sight of her nipple peeking out from under the blanket. “So yeah, I’d say so.”