Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Her gaze follows the path of my hands as I fasten the buttons. “It’s yours.”
Like I’d dress her in another man’s clothes. I swallow down a vicious laugh.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks.
“You prefer I leave you naked?”
She shuts her mouth at that.
The hem reaches her thighs, but her naked pussy is only an arm’s reach away. I straighten and ask brusquely, “What do you need for the disguise?”
Her answer is tentative, as if she’s reluctant to do this. “The usual. A wig. Beard. Stage makeup.”
I glare down at her. “What were you hoping to achieve the night you let me take you?” I can’t let it go. I can’t wipe it out of my head. “Information, perhaps?” You never know. Some information is a valuable commodity.
“I told you. Nothing.”
I laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”
She glares right back at me. “What about you, Yan? What were you hoping to achieve? I heard you and Ilya. I heard what you said about keeping me.”
“Is that why you ran?”
She looks away.
I grip her chin and turn her face back to me. “Answer me.”
“There’s that, and…” For a second, she looks guilty. “And who I am.”
“Ah. A killer, you mean. I wouldn’t have judged you for that, princess, but framing me as a terrorist? Now that’s a different story.”
“It wasn’t personal,” she whispers.
My smile is mean. “Is that so?”
“It was a job.”
A job. I was a job.
Fuck me if I know why the knowledge slices me up ten different ways inside. Maybe because she’s not the waitress she pretended to be, and what she is makes her all the more perfect for me.
Under different circumstances, we may have had something, she and I. But as it stands now, we’re enemies.
And her life is mine.
11
Mina
It’s been a while since Yan left, taking my dirty clothes with him, but the scent of musky sandalwood and spicy pepper lingers in the space. Contrary to his overpowering personality, his signature cologne is subtle and airy, but it still dominates the shed, enough to mask the musty smell of the wood in my nostrils. It clings to his shirt, the one I’m wearing. Why did he bathe, feed, and dress me in something clean? Is this some psychological tactic, a way of softening me before breaking me? If so, it will be most effective. If he’s going to be physically cruel to me later, these kindnesses will make it seem worse.
Bars of shadows from the thin gaps between the wall planks stretch over the floor and finally disappear. Crickets start to chirp. There’s one somewhere in the corner of the shed, trapped inside, like I am. His song is out of tune with the chorus of the free ones outside. I distract myself by trying to spot my little companion, but the glow of the light Yan left on doesn’t bleed into the corners. It falls around me in a white pool, failing to reach the dark corners of my heart where fear beats out of tune.
It’s completely black outside when the door opens and Yan steps into the shed carrying two metal cases. They’re generic cases, the types that can be used for weapons or instruments of torture. The knot in my stomach tightens as I look from the cases to his face. His angular features are set in a hard expression, and the masculine beauty of his face somehow makes it look more dangerous, more calculated. He locks the door and crosses the floor. With every step he takes, my insides wind tighter together.
He drops the cases at my feet. “How are you doing, my little waitress?”
The accusation is bitter. To reply to it would only add to his wrath. And I can’t fault him for feeling this way. I understand how it looks from his perspective. One night, we meet and have sex, and fifteen months later, he finds out I’m the sniper who tried to get his friend/boss killed. What is he supposed to think? The only logical conclusion is that I was spying on him that night at the bar. To top it off, because I lied to protect Gergo, he believes I helped frame not only Sokolov but him and his brother by putting their faces on the team that committed a terrible act of terrorism. He doesn’t know that I had no idea what Henderson would do with the Delta Force men whose files I gave him, nor that I never would’ve taken the Sokolov job if I’d had any clue he was connected to Yan. And I can’t tell Yan the truth.
In his eyes, I’m a heartless monster, and I have to remain that way for as long as they let me live.
“We’re going to do this in reverse,” Yan says. “You’re going to disguise me to look like one of the Delta Force assholes.” Leaning over, he grips the armrests and adds in a soft, menacing voice, “For your sake, I hope you fail.”