“Maybe in a bit.” The corner of her lips turned up slightly and her eyes sparkled with mischief if only for a split-second. “You were very mean to the nice doctor.”
“I don’t trust the nice doctor. I won’t trust anyone around you until the traitor is in jail,” or dead, “and Demidas is captured.” Or dead, preferably by my hand.
Elana snorted, a delicate little exhale that sounded very much like restrained laughter. His heart lightened a bit at the sign of her sense of humor. Yes, this woman was one to be kept close and cherished.
“Are you laughing at me, angel moy?” He leaned over and brushed a kiss across her flushed cheek; the red on her cheekbones was the only color in her face.
“Uh-huh.” She licked her lips and frowned. “I guess I do need a drink. I want another Pepsi.”
When he glowered at her, she stuck out her lower lip. Damn, she was cute when she sulked. “Elana—”
She cut him off. “Please…I want the Pepsi for taste. Whatever medicines you just gave me…I can taste them.” She scrunched her nose. “Nasty.”
“I recall the taste. It is very nasty.” He brushed an errant lock of hair off her forehead, then stroked her fine-grained skin. “I’ll check to see what’s stocked in the small kitchen in our suite. If they don’t have Pepsi, I’ll send Petr for some when he returns from the embassy compound.”
“Okay, sounds good.” She yawned and her eyes began to drift shut. “Don’t leave me.”
He heard the tinge of fear in her voice and that wasn’t acceptable. “I won’t leave our suite. I promised, remember?”
She nodded. Her brow creased. “Where will you sleep? You need to rest while you can.”
Elana was worried about him when she was the one with a bullet wound and a fever. “I’ll sleep in this room. I can guard you better that way.”
“You’ll sleep in bed…with me.”
It didn’t sound like a question, more like an order. “You wish me to lie next to you?” He stiffened at the thought of sleeping next to her, protecting her body with his…loving her. His cock went on full alert.
Down, boy. She was injured, sick, and in pain—his desires had no place in this room at this particular time. Later? Definitely.
“Yes, Vanko. By my side.” She wrinkled her nose, and he had to fight the urge to kiss the cute tip. “Because sleeping in a chair or over on the small settee won’t allow you to rest. So…after you find me a Pepsi and the food you promised, you’ll lie down next to me and rest. Understood?”
“I understand you’re a bossy bit of goods when you get pain meds in you.” Vanko chuckled.
“Damn straight. Comes from ordering students around in the library.” She curled a finger. “Come closer.”
Vanko leaned over until they were almost nose to nose. “Yes, Elana moy?”
“Kiss me.” She licked her visibly dry lips. “You tucked me in, now you have to kiss me. It’s a rule, you know.”
Vanko laughed softly. Elana obviously became uninhibited on pain medications. He’d make sure no other males were ever around her when she was on drugs.
“With pleasure, angel moy.” He brushed several light kisses over her closed lips. He swept his tongue over her lower lip, once…twice, moistening it. When she gasped, he took her mouth fully, thrusting gently with his tongue. It was a tame kiss for a man of his experience and needs, but Elana wasn’t ready for the hungry, biting kisses he liked to give and receive in return.
When he broke off the kiss, she sighed and a smile curled her lips. “We need to do that again. You taste good like…” She paused, and he could almost see the wheels turning in her sluggish brain. “…like coffee and chocolate mint.” She inhaled deeply and heaved another sigh. “You smell good, too.”
“You are high, dushka.” He licked his lips. The taste of her was on them, a unique, lush taste slightly tinged with the Pepsi she’d had in the car. “Be assured. We’ll definitely be doing that—and more—as soon as you’re feeling better.”
She yawned widely like a sleepy kitten and closed her eyes. “Goody.”
Chapter 12
Sunday, December 4th, 5:00 A.M. (GMT +4),
Sergei Demidas’s Russian Estate
Sergei Demidas checked the bindings on his young wife; he’d tied her to his custom-made, leather-covered bondage table for a little fun and games. Well, fun and games for him—he wasn’t sure she liked any of his sexual proclivities. But since he’d bought and paid for her, she had no say.
Sabina was his fifth wife. He’d fucked her nightly since he’d married her a week ago. He would continue to take her every night until she conceived. Once she was pregnant, he’d use one of his mistresses—or one of the women he’d trained as sex slaves for his clients—for his sexual games until after his baby was born. If the child were a girl, he’d start the process all over again until he obtained what he wanted—a legitimate male heir.
Sergei needed a son to take over his multi-billion-dollar empire. His previous wives had given him six daughters. Totally worthless—all of them. He’d made a profit, though, by selling his exes and the daughters to some of his more discerning clients.
He had no bastard children; he’d made sure of that.
Walking around the table, he observed Sabina’s fear in the tautness of her neck muscles and the clenching of her fists. She’d learned not to move, not to fight the bonds. He’d punished her for such behavior in the past.
Like all his wives, Sabina had been a ballerina. She was of medium height, dark-haired, and light-eyed with pale ivory skin and curves in all the right places. All his wives could’ve been twins of his first and only real love. Elana! He’d had her all too briefly and then lost her. While each of his wives resembled Elana, they could never replace her. He would love Elana forever.
Sergei adjusted the table so Sabina’s hood-covered head was lower than the rest of her body. He smiled as she whimpered, her mouth plugged with a removable leather cock gag. She knew what the new position meant. She’d eventually learn to love sucking him to get him hard and ready to come inside her pussy, or he’d continue to punish her. He had all sorts of lovely punishments he hadn’t used yet.
“We will make a baby son tonight, Sabina moy. Give me a son, and I will treat you like an empress.” He stroked a finger across the top curve of her full breasts and then flicked the clamps he’d placed on her nipples. They were Japanese clover clamps; her buds were already turning blue. He’d remove them while he fucked her. He liked to hear her screams as blood rushed back into the sensitive tissue.
“Sergei.” The voice of his second-in-command, Zivon, came over the intercom. The man had been with him since they were teenagers, living on the streets and running drugs. His friend knew better than to disturb him when he played with his wife. Something important must have happened.
He placed headphones over Sabina’s ears and turned on audio recordings of their previous sessions in his dungeon. He liked to up her fear. He removed her gag and took her lips in a punishing kiss. He could almost taste her terror; it was a sharp, biting taste like the highest proof vodka and as easily addictive.
“Be patient, little Sabina. I’ll be right back.” He shoved the gag back in as she whimpered low in her throat.
He walked to the intercom and pressed the speaker button. “What is it, Ziv?”
“Our spy in the Russian Embassy in D.C. just called.” Ziv paused.
His friend’s voice sounded strained. The spy, the personal physician to the Russian ambassador, had never made a report since the day they’d placed him inside the embassy over five years ago.
“What has happened?” A foreboding chill swept down Sergei’s spine. What could the doctor have seen or heard that would trouble a tough man like Ziv? “Tell me.”
“The doctor could have been wrong, but…dermo…just turn on your flat screen and watch the recorded news report looping on the in-house channel. You need to see this for yourself…I still can’t believe it.”
Wha
tever had turned his steady aide into a vacillating idiot had to be something monumental. Leery and curious, Sergei turned on the television and watched the feed. The recording was of a news report out of the U.S. The perfectly made-up blonde announcer was talking about some amateur film about a woman running from gun-toting assailants on the National Mall. He’d been to the Mall and liked the museums.
“Ziv, what the fuck has a gun battle on the…”
“Just keep watching, Sergei.” Ziv’s voice was harsh, distant, as if he were in shock. What could disturb his street-tough friend? Sergei’s gut churned with dread.
The news report cut to the video; it was fairly focused and only jumped around a bit. The sounds of shots and screams came over the amateur video clearly. The camera scanned from two men with submachine pistols and then to their prey, a dark-haired woman in a trench coat. The time stamp on the video was December 3rd, shortly after 1:00 P.M., EST. Whatever had Ziv so anxious had happened yesterday, Saturday, at 9 P.M. Moscow time. Moscow was eight hours ahead of D.C.
Sergei focused on the female running away from the men. Finally the person wielding the camera got a clear shot of her face.
“Nyet!” He choked and gasped for his next breath before croaking out, “Dermo, Ziv! Is that…my Elana? But she’s dead. I saw her buried. I put flowers on her grave every week.”
He reached for one of the chairs positioned in front of the flat screen. His legs couldn’t hold him up they trembled so; his knees were literally weak from the combination of wonder and unholy joy.
Elana! He watched the video closely. It was her, so graceful even as she ran from men out to kill her. She’s alive! No, she flinched and almost fell. He growled, one of the men had shot her, but she kept running. Run, Elana! Run! Mere hours ago, she’d been running for her life, and he’d been powerless to help her.
He breathed a sigh of relief when she entered a black Hummer and closed the door. The vehicle sped away, almost hitting the gunmen. Good for the driver! Elana was safe for the time being…now all he had to do was find her, get her back, and take care of whatever danger she was in.
The thought he might have his Elana back soon hardened his cock. His excitement was so high precum covered his cockhead. He placed a hand over his throbbing member. He could almost climax from the mere thought of her body under his. Elana was the only woman who could arouse him from a distance. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to possess her all those years ago, why he’d fallen head over heels in love with her…and still loved her.
“I didn’t believe it either.” Ziv’s words called him back to the present. “After the doctor alerted me, I found the news report and had one of our techs get hold of the original You Tube video. Our man pulled a close up of her face off the video and compared it to the photos we have of her.”
“And?” Sergei could barely choke out the words. He couldn’t stand it if his hopes had been raised and the woman turned out not to be his Elana.
Ziv let out a gusty sigh. “The comparison is accurate to 99.9 %. It’s her, boss, or her twin sister—and she had no siblings. We were tricked by the fucking Chernovs.”
“They’re dead men.” Sergei fisted his hands on his thighs. He wanted to choke the life out of Elana’s uncles himself. They’d kept him from his true love all these years. “Send the Tortutov brothers after the Chernovs. I want the bastards captured and held in my Caucasus house until I can deal with them.”
“It will be done, Sergei.”
“And, Ziv, find out where she is now—”
“That’s why the doctor called,” Ziv interrupted, “she’s at the Russian ambassador’s residence in D.C.”
“Good…that is good.” Sergei couldn’t contain his glee at the news. She was safe and in a place he could easily control. Then a chill went down his spine as he recalled the look of shock and pain as she almost fell. “Elana was shot. I saw her flinch. What was the doctor’s report? Is she okay?”
“He said her wound was a deep gouge through the fleshy part of her side, just above her hip. No major organs involved. She will be fine, especially since the man in the Hummer—the one who rescued her—treated it quickly and did a good job. Her rescuer then took her to the ambassador who owed him a favor.”
“Who is this rescuer that he has access to Grigori?” Sergei watched the replay of the amateur video as the black Hummer came into the picture and Elana jumped inside. He couldn’t make out the driver, though he could see it was a male.
Ziv didn’t reply for several seconds. The pause was uncomfortable. His friend did not want to tell him who had rescued Elana.
“Ziv?” Sergei prompted. “Who was the driver of the Hummer?”
“An SSI operative.”
SSI was well-known in the shadow world. Sergei’s people came up against them only when his targets were smart enough to hire Ren Maddox’s well-trained operatives. Sergei had no particular issue with SSI one way or the other. They, and he, were businessmen, just on opposite sides. In fact, he admired their skills and tried to avoid coming to their specific attention.
“Which operative?” Sergei whispered.
“Uh—” Ziv’s hesitancy confirmed what he’d already suspected: Sergei wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Vanko Petriv,” Ziv finally stuttered out.
“Pizdets.” Sergei surged to his feet, picked up the classic Eames chair, and threw it at the wall. The chair broke into pieces. He picked up the chair’s mate and threw it at the expensive flat screen, destroying both items. His anger raged inside him like an out-of-control wildfire and would not be assuaged. The driver would have to be Petriv, an ex-Interpol agent; the man was the only reason SSI had beaten him the times they’d met head-to-head.
“Sergei? What do you want me to do?” Ziv sounded worried.
Sergei took several deep breaths and sought to harness his rage, and—yes, he would admit it—his jealousy. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Petriv anywhere near his Elana. The damn Ukrainian had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and Elana was a temptation for any red-blooded male.
But now he owed the fucking Ukrainian for Elana’s rescue, and Sergei Demidas always paid his debts. He’d make sure his men killed Petriv humanely after they took Elana away from him.
“Who do we have in or near D.C. right now, other than the good doctor?” Sergei walked toward Sabina and stroked a finger over and around her clamped nipples before yanking on the chain connecting them. She screamed behind her gag.
“Vassily and Ivan—”
Sergei walked around Sabina’s body.
“—they work in the embassy’s security department,” Ziv reported.
The men were highly trained killers, but oafs and not known for their gentle handling of women. But he had to work with what tools he was given; they were the closest to Elana’s location and had easy access. He wanted her back as soon as humanly possible.
“Contact them.” Sergei checked Sabina’s bindings, tightening the ones across her torso. His plans for her had changed and he didn’t want to give her any room to move. “I want Elana retrieved as soon as they can get to Grigori’s residence. Petriv is to be taken out cleanly. Have the men take Elana to my property in the Bahamas.”
He paused and added, “Stress to those ham-handed duraki that Elana is to be treated with special care. Make sure they understand if she is harmed any further, there will be dire consequences.”
“It will be done, Sergei.”
“And, Ziv, the men who shot at her are to be found and killed—painfully. Use all our resources. I want to know why she was running for her life.”
“I’m already on that. I’ll also find out what Elana’s been doing for the last twelve years.”
Sergei could always count on Ziv to be on top of things. “Get my jet ready. I want to be on my way to the Bahamas. I’ll expect your preliminary reports on the plane.”
“Sergei,” Ziv audibly gulped, “is it wise to go to the Bahamas? Interpol has become more aggressive in purs
uing you of late. I and my team can’t guarantee your safety outside of Russia.”
“This is about Elana, Ziv. She is on the other side of the Atlantic,” he gritted out, “and that is where I need to be…by her side.”
“Yes, of course, Sergei. I understand. It will be done.” But his aide’s tone of voice indicated he was anything but happy about the trip.
“Call me when the plane is ready. I need to deal with Sabina.” Sergei walked to the intercom and punched the speaker off. Then he stalked toward his soon-to-be ex-wife.
He didn’t need Sabina any longer. He’d have Elana—and she’d be his wife, his one true love, his sexual submissive, and the mother of his sons.
Chapter 13
Sunday, December 4th, 2:00 A.M. (EST)
Russian Ambassador’s Residence, Washington, D.C.
Elana lay on her left side. Her injured right side supported from behind by something warm and solid. Her foggy mind pondered the sensations and what might cause them. Then she realized it wasn’t a what, but a who. A male who.
In a half-awake state, she struggled to get away, but a heavy arm anchored her to the bed. Trapped! She mewled with fear and shoved at the muscled arm. A stinging pain had her crying out and brought her completely awake.
“Elana. Shh, goluba moy.” Vanko’s low, soothing voice broke through her fear. And then she recalled everything—where she was, why she was in pain, and who lay behind her, not binding her, but protecting her.
Trembling through the aftermath of her fright, she whispered, “Vanko, I’m sorry…I’m an idiot—”
“Hush now. Remember what I said about apologies? It’s okay. Are you in pain? Did I hurt you?” His breath whispered over her cheek as he leaned forward.
Vanko surrounded her—but in a good way. She needed to keep reminding herself this was Vanko—her rescuer, her protector—not the monster of her nightmares.
Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 13