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I wondered briefly if she’d spied on us on purpose, but concluded it was unlikely. If she’d had any idea who we are, the bar would’ve been swarming with Interpol. Still, her sudden appearance made Ilya and me uneasy enough to pay attention to her, and the longer we watched her, the more we both wanted her.
I could see the same lust I was feeling painted across my brother’s face.
Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me. For whatever reason, Ilya and I are often drawn to the same women, and as neither of us is the jealous type, we don’t mind sharing with each other—and on occasion, indulging the woman’s fantasy of a ménage à trois with twins.
We don’t look that much alike, but we are genetically identical.
This time, though, the idea of my brother coming anywhere near this girl makes me want to break his steroid-thickened jaw. I know what he’s thinking—that once we have her at our place, we’ll calm her down and do our best to seduce her together. But he’s wrong. He’s not touching her tonight.
The pretty waitress is mine and mine alone.
I like the way she feels against me, all small and helpless as I lift her higher and carry her up the crumbling stairs to our second-floor apartment. Her scent, something sweet like honeysuckle and fresh like lemon, teases my nostrils, and my cock hardens as dark anticipation floods my veins. I’ve always enjoyed tall women, finding them to be a better match in bed, but something about this girl’s petiteness appeals to me on a deeply primitive level.
I can do anything I want to her, and the things I want to do are dark and twisted, as wrong as kidnapping her in the first place.
“You can set her down now,” Ilya says, stepping through the door behind me and turning the lock. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Reluctantly, I release her, and she immediately stumbles back, putting as much distance between us as the narrow hallway in this shitty apartment allows. She’s clearly terrified, her blue eyes wide and her body shaking as she presses her back against the wall. Yet there’s a peculiar gleam in her gaze too, something that doesn’t seem to fit the situation.
Something almost like curiosity.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Ilya says to her in Hungarian. “You don’t need to be afraid, malyshka. We brought you here because we want to talk.”
I remain silent, letting him do all the reassuring. He’s better at it—not that we make a practice of kidnapping the women we’re attracted to.
She’s the first one, in fact.
Her gaze flits between us, and I see the exact moment she decides Ilya is more trustworthy—a conclusion nearly everyone reaches, despite my brother’s intimidating bulk and all those tattoos. Somehow, people can sense that about us.
They can tell which of us retained his humanity.
“I don’t understand,” she tells Ilya, her voice panicked. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
Her words, her posture, her tone—all of it screams of the kind of fear any woman would feel when stolen off the street by two strangers, yet I’m still picking up that peculiar vibe from her. Curiosity isn’t quite the word for it, though.
Excitement, maybe?
Intrigued, I step closer, and she shrinks back—a proper reaction. But I still don’t buy it. There’s something almost… calculated about it, as if she’s making herself act afraid.
I take another step forward, until I’m looming over her small frame. Placing my palm on the wall next to her head, I lean in, effectively trapping her with my body. “What’s your name?” With the other hand, I gently nudge up her chin—which is quivering with appropriate drama, as if she’s about to cry.
“M-mina.” The word comes out on a breathless, fearful stutter, and I can feel my brother tense behind me. He doesn’t like this; we’re supposed to be calming her, not terrifying her out of her wits.
He clearly doesn’t see what I see.
He thinks the girl is ordinary.
Ignoring him, I focus on the pretty mystery before me. “Okay, Mina,” I murmur, stroking the delicate line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, even softer than I imagined, making me wonder how it’ll feel farther down, underneath that puffy jacket and big sweater. “Here’s what’s going to happen tonight. Are you listening to me?”
A terrified blink and a small, jerky nod. Such a good actress. Too bad I’ve always had a sixth sense for what lies under the surface, and with this girl, fear is not it.
Not all of it, at least.
“We’re going to spend the night here, the three of us,” I continue, watching her closely as I drop my hand to her shoulder, squeezing it lightly through her jacket. The tattoo on the left side of her neck is a hummingbird, I realize—small but rendered in exquisite detail. “We’ve got a few beers and snacks in the fridge, some music on our phones. A little house party to celebrate the end of your shift. What do you say? How does that sound?”
