6
Peter
“She’s not happy, huh?” Anton says quietly in Russian as I take out an oversized carton of eggs he just loaded into the fridge, set it on the counter next to the stovetop, and begin hunting for a frying pan.
“No.” I barely restrain myself from slamming the cupboard door when I don’t find the frying pan there. “But she’ll get used to it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I finally locate the pan in one of the pull-out drawers by the stove. “Then she’ll stay fucking miserable.” Grabbing the pan, I shove the drawer shut, then curse myself when I see a hairline crack appear in the glossy white wood. Renovating the house one helicopter load at a time was a bitch, and I can’t afford to vent my anger on the kitchen counters. Anton’s face at training later today will be a much better target.
“You know this had to happen, right?” my friend continues, as though oblivious to the rage simmering in my gut. “That suburban bullshit couldn’t continue forever. It’s a miracle they didn’t bust us sooner. If you want this girl long term—and you do, right?—this is the only way.”
I clench my jaw so hard my molars ache. “Drop it, Anton. This is none of your fucking business.”
“All right. Just reminding you of the facts. I know it sucks that she’s upset and all, but—” He stops, apparently realizing I’m half a second away from kicking his teeth in. Taking out his Swiss army knife, he slices through a netted bag of oranges and puts the fruit into a big wooden bowl on the counter. Then, eyeing the carton of eggs with interest, he asks, “What’s for breakfast?”
“For you? Not a thing.” I crack five eggs into a mixing bowl, pour in a little milk, and add seasoning before stirring. “You and the twins can fend for yourself.”
“That’s harsh, man,” Yan says, entering the kitchen. He’s carrying a huge box filled with more fruits and veggies, as well as bread and frozen meat—food supplies that our local contact loaded onto the chopper before sending it our way.
“Ilya and I are starving, and you like to cook,” Yan continues when I don’t respond. “How hard is it to make some extra? I promise, I will keep my mouth shut about your pretty doctor.”
Fighting the urge to snap at him, I crack a dozen more eggs into the bowl. I don’t usually feed the guys, but Yan is right: it would be petty to deprive my team of a good breakfast after such a long trip.
I just need them to shut up about Sara, because if I hear one more word on the topic, I’ll rip their fucking heads off.
Wisely, both Yan and Anton remain silent, unpacking the rest of the food as I cook the omelet, and by the time, Ilya walks in, I’m almost calm—if one doesn’t count the sporadic urge to put my fist through the white quartz countertop.
Ilya sits down on one of the stainless-steel barstools and opens his laptop, reminding me that we have issues besides Sara to worry about.
“What did the hackers say?” I ask when I see him frowning at the screen. “Any leads on that ublyudok?”
“Nope.” Ilya’s face is grim as he looks up. “No credit card transactions, no attempts to contact any friends or relatives, nothing. The fucker is good.”
My hand tightens on the handle of the frying pan, my fury returning. The last name on my list—one Walton Henderson III, aka Wally, of Asheville, North Carolina—is the general who was in charge of the NATO operation that went sideways and resulted in the deaths of my wife and son. It was he who gave the order to act without verifying the validity of the supposed lead on the terrorist group, and it was he who authorized the soldiers to use whatever force was necessary to contain “the terrorists.”
I already killed all the soldiers and intelligence operatives involved in the Daryevo massacre, but Henderson—the one who has the most to answer for—is still at large, having disappeared with his wife and children as soon as rumors of my target list reached the intelligence community.
“Tell the hackers to do a deep dive on all his friends and relatives, no matter how distant the connection,” I say as Yan walks over to sit down on the barstool next to his brother. “They should look for anything out of the norm, like large cash withdrawals, purchases of extra phones, out-of-town trips, property acquisitions or vacation rentals, anything and everything that could indicate they’re in league with that bastard. Someone has to know where Henderson went, and my bet is on some random cousin. If in a few months, there’s still nothing, we might need to start making in-person visits to Henderson’s connections, flush him out that way if need be.”
“You got it,” Ilya says, his thick fingers flying over the keyboard with surprising agility and grace. “It’ll cost us, but I think you’re right. People have trouble breaking ties completely.”
“Yan, do we have those camera recordings?” I ask when the other twin opens his own laptop. “The ones from Sara’s parents’ house? We need to see if the Feds spoke to them yet.”
“Downloading them now,” he responds without looking up from the screen. “This satellite connection is slow as fuck. Says it’s going to take forty minutes to get the files off the cloud.”
“All right, then let’s eat first,” I say, turning off the stove. “Anton, can you set the table for the five of us? I’m going to go get Sara.”
My men keep their silence as I head toward the stairs, but when I’m halfway up the steps, I see Yan lean toward Ilya, whispering something in his ear.
Sara is just emerging from the bathroom when I enter the room, her slim torso wrapped in a big white towel and her wet hair confined in a crooked bun on top of her head. Her pale skin is flushed, likely from the heat of the water, and her thick-lashed hazel eyes are red and swollen from crying.
She should’ve looked pathetic, but she looks heartbreakingly beautiful instead, like a Disney princess down on her luck. Maybe the one from Beauty and the Beast, though I’m not sure I qualify as the Beast in that tale.
Belle didn’t hate her captor nearly as much as Sara seems to hate me.
“Breakfast is ready,” I say coldly, trying not to think about her earlier revelation. Knowing that Sara warned me to save my life shouldn’t bother me—after all, that’s confirmation that she doesn’t wish me dead—yet her words felt like a red-hot poker tearing through my chest. I suppose it’s because I convinced myself that she wanted to come along, that when she begged me to let her go, it was just cold feet.
It hurt because I deluded myself into believing that one day, she’ll love me too.
“Thanks. I’ll be right down.” She doesn’t look at me as she says this, just goes into the closet and emerges a minute later holding one of my long-sleeved flannel shirts and a pair of sweatpants.
“Do you mind?” she says, setting the clothes on the bed, and I fold my arms across my chest, realizing she wants me to turn away while she’s changing.
“No, not at all. Go right ahead.”
She glances up at me. “I meant that—”
“I know what you meant.” I keep my face impassive, even as anger continues to roil my insides. If she thinks I’m going to let her treat me like a stranger, she’s sorely mistaken. She might not love me, but she’s mine, and I’m not about to pretend I’ve never felt her orgasm on my cock. If there’s one thing we’ve always had, it’s this connection of the flesh, a mutual craving so intense it supersedes simple lust. I want Sara as I’ve never wanted another woman, and I know she’s not indifferent to me.
She wants me, and I won’t let her deny it.
The flush on Sara’s face deepens, her knuckles whitening as she picks up the pants. “Fine.” Glaring at me, she plops down on the bed and pulls the pants on with jerky movements, keeping the towel knotted around her chest until she’s got the pants pulled up to her waist and the pant legs rolled up. Then she stands and drops the towel. I catch a glimpse of gorgeous pink-tipped breasts as she pulls on the shirt with angry movements, and my cock stiffens in response, my body reacting to the sight of her nakedness with predictable swiftness.
“Happy now?” She yanks at the drawstring in the waistband of the pants, tying it tightly to keep them from falling down to her ankles, and despite my dark mood, I can’t help thinking how adorable she looks in my clothes.
If Anton’s jeans and T-shirt were big on her, my sweatpants and flannel shirt are huge. I’m a few centimeters taller and broader than my friend, and these clothes are meant to be loose on me. My young doctor looks like a kid trying on adult clothes—an impression further enhanced by her small bare feet and messy hair.
Unable to help myself, I take a swift step forward, clasp her wrist, and draw her against me, ignoring the angry stiffness in her body as I mold her hips against mine. With my free hand, I gather her damp topknot in my fist, tilting her head back, and then I lower my head and kiss her.
Her mouth is sweet and faintly minty, like she just brushed her teeth. Her lips part on a startled gasp, and I inhale her warm breath, possessing her air like I want to possess everything about her. I want her body and her mind, her fury and her joy. And most of all, I want her love, the one thing she may never give me.
My tongue invades her mouth, stroking the wet, silky depths, and her fingers dig into my sides under the jacket, her nails sharp through the cotton layer of my shirt. The tiny bite of pain jolts my nerve endings, sending more blood surging to my cock, and my balls tighten, the urge to fuck her so intense I almost tumble her to the bed and pull down those ridiculously baggy sweatpants. Only the knowledge that my men are waiting downstairs stops me from doing so.
I want her too much for a two-minute quickie.
With superhuman effort, I release her and step back, breathing harshly. Sara looks the same way I feel, her eyes heavy-lidded and her face flushed as she dazedly gulps in air.
“Go down before the eggs get cold,” I say in a strained voice, unzipping my jeans to adjust the painful pressure in my pants. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
She turns and flees before I finish speaking, and I close my eyes, taking deep breaths and thinking of Siberian winters to make my hard-on subside.