“Oh, she’s sorry,” Dobry roars, turning to laugh at the room in general.
Everybody joins in with his laughter, even the other servants, those who are just glad that it isn’t them in their crosshairs.
“I guess that makes it all better then, does it?” he snaps, turning back to me. He waves his hand. “Take her to my room. If she wants a good time, then I will show her a good time. I prefer my women a little more nubile – that is the word, yes? – but she will do.”
A sickening shiver moves through me as four guards approach, their hands on their hips, ready to shoot me, end me if I don’t agree to follow them.
I have no choice but to stand and meekly trail after them, walking down the corridor with the four of them ringing me on all sides, casually talking in Russian.
One of them laughs throatily. I have no idea what they’re saying, but I know it’s not good.
Nothing that happens here is good.
They take me up the rear staircase, unlocking doors as we go, and then lead me to a bedroom with a double door the size of a horse, the most extravagant door I’ve ever seen. The frame is carved and inlaid with small jewels, and the guard lets out a throaty sigh as he shoves it open.
He gestures into the bedroom with his gun. “In. Now.”
I scurry into the room, the only thing I can do, and then flinch as they slam the door shut behind me.
The room is huge, the ceiling tall, patterned with battle scenes. Tapestries hang from the walls and the bed is the size of a tank, a giant overgrown thing with silk sheets, a four poster monstrosity. I can’t look at it for long, vomit trying to surge up my throat.
I pace around, checking the only other door—the ensuite, as lavish as the rest of this place, the faucets, and shower heads made of freaking gold. The windows here are locked. The windows in the bedroom – that overlook the night-dark estate – are locked.
The door to the hallway, of course, is locked.
I press my ear against the door, listening for the sound of the guards.
Nothing, nobody.
Can I kick the door down?
I raise my leg and try to aim a kick, but the champagne has made my heels slick and suddenly I’m falling again.
I catch myself, just in time.
“Crap.”
I go to the counter at the other end of the room, covered in a giant gilded globe and a dozen other seemingly random things … a compass made of gold, gold-framed glasses, gold, gold, gold. Everything in this hell is made of gold.
My hand settles on a letter opener, gold, the grip cool in my hand.
Dobry must be so drunk that he didn’t think to send someone in here with me to make sure I wouldn’t get my hands on a weapon. Or perhaps he’s confident in his ability to overpower me, weapon or not.
I turn toward the door, taking a couple of practice swipes with the letter opener, the blade making a soft hissing noise in the air.
I pray that I have the courage to use it when the time comes.
Even as a small scared voice inside tells me that I won’t.
CHAPTER THREE
Damian
I stalk through the secret tunnel of the Dobry estate, my flashlight turned off, sticking to the shadows as I move closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel. I almost laugh grimly at the thought. This isn’t what people have in mind when they use that phrase.
I can see the silhouettes of two men standing in front of the spotlights, but they’re turned toward each other, idly speaking in Russian. I pick up snatches of their conversation as I approach, my footsteps dead quiet, my breathing dead quiet.
Everything about me is primed for the job at hand, their chuckling providing a convenient dampener to the small noises of my hunt.
“Fucking sluts,” one of the men growls. “Give them everything and what do they do? They can’t even say a simple thank you, brother.”
“They’re not worth the hassle,” the other laughs darkly. “Fuck them and leave them, that’s what I say.”
Rage tries to grip my chest at their words, my savage instinct rising like a torrent inside of me, a wave of fire trying to turn my body into a tool of destruction.
Just because I’ve never found my woman, it doesn’t mean I like this immature shit men sometimes indulge in, this use-them-and-leave-them garbage.
But it’s their lucky day.
I’m not here for them.
I get as close as I dare without stepping into the light, and then take the device from my pocket and press the button. The speakers I set up on my way in immediately pick up, Russian words drifting from the other end of the tunnel, the way I just walked up.
“You fucking cowards,” the voice growls—my voice, in my best Russian accent. “You fucking worms. The Kuznetsov family is a joke. You are jokes for serving them.”
“What the fuck?” one of the guards growls, shouldering his rifle and beginning to creep down the hallway.
I press myself flat against the wall, making my breathing quiet, melting into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. The other guard aims with his gun and together they start approaching the speaker, coming closer to me each moment.
My body is primed. My mind is ready.
“Be a weapon,” Felix told me when I was only ten years old. “Then nothing can stop you.”
When they’ve walked so close to me that I can smell the stink of their cigarettes and their whiskey, I silently slink from the shadows and walk up behind them.
I take the Tasers from my pockets and bring them to their necks at the same time, the sound loud in the confines of the tunnel, the electric-blue lighting up so that their shadows spread like silhouetted claws.
They yelp and collapse onto their fronts, and then I work quickly, taking the syringes from my belt and injecting them in the throat.
I drag their bodies deeper into the tunnel, stowing them in the darkness.
They’ll wake in a few hours with groggy heads and no clue how they got there, and I’ll be long gone.
I turn off the speakers and take the guards’ ring of keys, and then head to the service elevator that will lead to the mansion.
One last job.
I think of Sparky, hopefully, curled up in the nook I made for him in the motel room, safe under his mound of blankets. I hope that the noise of the motel parking lot isn’t too distracting for him, and then I find myself remembering one time when I had to leave him and some asshole set off fireworks. I came back to find him shaking, his mess streaked all over the carpet.
“One last job, boy,” I whisper, and then push it all from my mind.
I use the key to unlock the elevator and step inside, pressing the button that will take me to Dobry’s door. I aim my gun at the doors as they close and the elevator starts to rise with a judder. The elevator was built after the estate, a clumsy job so that it rises in fits and starts.
Hacking Dobry’s communications told me all I needed to know, and soon the doors will open onto what, from the outside, looks like a supply closet.
But still, I need to be cautious.
Thankfully, the doors open onto the inner darkness of two wooden doors, not the barrel of a gun. I poke them open with the silencer of my gun, ignoring the ostentatious finery of the carpets and the wall hangings and all the rest of it.
I move forward, gun aimed, the sounds of the party downstairs muffled through the many walls separating us.
A cheer—a laugh. Music plays.
But it all sounds faraway.
I count the doors as I move, constantly watching for the guards.
But it seems Dobry wants some privacy this evening. I stop outside his absurdly ornate door, the frame all carved patterns, and lay my ear against it so that I can better hear what he’s saying.
He’s speaking in Russian, his voice a low growl. “You have no idea what I’m saying, do you? You stupid American whore. Now you will make yourself useful, at least. Now you will do what you were bred to do—please men, you disposable s
lut.”
I clench the grip of my gun tightly, blood rushing in my ears.
Disposable slut.
The phrase makes me want to make this last a long time to make this evil bastard suffer in the most gruesome ways.
But every man I’ve ever been contracted to kill has been as evil as this bastard.
I’m about to try the door when Dobry makes an animal noise of pain and surprise, and then snaps, “Stupid whore. What do you think, a little cut changes things? Come here. Now.”
“S-stay back,” a woman hisses.
The bravery in her voice touches something deep inside of me. Her voice is husky and womanly at the same time, a singer’s voice, and just in those two words, I can hear so much.
I can hear the deep wells of her soul.
I can hear her strength, her fear, her humanity.
It punches me in the gut, this realization because simply hearing a woman’s voice shouldn’t have this effect on me.
I shake my head, pushing those crazy whirring thoughts away.
One last fucking job.
I push the door open, glad the bastard didn’t think to lock it.
The room comes into view in all its unearned opulence, but my vision hones in on the sight of Dobry and the woman. Dobry has his back to me, blood dripping onto the floor, probably from his face. The woman holds a golden letter opener, tinged with blood, gesturing with it, her back pressed against the wall.
And the woman…
Lightning smashes into my chest and for a moment time seems to freeze as I gaze at her. She’s wearing a uniform, a hip-hugging skirt, and a tight white shirt and tights that grip firmly onto those thick gorgeous thighs. Her hair is deep brown and looks like it’s come loose from a ponytail, spilling wildly around her shoulders. Her wide eyes are glittering green gemstones.
There’s so much personality in her expression, every tic of her face, and I find myself wondering what it would be like learning all the different pieces of her over a long lazy summer, trailing my hand down those curves, touching, pleasing…
I banish those thoughts as her eyes snap to me. I shake my head subtly and feel another whelming of pride with how quickly she adapts to this new situation.
“Come on then,” she hisses, staring at Dobry as she raises the letter opener. “You pathetic, disgusting excuse for a human being.”
I stalk up behind him, moving silently, and then glide around to his side as I raise the gun to his head.
He freezes, his leer turning to an abject O of terror.
“We can work this out,” he whispers.
“Apologize to the lady,” I snarl quietly.
“W-what?”
“Apologize.” I prod the gun against his head, causing him to whimper, as though I’d show this human trafficker, this rapist, this child abuser any mercy now. “To the lady.”
Dobry – cheek dripping crimson from where she cut him – turns to her, beginning to snivel.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I turn to the lady, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
Something stirs inside of me.
Take her, claim her, make her yours.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her. “You don’t want to see this.”
She stands up straighter and looks me square in the eye.
“No,” she says. “I do.”
Dobry starts blabbering in Russian, and at the last second, he opens his mouth to scream.
I pull the trigger and the bullet ends the noise.
His body collapses as though all the bones have been sucked out of him.
“What are you doing?” the woman asks, her voice shaking as any civilians would after witnessing such a thing.
I take out my digital camera and quickly snap a photo.
“Getting evidence.”
I quickly stow the camera away and turn toward the door, panic and something else rushing in my ears. It’s like I can scent this woman past Dobry’s blood, past the reek of alcohol and too much cologne in the room.
It’s like I can sense her goddamn essence, whatever that means.
Something in me roars that leaving her here would be the worst thing I’ve ever done.
Because she’s mine.
Already.
How the fuck can that be true?
I turn back to her. “What’s your name?” I growl, knowing this is a mistake, and yet she’s too goddamn magnetic for me to stop.
“Dakota. What’s yours?”
I smirk. “I can only tell you if you come with me, Dakota.”
“Are you going to hurt me? Are you like them?”
“No,” I snarl. “I’m not like them. Not even a little bit. Are you coming with me or not?”
Anger tinges my words, but it’s not directed at her. It’s aimed at myself, at my stupidity for taking a risk like this.
But I can’t stop myself.
Dakota.
Her name is a song in my mind, and as we gaze at each other it’s like there’s not a dead man lying between us at all.
“Then yes,” she whispers. “I’ll come with you …”
“Damian,” I say, knowing I shouldn’t. “My name is Damian.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DakotaI press myself against the car window, cracking it a little so that I can breathe the fresh night air.
I wonder if other women would think of their friends and family now, but I have no family, and any friends have always been casual, more acquaintances.
I close my eyes and tell myself that this isn’t a dream, that it all just happened.
I feel a judder move up my arm when I slash the letter opener down Dobry’s face.
I feel the animal fear, the terror that gripped me as he approached, weeping blood, ready to take his revenge.
I see him fall as the bullet punches into him and see a spray of blood.
And then …
Damian.
I open my eyes and risk a look at him.
My breath catches and my heart picks up again.
His hair is pure silver, swept to the side, his jaw square and clean shaven. His eyes are stark blue, so pale they’re almost the same color as his hair. He’s huge, at least seven feet, his muscles bulging from his night-black … what? Work attire? Jet black clothing that can barely contain those throbbing muscles.
He grips the steering wheel tight as we glide down the road, the lights of the city winking ahead of us.
I find myself wondering how old he is, confused feelings stirring inside of me. After what just happened, the last thing I should be experiencing is a tingling warmth in my lower belly, my crotch giving a twitch and a whisper, my mind flooding with images of Damian pulling the car over and sliding his hand up between my thighs.
No, I shouldn’t be thinking about that at all.
“How old are you?” I hear myself ask, and then immediately bite back the question.
He smirks slightly, but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. His eyes are focused on the road.
“Strange question to ask a man you just watched execute somebody,” he murmurs.
“Dobry deserved to die,” I flare, my words sharp with conviction. “What he was going to do to me …” I shiver, the possibility gripping me with icy hands “But that’s not even the worst of it. I heard about some of the other things he did. He was pure evil.”
“Forty-one,” he grunts.
“Huh?”
“You asked my age. I’m forty-one years old.”
“Oh,” I murmur.
My eyes are dancing up and down him, tracking the way his muscles press through the fabric. I try to still this insane compulsion inside of me—to grab onto his arm, feel the stony security of it.
This must be a fever dream.
Any second I’m going to wake up with Dobry standing over me, leering, sweating, grinning in his twisted desire to …
The tears attack me as if from nowhere, sobs punching painfully up my throa
t and causing me to make choked gulping noises. My mind floods with the past month, the constant fear, the animal paranoia that any second some predator – a bad predator, not like Damian – could leap out and attack me.
Damian glances at me, jaw tightening for a moment.
“We can’t stop,” he says gruffly. “They’ll find his body soon.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to stop,” I sob.
“I mean … never mind.”
“No, what?” I press, wiping at my tear streaked cheeks.
“Nothing,” he growls.
“What?” I persist.
That smirk again doubled in the night-dark glass in front of him.
“Jesus, you’re persistent, aren’t you?”
“Maybe I am,” I say, somehow able to inject some fieriness into my voice. “So are you going to tell me or not?”
He sighs darkly. “I was just going to say we can’t stop. I can’t comfort you. So if you’re going to cry, you’ll have to take care of yourself.”
“I didn’t say you had to comfort me,” I say icily.
“There we go then,” he says. “We agree.”
Handsome hunky jerk.
I almost laugh at the words whispering in my mind, so out of place in this setting, the lights of the city consuming the horizon but the darkness of this country road all around us.
I just saw a man murdered, and here I am letting near-flirty thoughts into my mind.
God, Damian has me all kinds of confused.
“What happens now?” I whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”
“What?” he snaps. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“I’ve seen your face. Isn’t that how it works?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
I shrug. “In the movies …”
He shakes his head, a subtle powerful gesture. The crazy urge to run my hands through the moon-silver of his hair touches me, and I fight it, fight it hard. It makes no sense. It’s the adrenalin, I tell myself, not the desire to have this man take me as I’ve never been taken before, to have him shoot his life-essence inside of me and put a baby there, start a family, and …
Quiet, I order my cluttered overactive mind. Just … quiet.
Her Hitman: An Instalove Possessive Older Man Younger Woman Romance Page 2