Chapter Twenty-Two
Yulia
I don’t know how long I sit there, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard chair, but eventually, a quiet rapping on the window draws my attention. Startled, I look up and see the girl who was watching me before—the one with the rounded face. She’s standing outside, her nose pressed to the glass as she stares at me. I don’t see her friend, so she must’ve come alone this time.
“Hello?” I call out, unsure whether she speaks English or would even be able to hear me through the glass. “Who are you?”
She hesitates for a second, then asks, “Where’s Lucas?” Her voice is barely audible through the window, but I can tell that her English is of the American variety, with only a trace of a Spanish accent.
“I don’t know. He left a little while ago,” I say, studying her as thoroughly as she’s studying me. It’s not a fair exchange; all I see of her is her head, while she’s looking at me in my birthday suit. Still, I note her regular features and full lips, filing the information away in my mind in case I need it later.
Who is she? Could she be Lucas’s girlfriend? There was no mention of significant others in his file, but Obenko wouldn’t know about Lucas’s relationships on this estate. For all I know, my captor could have a wife and three kids here. A pretty young girlfriend is a no-brainer; Lucas is a virile, highly sexual man who’d have no trouble attracting women, even in a place as remote as this compound.
The more I consider it, the more it makes sense to me. This, right here, is why he didn’t fuck me earlier.
It wasn’t because of my pleas—it was because he didn’t want to be unfaithful.
“What do you want?” I ask the girl, trying to ignore the irrational sense of betrayal at this realization. She doesn’t seem disturbed at seeing me naked and tied up, so she obviously knows what her boyfriend is up to. “Why are you here?”
She opens her mouth as though to respond, but ducks out of sight instead. A moment later, I hear the front door opening and realize why.
Lucas is back.
A hum of awareness flutters through me as I hear his footsteps. He enters the room, stopping directly in front of me, and I see that his tan skin is glowing with perspiration. His sleeveless shirt is plastered against his muscular chest, a V of sweat visible in the middle. He looks powerfully, uncompromisingly male, and as I meet his icy gaze, I become cognizant of a heated ache between my legs.
As unbelievable as it is, I want him.
With effort, I tear my eyes away from his face, afraid he’ll realize what I’m feeling. Nothing about my interactions with him makes sense. I just realized he has a girlfriend, and even if he didn’t, how can I want a man I fear? And why hasn’t he hurt me yet?
My gaze falls on his knuckles, and I tense as I see bruises there.
He just beat someone up.
I want to ask him about it, but I stay silent and look down at my knees. He’s still angry—I can sense it—and I don’t want to provoke him. I also don’t bring up the girlfriend, though I’m dying to confront him about it. For some reason, the dark-haired girl didn’t want him to know she was spying on me, and I don’t want to sell her out for now.
I need whatever tiny advantage I can get.
“Are you hungry?” Lucas asks, and I look up, surprised by the question.
“I could eat,” I say cautiously. I’m actually starving, my body demanding sustenance after weeks of nonstop hunger, but I don’t want him to use that against me. I also really have to pee—a fact I’ve been trying not to focus on too much.
He stares at me, then nods, as though coming to a decision. Turning, he disappears down the hallway to the bathroom, and then I hear water running. Is he taking a shower?
Three minutes later, he reappears, dressed in a pair of black cotton shorts and a fresh T-shirt. His muscular neck is gleaming with droplets of water, and he smells like the body wash I used earlier, confirming my guess about the shower.
Crouching in front of me, he deftly unties my ankles and then walks around to untie my arms. “Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my elbow to pull me to my feet. “You can use the bathroom, and then I’ll feed you.”
He leads me to the bathroom, and I walk alongside him, too shocked to think about another escape attempt. “Go on,” he says, giving me a push when we get to the bathroom, and I step inside, deciding not to question my good fortune.
As I wash my hands, I see a new, unbroken toothbrush sitting on the counter. For a second, I’m tempted to repeat my earlier stunt, but I decide against it. If I couldn’t get him with the element of surprise, I certainly won’t be able to overpower him now that he’s aware of my capabilities.
Besides, he said he would feed me, and my stomach is doing cartwheels at the mere thought of food.
“Hands,” Lucas says, grabbing my wrists as soon as I step out of the bathroom, and I open my palms, showing him that they’re empty. He gives me an approving nod. “Good girl.”
I raise my eyebrows at his odd behavior, but he’s already leading me to the kitchen.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at a chair, and I obey, watching as he takes out the same ingredients he used at lunch and begins making two sandwiches. As he works, I quickly scan the kitchen, trying to locate anything that could be used as a weapon. To my disappointment, I don’t see a rack of knives or anything along those lines. The countertops are empty and clean, with the exception of the sandwich makings. He’s not wearing a gun either; he must have all his weapons stashed somewhere else, like in his car.
“Here,” he says, putting a plate in front of me, and I notice that it’s paper, not ceramic like the one that broke earlier. The knife that he used to spread the mayo is plastic too. He’s being cautious around me now. I have no doubt that if I searched through the drawers, I’d find something, but Lucas would be on me before I so much as opened a drawer.
My hands may be untied, but escape is as impossible as ever.
I run my tongue over my dry lips. “May I please have—”
“Water? Here you go.” He pours water from the sink into a paper cup, places it in front of me, and sits down across the table with his own sandwich.
I have a million questions for him, but I make myself drink my water and eat most of my sandwich before I give in to the impulse. The last thing I want is to upset him and lose out on this meal.
Finally, I can’t wait any longer. “Why are you doing this?” I ask as he finishes his food. My stomach is full to the point of bursting, and I can feel myself getting stronger as my body absorbs the calories. “What do you want from me?”
Lucas looks up, his features taut, and I realize he was just staring at my breasts—which are visible through my long hair. Heat climbs up my neck, and my nipples tighten, responding to the unconcealed desire in his eyes. I’ve been naked in front of him all day, and I’m getting desensitized to it, but that doesn’t mean the situation isn’t intensely sexual. As I hold his gaze, it dawns on me that part of the reason for his silence during dinner must’ve been the distraction of my unclothed body.
He still wants me, and I don’t know if the knowledge terrifies or excites me.
“Tell me about them,” he says abruptly. “Tell me about the people who recruited you, who made you do this.”
And here it is: the true reason he’s being nice to me. He’s playing good cop to the Russians’ bad one, the savior to their villain. It’s so close to my fantasies that I want to cry. Except he’s not interested in saving me; he wants to get answers—answers that I can’t and won’t give.
“What happened that day?” I ask instead. This question has been plaguing me ever since I learned that he and Esguerra are alive. “How did you survive?”
Lucas’s jaw hardens, and the desire in his gaze fades. “You mean with the plane crash?”
“So there was a plane crash?” I hadn’t been sure, though I figured his desire to make me pay meant that something had happened.
Lucas leans forward, his hands crushing his empty paper plate. “Yes, there was a crash. Didn’t your superiors keep you informed?”
I fight the urge to flinch at the renewed fury in his voice. “They did, but I thought they might’ve had wrong information.”
“Because we survived.”
I nod, holding my breath.
He stares at me for a second, then stands up and walks around the table. “Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my arm again. “We’re done here.”
And dragging me back to the living room, he ties me up in the chair and leaves again, the front door slamming loudly behind him.