"You did what you had to do.” I shrug again. “Mara was your focus. You couldn’t help it. And she got away safely because you put an end to Sergei. You did enough.”
The lie comes easily enough, partially because it’s not Ilya I blame for what happened next to Svetlana. I don’t know how she got from Sergei’s place to a cell in a Russian compound, and I’m sure if we’d known more, Ilya could have stopped it… but the truth of the matter is that, that day, I wanted to go to her. I wanted to help her, to ensure she was safe after she left that warehouse.
I should have told Ilyanowhen he told me to stand down. I should have donesomething. Instead, I obeyed thoughtlessly, and now…
Now I’ll never be able to forget what I saw in that cell.
"Did I?" He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Sometimes I wonder. She was going to be my wife, Kazimir. And I just… told her to leave. I didn’t think twice about her. Mara wasn’t pleased with how I treated her, I can tell you that."
For a moment, I almost tell him the truth. That someone got to Svetlana afterward. That she was sold, trafficked, that our failure to help her brought about something much worse than what Sergei would have done to her in that warehouse. But that would mean admitting that I’ve been lying to Ilya since I called in the extraction. That I helped her. Maybe even that I fucked her.
I’ve always thought I wasn’t afraid of anything. But I feel like a fucking coward when the next words come out of my mouth.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now.”
That’s a lie, too. Ilya could do plenty. He could give her money, protection, find out who did this to her and see to it that those lives are ended and Svetlana is safe. But if I tell him…
If I tell him, that might meanmylife. And a small, guilty part of me knows that it’s more than that, too.
A truth surfaces that I didn’t want to admit until now… that I still don’t want to admit.
I don’t want Ilya to save her.Iwant to be the one to find out who hurt her. I want to make them bleed.
I want to protect her.Me.Not the man who doesn’t want her any longer, and never really did in the first place.
Ilya comes back to the desk, and we talk a little more about business and what to do next. By the time I’m excused, I’m exhausted, and I fall into bed after tossing back a couple shots of vodka, hoping for a dreamless sleep.
I’m not so lucky.
My dreams are full ofher. I wake in the morning hard and aching, head foggy, without any of the clarity that I hoped for. My hand is on my cock before I’ve barely even woken up, sliding over the straining flesh as I cling to the last heated scraps of my dreams.
I'm already leaking, already desperate. I shouldn't do this—shouldn't feed the obsession.
But I can’t fucking stop.
I remember watching her dry off after her bath. The way she'd stood there in just that shirt, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. The top buttons undone, showing the curve of her breasts. The hem barely covering her ass.
I'd wanted to cross that room and take her right there, push her against the wall, and fuck her until she forgot her own name.
My cock throbs in my hand. I'm gripping myself too hard, but I can't seem to ease up. The pressure feels good, just on the edge of pain, a punishment as well as the pleasure I’m panting for.That must be what she felt when I spanked her. When her ass turned pink under my palm, when she gasped and arched and pushed back for more.
I remember the moment I'd slid my hand between her legs and found her wet. So fucking wet. The way she'd moaned when I'd touched her clit. The way her whole body had trembled.
My hand speeds up. I'm breathing hard now, my hips starting to move, fucking up into my fist. I remember licking that vodka away from her mouth, tasting her skin, how hot and wet she felt against my cock… the way she'd looked at me—challenging me, daring me to take what I wanted.
I remember pushing inside her for the first time. The tight, wet heat of her. The way she'd gasped and arched and taken me deeper. My hips jerk up into my fist. I'm close already, wound too tight, too desperate, and I let it go, because Ishouldbe trying to exorcise this, trying to rid myself of a desire that only ends in blood…myblood.
But as I spurt over my fist, groaning her name into the early morning light as I wish to fucking God I was thrusting into her instead of my hand, I know there’s no getting rid of this.
Once wasn’t enough.
I need to find her. I need to find out where she is, and I need to have her again. Just once more, maybe. In a bed, in a place where we’re not running for our lives, somewhere I can take my time with her.
Maybe that will be enough.
I know I need to let this go. But I’ve wanted her for so fucking long, and for the first time, she’shere, within my grasp, and she belongs to no one else.
She’s free.
