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“What is your connection to Petrov?” he bellowed, coming close enough that she thought he might grab her.
“There is no connection,” she murmured.
“Bullshit. Quit fucking lying to me. Who is he to you?”
Raketa stood her ground and looked him in the eye; she had no intention of answering.
Gunner grasped the back of her neck and leaned in closer so their noses were almost touching.
“Who…is…he…to…you?” he spat, not lowering his voice even though she was right in front of him.
“He is no one to me.”
“Let me rephrase, then. Who was he to you?”
Raketa closed her eyes, leaving them that way far too long. He knew, or at least, he sounded like he did, and he wanted her to admit it. She never would allow the words he wanted to hear to cross her lips.
“No one,” she whispered.
Gunner raised his arm, but Raketa knew he wouldn’t strike her. He ran one hand through his hair while the other held tight to the back of her neck.
“Last warning. Tell me the truth,” he barked.
Last warning, and then what? Would he leave and let someone else take over, someone who would interrogate her in the way she doubted Gunner could?
It didn’t matter. She’d face death head-on before she admitted who Petrov was to anyone.
—:—
Gunner released Raketa’s neck, drew back with his right hand and struck, putting a hole in the bedroom wall. She didn’t shrink away from him, nor did she look afraid. She was banking on the fact that he wouldn’t hurt her because of their previous intimacy.
He needed more space between them and this room was too small to give him enough.
Gunner took a step back. “Come with me.” He left the room and stalked down the hall without bothering to see whether she was following. On his way, he grabbed a shirt that he’d tossed over the back of a chair and pulled it over his head.
When he reached the house’s main room, he pointed to one of the sofas. “Sit,” he told her.
She ignored him and stood with her arms folded.
“When were you born?”
“You already know the answer.”
“What day?”
There it was, the flash of pain in her eyes that he’d seen before, gone before most would’ve noticed it.
“You don’t know, do you?”
She didn’t answer or even move her head.
“Who were you before the KGB recruited you?”
Still no response.
“Who is Zaryana Ivashov?”
This time she squared her shoulders, but still didn’t speak.
