“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 f*ck. 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 f*ck 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.
7
Sara
* * *
When I get downstairs, Peter’s teammates are already sitting at the rectangular wooden table, their eyes fixed longingly on the large frying pan sitting in the middle. One of them—the one dressed all in black, with shoulder-length hair and a thick dark beard—looks up as I approach.
“Where is Peter?” he asks, frowning. His Russian accent is only slightly more pronounced than Peter’s. “Food is getting cold.”
“He’s coming,” I say, the heat in my cheeks intensifying as the bearded man’s eyebrows crawl up. He can probably tell what happened upstairs by my swollen lips, if not my shaky inner state. My knees were literally trembling as I walked down the steps, and I’m grateful that Peter’s shirt is loose and thick, concealing the hard points of my nipples.
If my kidnapper had chosen to f*ck me, I wouldn’t have been able to say no, and the knowledge fills me with burning shame.