Capture Me Page 10

  Lucas’s face blurs in front of my eyes, and I realize I am crying, fat, ugly tears welling up and spilling down my cheeks. Embarrassed, I automatically try to wipe them away, but my hands, still cuffed to my ankles, can’t reach that far. The motion ends up being jerky and awkward, and I see Lucas’s face turn to stone as he glances down at me.

  “You fucking bitch,” he says so softly that I can barely hear him. “You think you can manipulate me with your tears?” His grip on me tightens, turning hard and punishing as he stops in front of the SUV and glares down at me, as if waiting for a response. When I don’t give him one, his features harden further. “You’re going to pay for what you did,” he promises, his voice filled with quiet fury. “You’re going to pay for everything.”

  And with that, he jerks open the car door and throws me onto the back seat. As my back hits the cushioned leather, I know that I was wrong.

  This is not a dream.

  It’s a nightmare.

  * * *

  The ride takes only a few minutes. Lucas drives silently, not saying anything else to me, and I use the time to compose myself. Strangely, thinking of his threat helps me control my tears, my stunned joy turning into cold fear as I process the fact that Lucas Kent is alive—and that he will indeed be the one to make me pay.

  Does that mean the plane crash happened after all? If so, how did he and Esguerra survive? I want to ask Lucas that, but I can’t bring myself to break the silence, not when I feel his rage pulsing in the air like a malevolent force waiting to be unleashed. He took off his weapon, setting it on the front seat next to him, but that doesn’t lessen the threat emanating from him.

  He can kill me with his bare hands if he’s so inclined.

  As the car leaves the heavily wooded area, I see a big white house in the distance. It’s surrounded by manicured green lawns that form a contrast to the untamed jungle behind us. Farther back, I see guard towers spaced a few dozen meters apart. The sight doesn’t surprise me; Esguerra’s file said that his Colombian estate is heavily fortified despite its remote location on the edge of the Amazon rainforest.

  We don’t go to the big house; instead, we turn and drive along the jungle to a cluster of smaller houses and boxy, one-story buildings. It must be where the guards and others on the Esguerra compound live, I realize as I see armed men—and an occasional woman—going in and out of the dwellings.

  The car stops in front of one of the individual houses, the one with a front porch, and Lucas exits, leaving the gun in the car. He slams the door behind him, and I flinch, trying not to give in to the anxiety choking me from within. The fear is thick and bitter in my throat. It’s worse somehow that it’s Lucas who’ll do those terrible things to me, that he’ll be the one to rip out my fingernails or cut me open piece by piece.

  It’s worse because there were times in that Moscow prison when I used to imagine I was with him, when I fantasized that he was holding me and I was safe in his strong embrace.

  Lucas walks around the car and opens the back door. Reaching in, he grabs me and drags me out, still not saying a word as he lifts me against his chest and slams the door closed with his foot. His hold on me is again harsh and punishing, and I know it’s only the start.

  My fantasies are about to shatter under the weight of reality.

  He carries me up the porch stairs, walking as easily as if I weigh nothing. His strength is tremendous, only there’s no safety in it. Not for me, at least. Maybe for some woman in the future, someone he’ll care about and want to protect.

  Someone he won’t hate as much as he hates me.

  As he pushes open the front door and turns sideways to carry me through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of curious faces staring up at us from the street. There are several men and a middle-aged woman, and for one absurd moment, I’m tempted to beg them for help, to plead with them to save me. The urge fades as quickly as it comes. These people aren’t some innocent passersby. They’re employees of a sadistic arms dealer, and they’re fully complicit in whatever fate is about to befall me.

  So I stay silent as Lucas carries me into the house and once again shuts the door behind him with his foot. He’s not looking at me, so I use the opportunity to study him, noting the granite set of his jaw. He’s still furious, the rage radiating off him like heat off a flame. It makes me wonder why he’s so mad. Surely this sort of thing—making Esguerra’s enemies pay—is routine for him. I would’ve expected cold detachment, not this volcanic anger.

  Come to think of it, I would’ve expected him to take me to some warehouse or a storage shed, some place they wouldn’t mind dirtying with blood and bodily fluids. Instead, I find myself inside a residential home, albeit one with only basic furnishings. One black leather sofa, a flatscreen TV, gray carpet, and white walls—the room he carries me through is not luxurious, but it’s certainly no torture chamber. Could this be Lucas’s house? And if so, why am I here?

  I don’t have time to dwell on it for long because he brings me into a large, white-tiled bathroom. There is a massive tub, a glass-walled shower stall, and a sink next to a toilet.

  Definitely not a torture chamber.

  “Why did you bring me here?” My voice is hoarse, scratchy from disuse. I haven’t spoken since Esguerra’s men stopped me from screaming back in Moscow. “It’s your house, isn’t it?”

  Lucas’s jaw muscle flexes, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he carries me into the shower stall, sets me down on the tiled floor, and pulls out a key. Grabbing my handcuffs, he unlocks them and detaches them from the ankle cuffs, which he unlocks next. Then he yanks me to my feet.

  “You need a fucking shower,” he says harshly. “Take those clothes off. Now.”

  My knees buckle, my leg muscles unable to bear the sudden strain of standing, even as my aching back weeps in gratitude at finally being straight again. My head spins from chronic hunger and exhaustion, and it’s only Lucas’s grip on my arm that prevents me from sinking back down to the floor.

  A shower? He wants me to take a shower? Before I can process that odd demand, he lets out an impatient noise and grabs the zipper of my jumpsuit, pulling it down roughly.

  “Wait, I can—” I try to reach for the zipper with one trembling hand, but it’s too late. Lucas spins me around, flattening my face against the shower wall, and yanks the jumpsuit down to my knees, leaving me wearing nothing more than a pair of loose, high-waisted panties and a stretched-out sports bra—the only underwear allowed at the prison. Within a second, he rips those off me as well and spins me around to face him.

  “Don’t make me tell you twice.” His fingers catch my jaw in a hard grip as he holds my upper arm with his other hand. “You’ll do what I say, understand?” His eyes glint with icy rage and something more.

  Lust.

  He still wants me.

  My heart pounds in a furious rhythm as the fact that I’m naked in front of him again sinks in. I should’ve expected this, but for some reason, I didn’t. In my mind, what happened between us before was entirely separate from the punishment he’s about to dole out, but I should’ve known better.

  For men like Lucas Kent, violence and sex go hand in hand.

  “Do you understand?” he repeats, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw, and I blink affirmatively, the only movement I’m capable of. Apparently, that’s enough, because he releases me and steps back.

  “Wash yourself,” he orders, stepping out of the stall and closing the glass door behind him. “You have five minutes.”

  And crossing his arms in front of his massive chest, he leans back against the wall and stares at me, waiting.

  17

  Lucas

  She reaches for the faucet, her entire body shaking, and I see the effort each movement is costing her. She’s weak and thin, infinitely more fragile than the last time I saw her, and the fact that this disturbs me enrages me even more.

  I expected to feel lust and hatred, to revel in her suffering even as I slaked my hunger on her de
ceitful flesh. I planned to treat her like my fucktoy until my obsession with her faded, and then do whatever it took to find the puppet masters pulling her strings.

  I didn’t count on this pale, bedraggled creature and how seeing her this way would make me feel.

  Did they starve her? Apparently so, because I can see each of her ribs. Her stomach is concave, her hipbones are jutting out, and her limbs are painfully skinny. She must’ve lost at least fifteen pounds in the last two months, and she’d already been slender.

  She manages to turn on the water, and I force myself to remain still as she reaches for the shampoo. She’s not looking at me, all her attention focused on her task, and I feel a fresh wave of rage, mixed with lust and that disconcerting something.

  Something that feels suspiciously like protectiveness.

  Fuck. I clench my teeth, determined to resist the bizarre urge to step into the shower and gather her against me. Not to fuck her, though my body is eager to do that as well, but to hold her.

  To hold and comfort her.

  Infuriated, I shift against the wall, watching as she begins to lather her hair. Despite her extreme thinness, her body is graceful and feminine. Her breasts are smaller than before, but they’re still surprisingly full, her nipples drawn into taut pink buds as she stands under the water spray. I can see soft-looking blond fuzz between her legs; after nearly two months of no razor or wax, her pussy must be back to its natural state. My cock, semi-aroused from stripping her naked, hardens fully, and I imagine myself stepping into that shower, unzipping my jeans, and driving into her tight heat with no preliminaries. Just taking her, like the fucktoy I intended her to be.

  And there’s nothing stopping me from doing that. She’s my prisoner. I can do anything I want to her. I’ve never forced a woman, but I’ve never wanted and hated one at the same time either. How would fucking her be any worse than slicing up her delicate flesh to make her talk?

  It wouldn’t be. She’s mine to hurt in any way I please.

  Except hurting her is not what I want to do right now. The violence seething inside me is not for her. It’s for those who hurt her. When I saw her in Diego’s grip, her long hair lank and dull around her pale face, I felt a rage unlike any other. And when she began crying, it was all I could do not to cradle her against me and promise that no one will ever hurt her again.

  Not even me.

  The urge maddened me then, and it maddens me now. I have no doubt the witch knew what she was doing to me with those tears, just as she knew how to extract information out of me that night in Moscow. Her frail appearance is just that: an appearance. That beautiful blond exterior conceals a trained agent, a spy who’s as skilled at mind games as she is at foreign languages.

  “Your five minutes are up,” I say, straightening away from the wall. She’s washed her hair and her body, and is now just standing under the water with her eyes closed and her head tilted back. “Get out.” My voice is harsh, reflecting none of the turmoil I’m feeling.

  I won’t let her fuck with me again.

  At my words, she jumps, her eyes flying open, and reaches back to turn off the shower. She’s still shaking, though not as badly as before, and I wonder how much of that is an act and how much is actual weakness.

  Pulling open the shower door, I grab a towel and throw it at her. “Dry yourself.”

  She obeys, toweling off her hair and then her body. As she does so, I notice bruises covering her legs and ribcage and bluish circles under her weary eyes.

  Damn her. She’s not faking that.

  “That’s enough.” Suppressing the illogical pang of pity, I yank the towel away from her and hang it on a hook. “Let’s go.”

  Her eyes plead with me as I grab her arm, but I ignore their silent entreaty, my hold on her unnecessarily rough. I can’t give in to this weakness, to this obsession that seems to be completely out of control. Over the past two months, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t stop wanting her, but this is something else entirely.

  She stumbles as I tug her through the doorway, and I stop to pick her up, telling myself that it will be easier to carry her than to drag her. As I swing her up against my chest, I feel the soft press of her breasts and smell her scent, now clean and mixed with the aroma of my body wash. Lust surges through me again, pushing aside my awareness of her too-light weight, and I welcome it. This is exactly what I need: to want her and nothing else. And for that, I can’t have her as this frail, pathetic waif.

  I need her stronger.

  The bedroom was my destination, but I change my course, heading for the kitchen instead. I can feel her breathing fast—she’s probably afraid—but she doesn’t struggle. She undoubtedly realizes how pointless it would be in her weakened state.

  When we reach the kitchen, I set her down in a chair and take a step back. Immediately, she draws her knees up against her chest, concealing much of her naked body. Her eyes are big and scared as she stares at me, her wet hair plastered against her back and shoulders.

  “You’re going to eat,” I tell her, approaching the fridge. Opening it, I take out turkey, cheese, and mayo, and place everything on the counter next to the loaf of bread sitting there. As I make the sandwich, I keep an eye on her, making sure she’s not attempting anything—which she’s not. She’s just sitting there, watching warily as I smear the mayo on both slices of bread, slap on some cheese and turkey, and place everything on a plate.

  “Eat,” I say, putting the plate in front of her.

  She runs her tongue over her lips. “May I have some water, please?”

  Of course. She must be thirsty as well. Without answering, I walk over to the sink, pour a glass of water, and bring it to her.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is quiet as she accepts my offering, her slender fingers wrapping around the glass and brushing against mine in the process. A frisson of electricity races up my spine at that accidental touch, and my jeans become uncomfortably tight again, my cock straining against the zipper.

  Her eyes flick down for a second before returning to my face, and I see her pupils dilating. She’s aware of my lust for her, and it frightens her. Her hand holding the glass trembles slightly as she drinks, and her other arm tightens around her drawn-up knees.

  Good. I want her afraid. I want her to know that I may want her body, but I won’t show her mercy. She won’t be able to manipulate me ever again.

  While she’s drinking, I sit down across the table and lean back in the chair, linking my hands behind my head.

  “Eat. Now,” I order again when she puts down her glass, and she obeys, her straight white teeth sinking into the sandwich with unconcealed eagerness.

  Despite her obvious hunger, she eats slowly, thoroughly chewing each bite. It’s a smart move; she doesn’t want to get sick from eating too much too fast.

  “So,” I say when she’s eaten about a quarter of her meal, “what’s your real name?”

  She pauses mid-bite and puts down her sandwich. “Yulia.” Her eyes hold mine without blinking.

  “Don’t lie to me.” I unlink my hands and lean forward. “A spy wouldn’t use her real name.”

  “I didn’t say it’s Yulia Tzakova.” She picks up the sandwich again and consumes another bite before explaining, “Yulia is a common name in Russia and Ukraine, and it happens to be my birth name. It’s the Russian version of Julia.”

  “Ah.” That makes sense, and I’m inclined to believe her. It’s always easier to stick close to your real identity when going undercover. “So, Yulia, what is your real last name then?”

  “My last name doesn’t matter.” Her soft lips twist. “The girl it belonged to no longer exists.”

  “Then there’s no harm in telling me what it is, is there?” Despite myself, I’m intrigued. Whether it matters or not, I want to know her last name.

  I want to know everything about her.

  She shrugs and bites into her sandwich again. I can tell she has no intention of answering me.

  My t
eeth grind together, but I remind myself to be patient. The Russians hadn’t been able to get anything useful out of her in two months, so I certainly can’t expect to crack her in the first hour. Priority number one is having her eat and regain her strength. Answers will come later. I’ll get them out of her, one way or another.

  For now, I mentally go through the information Buschekov emailed me on her. There isn’t much that they were able to uncover. All she’s admitted is that she’s twenty-two, not twenty-four as listed in her fake passport, and she was born in Donetsk, one of the embattled areas in eastern Ukraine. The Ukrainian government refused to claim her as one of their own, so the organization she works for must be private or strictly off the books. Her degree in English Language and International Relations from Moscow State University is apparently real; there is a record of Yulia Tzakova graduating from there two years ago, and Buschekov was able to track down professors and classmates who verified that she did, in fact, attend classes.

  Did the Ukrainians recruit her at the university, or did they plant her there? It’s not out of the question that she’s been working for them since her teens. Agents rarely get recruited that young, but it does happen.

  “How long have you been doing this?” I ask when she’s nearly done with her sandwich. Her pale cheeks have a bit of color in them now, and she looks less shaky. “Spying for Ukraine, that is?”

  Instead of answering, Yulia takes a sip of water, puts down her glass, and looks straight at me. “May I use the restroom, please?”

  My hands tighten on the table. “Yes—when you answer my question.”

  She doesn’t blink. “I’ve been doing it for a while,” she says evenly. “Now, may I please pee in the toilet? Or should I do it here?”

  The rage smoldering within me flares brighter, and I give in to it. In an instant, I’m next to her, grabbing her by her hair and yanking her to her feet. She cries out in pain, her hands clutching at my wrist, but I don’t give her a chance to start fighting. In less than two seconds, I have her folded over the table, her arm twisted behind her back and her face pressed against the table surface. The plate with the remnants of the sandwich slides off the table, shattering on the floor, but I don’t give a fuck.