He watched her face intently, absorbing the pain, the panic, the distress… the beauty.

Blyad, she was so breathtakingly beautiful. More so than when she last belonged to him, two years ago. Her facial features were slightly sharper, less soft, more mature. Her curves were all woman. He knew they would fit his hands even better than they had when he’d made love to her last. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to have her back under his hands, his mouth and his cock. The years had indeed wrought changes in his young wife. Some good and some that set his teeth on edge, set his blood boiling in his normally icy veins. Changes he intended to ferret out and, god help her if he didn’t like the answers.

“No!” she cried and pushed uselessly against him. “Please David! We can’t be together! I won’t tell anyone about you. I haven’t since… since I left. Why can’t I just go back to my life here? I’ll stay away from you and never breathe a word. I promise I won’t!”

Fuck if he didn’t love the way she begged. Her gorgeous lips pursing, her brows drawing together in worry as she thought how best to please him, how best to get herself out of this deadly situation. Not that it mattered. She could beg all she wanted. In fact, he would encourage this activity in their future encounters. He liked the way she looked when she wanted something from him. When she was desperate.

He shook his head. “Impossible Natasha. You know I can’t leave you. You know too much about me. If I don’t kill you then you must come with me.”

A shudder rippled through her.

Dropping his head against her neck he breathed deeply of her sweet, damp scent. Ah, that beautiful, sweet smell, the feel of her under his hands once more! “You have much to make up for, my love.”

Unable to hold back a moment longer from tasting his wife, David tangled his hand in her hair and forced her head up to his. She tried to brace herself against his chest, pressing her fists against him, but he easily crushed her resistance, pulling her wrists behind her back and arching her into him. He took her lips in a harsh kiss meant to punish. He plundered her mouth with his tongue and teeth until she struggled to breathe. Dizzy, her knees buckled and she was forced to rely on him for support. Dark satisfaction flared like fire through his veins and he tightened his hold on her to an almost unbearable degree.

The kiss went on and on. It wasn’t meant to be sexy, but a primal possession of her mouth, a stamp of ownership over the woman he was reclaiming. Forced to take what he was giving her, she finally capitulated and relaxed her jaw, allowing him better access without a struggle. He pulled back slightly, when she began to grow limp in his arms, and she sucked in a mouthful of air before he once more assaulted her with his mouth. He ignored her faint moan of protest, clenching his fist in her hair and tilting her head back further to deepen the angle of the kiss.

His teeth grazed her, his lips hard against hers, his tongue lunging into her mouth and sweeping every recess within. Over and over he kissed her, giving her only brief moments of reprieve to breathe in much needed oxygen before taking her mouth again. A muffled cry and the taste of metallic blood had her struggling against him. He stiffened.

“Fuck,” he growled against her swollen lips. His tongue swiped against the cut on her lip. He tasted her blood.

He allowed her head to drop against his shoulder. He knew she wouldn’t be able to stand on her own. This was the beginning. If she was going to stay alive, to survive in his world, she would come to rely on him for everything. Starting with the very air she breathed. Her breaths puffed out from between swollen, bloodied lips, fanning intimately against his throat. His cock hardened in response and he was reminded sharply of the many times Natasha had curled against him in her sleep, before she had run from him. Her breath had caressed his skin, reminding him of the delicate life entrusted to his care.

The life she had taken away, hidden and stolen from him. Teasing him, as she fitted and flirted from country to country, from continent to continent. For two long, fucking years. The hand gripping her wrists behind her back clenched until she whimpered in pain. He gritted his teeth, trying to bring the tidal wave of black rage back under control. No one – not one single other person – was capable of eroding David’s control the way Natasha could. The organization that had raised David would call her a liability. The man that taught him to pull the trigger on another life would insist he bury his weakness.

Instead he loosened his grip.

He dropped his forehead against the top of her soft head, feeling the smooth silk of her hair against his skin. It calmed him. Fuck, it shouldn’t, but it was true. There was something about his dancer that still got to him, even after their years apart. She somehow reached into his numb, emotionless body, hooked his cold heart and pulled. She gutted him. Good emotions, bad emotions. She pulled them all out of him. He didn’t get it. But he was long past trying to understand. And since he was apparently incapable of pulling the trigger on her, he was going to have to figure out what the fuck to do with her. Because he now had a disobedient wife on his hands. A woman that had proved herself capable of running and hiding from him, a man capable of hunting prey far more skilled at hiding than a sheltered twenty-year-old ballet dancer.

This thought reminded him that he needed answers. Answers that she wasn’t going to want to give and that he sure as fuck wasn’t going to like hearing. But he needed to know. Needed to find out how she got away from him. How she hid so effectively from him for two years. It should have been impossible. But somehow, she’d managed it.

Rage rippled through him as he remembered the amount of times he’d convinced himself she was dead. Brutally raped and murdered at the hands of his enemies. At those times, he would lose all control, his infinite icy calm would crack and he would destroy whatever hotel room he was in until there was nothing left to rage against. Then… then, he would pick up the thread of her trail once more. It was those moments that his thoughts turned bleakest. That he imagined turning his gun against her. Of ending the wife that obsessed him endlessly. Of finishing the woman that captured his thoughts and emotions and twisted them in a beautiful, but deadly little dance.

What other choice did he have? She was a liability. Her rebellion had to be crushed. Destroyed. Yet, looking down at her now, taking in the soft wisps of hair caressing her pale cheeks. The shuddering breaths pulled into struggling lungs overwhelmed by his kisses, he knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger on her. He couldn’t. She was his dancer. His delicate, passionate beauty that must be harnessed and protected.

He relaxed his grip and allowed her to fall through his fingers, hardening his heart against her frightened whimper. He’d spared her life. He wasn’t going to give an ounce more of his mercy. They would have to find a way to survive the coming storm and he knew of only one way. The assassin’s wife would have to learn her place. So, he let her do something he’d never allowed before. He let her fall to her knees before him; a symbolic gesture of subservience that would set her place in their marriage going forward.

Her hands came out in front of her body, her fingers splaying wide on the smooth floor of the gym. The tidy knot on top of her head was now a mess with strands of hair escaping all over the place creating a dark halo around her head. She frowned for a moment and started to push herself up.

“Do not move,” David snapped.

She froze and slowly lifted her chin to look at him, fear and defiance flashing in her eyes. Did she understand the significance of her position? Even to suck his cock, he’d never before allowed his wife to go to her knees before him. He’d worked for, become part of, shadowed organizations, within Russia and elsewhere, for too long to allow his wife to ever take this position before him. Bowing down to another power was never something he wanted for this precious creature. Yet, now… she’d forced his hand. If she would not bend, then she would have to break.

She shifted on her legs, allowing her body weight to fall sideways until she was sitting with her legs curled beside her, her feet tucked slightly underneath her butt. His mouth damn near watered with the need to touch, to taste, to fuck her. She watched him warily as he circled her. Stalked around her crouched body within the circle of the spotlight. Glass from the mirror crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped around her. She winced, but held her position.

“Why did you run from me, wife?” he finally asked, his voice low, almost conversational.

She stiffened. He circled around so he could see her face, but she refused to lift her chin and give him her eyes. She trained her gaze on the floor in a subservient pose. He knew better. He could tell from the stiffness of her spine, the compression of those lovely full lips and the confused resentment radiating from every fiber of her being that his wife was in no way submitting to his position of authority over her.

He leaned slightly, allowing his finger to trail across her bare shoulders, catching slightly on the rougher fabric of her leotard. “I think we both know, Natasha. But I want to hear you say the words.” His voice was thick, filled with lust and danger.

She flinched, jerking her body away from his questing fingers. Her shoulder twitched, lifting a little in defiance. “Stop it, just stop touching me,” she growled, anger and desperation lacing her tones. She jerked her chin away, keeping her face averted from him, still pretending submission when they both knew better.

He squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself from grabbing her roughly as he longed to do. He needed answers and if he laid hands upon her, he would kiss her again. And this time he wouldn’t stop. He would do so much more. He took a calming breath through his nose and released it, removing his hand from her shoulder. He circled in front of her and dropped into a crouch, tilting her chin up with his finger. She glared daggers at him, giving lie to her meek little pose.

“But you like it, my love,” he drawled, reminding her of the first time he’d forced her to enjoy his touch. She flinched and her breaths became shallow as his words hit home.

“Now,” he said, his face so close to hers that their breaths mingled, “you will tell me why you ran away from me or I will kill all of the people you have befriended in this quaint little city, starting with your friend Regan Taylor who works with you and lives at 910 Attenby Crescent. Then I will continue down the line through your other co-workers. You will notice I do not mention your friend Jordan Kent? This is because his life was forfeit the moment his hand touched what was mine. No amount of pleading on your part will change his outcome.”

Her mouth opened in a soundless protest, horror etching her lovely features as realization cracked any rebellion she wished to show him. He touched her bottom lip, lightly scraping his thumb along the tender skin that he’d ravaged. The blood was beginning to congeal. He touched the blood between his thumb and his forefinger and rubbed it, right in front of her face, showing her exactly how helpless she was. He listened with pleasure to the way her breath quickened as he outright threatened her friends while subtly threatening her very life. Yeah, he was a sick bastard. He was raised at the knees of cold-hearted murderers, taught emotions by the hands of men with death in their eyes and empty space where a conscience should be.

“Talk, now,” he said coldly, allowing her to see the flat death in his gaze, “or your friends die.”

Her eyelids dropped suddenly, shutting him out, as if in protest. But she began speaking, her voice a soft whisper, her words a rush of sweet sound to ears starved for the dancing chords of his woman’s voice. “I left because I was scared. I s-saw you kill someone, David. Oh god! I thought I was next!”

He watched her face, remembering back to the kill he’d made two years ago.

“So, you got scared and decided to run away from me?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said desperately.

“Where did you run to, dancer?” he asked, using his old nickname for her, absently running his thumb across her jaw as he tried to picture what she must have seen the day that she’d followed him.

“Vienna at first…” she admitted with no hesitation now. She seemed to understand that he would get the information anyway, probably already knew, and this was the easiest way. “I took the train from Barcelona. Then I went to London. Then Houston. Then Calgary. Some places in between. Always cities. Places where I could get lost easier.”

He continued to play with her, rubbing his thumb across her jaw, down her neck and back up. It could have been soothing, except they both knew better. His hands played across the pulse point that controlled her very life, like a master assessing her worth. “And how did you get to these places? You left your passport behind and no woman using your name traveled by the usual methods.”

She seemed to be having some trouble catching her breaths. Each one was a little more labored than the last as she struggled to hang on to the thread of the conversation while not falling apart completely beneath the terrifying, dominating specter of her brutal, deadly husband as he hovered over her, demanding answers. David could almost feel sorry for his tiny wife as she lost her defiance under the shadow of his encroaching darkness. She had somehow, someplace taken care of herself for two years. Built herself up to a level of independence, even learning to defend herself. And in the space of a few minutes, her deadly, masterful Russian husband crushed any illusion of defiance she might have had in her pretty little skull.

“I knew you would trace me,” she whispered, catching him by surprise.

He arched an eyebrow and, unable to help himself, ran his thumb once more over her soft cheek. “Did you now?”

She nodded and gave him everything. There didn’t seem to be any point in holding back now. “I worked off the grid, in hotels, as a maid, other jobs. I made enough money to buy a passport and a ticket to the states. Once there, I did the same thing until I could make my way to Canada. I-I thought I could lose you up here.”

David brought his face down to hers, his eyes glacial now. “You knew I was following?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, eyes carefully averted. “I always knew when you were getting closer. I never once saw you, but somehow, I knew you were always one step behind me. I knew I would have to run away again.”

“Until here, until Canada,” he growled, a frown creasing his brow.

She nodded quickly, sending the wisps of her hair dancing around her head. Against his will, his eyes followed the movement. “I decided to try and build a life here. I didn’t think you would find me. I was hoping, maybe, you would finally give up.”

As if compelled to make her understand his possession, his need of her, David bent over and bit her hard on the shoulder, marking her with his teeth. He stopped just short of drawing blood. “Never,” he snarled against her flesh as she cried out and jerked against him. “I will never stop looking for you and I will never stop making you pay for running from me.”

He saw her eyes flicker to his shoulder holster, the guns glinting in the dim lighting of the gym. He wondered what she thought. Was she planning a rebellion, an escape attempt? It would fail, obviously. But a part of him relished the thought of her trying. Pitting her meagre skills against him. He wanted to subdue his wife. Subjugate her. It was clear the past few years, running from city to city, had taught her new skills. Had taught his Natasha new facets of herself, like how to survive while running for her life. She was still quiet and reserved, but the tiny spark that had always existed within her, buried deep, had flared brighter with each new identity she’d been forced to create. With each hard, new reality, she had learned to rely on herself. She had become tougher, more independent. And an independent woman didn’t kneel at a man’s feet.

Though well hidden under layers of reserve and ice, David could feel the heat of her anger, her rebellion. Fuck, if it didn’t turn him on like nothing else ever had. His wife was proving even more irresistible than the first time he’d set eyes on her as she flew across the stage, captivating audiences of thousands at the Bolshoi.

David swiftly unholstered one of his guns and placed the muzzle against the side of her head. She flinched a little at the brutal feel of metal against her soft skin, but she didn’t even blink. Ah, his brave, beautiful girl. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted her more. What a fucking pity he needed information more than he needed to bury his cock in that silken pussy he only had the shadow of a memory of.

He pressed his lips against her ear and said in clear, crisp Russian, “Tell me who hid you for two years, Natasha. I know you didn’t do it by yourself. Tell me who you were fucking and I promise I will only kill him.”

He desperately wanted her shock. Wanted to hear her gasp in denial and jerk away from him, disgust at his accusation bright in her gorgeous eyes. She did none of those things. Instead, she hid her face from him, turning her chin away. His heart turned to ice in that moment, the bloody, raw tendrils of rage clawing at him, guiding him in his actions.

He slipped his fingers around her throat and squeezed, his gaze and his thoughts dispassionate as her fingers flew to his, wrapping around his hand, pulling, desperate to breath. He knew there would be bruises. Knew that she was truly terrified for her life. He didn’t care. He needed her fear. He closed his eyes, refusing to meet hers. He pressed the muzzle of the gun harder against her temple and kissed her lips hard while he pressed his thumb against her larynx, cutting off her precious air supply.

His lips tilted in a chilling smile as he felt the desperate wetness of her first tear touch his lip. The first crack. His cock twitched in anticipation while his brain screamed in triumph. Make her pay, make her cry and beg for every breath. Make her crawl to you and plead for her very life. She will know the pain of a long, endless life at your hands. Show her the horror that could be her future if she doesn’t relent. Break her now and live in peace later.