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Tears fill her big blue eyes. “Please. I just want to go home. I’m… I’m really, really tired.”

I frown. The tears are also part of the act, I’m sure, but this close up, I can see the thick layer of makeup under her eyes, meant to hide the dark shadows imprinted on her creamy skin. She’s not lying about the tired part; if anything, she looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

Fuck. I was really looking forward to having her. I’m pretty sure at least part of what I’m sensing from her is attraction, the same kind of dark, potent pull I’m feeling toward her. If she’s this tired, though, she might not be up for a hookup, and I don’t force women.

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me back before I can say anything. “If you’re tired, you can sleep on the couch here,” my brother says, all but shoving me aside to stand in front of her. “We just need you to stay until the morning, okay?”

I barely resist the urge to shove him back, the way I would’ve when we were children. Back then, we’d fight all the time, with bloody noses and split lips as our constant companions. These days, however, our arguments rarely get physical, as with our skill set, things could quickly turn deadly.

We deal violence to others, not each other.

Still, my hand curls into a fist at my side as Mina asks tremulously, “But why? What do you want from me?”

Fucking Ilya. I want her looking up at me with those fake-scared eyes, not him.

“You might’ve heard some things you weren’t supposed to,” my brother answers with all the subtlety of a wild elephant. “So we just want to keep an eye on you until we leave town.”

“Oh.” Her eyes grow round. “But I didn’t… I don’t speak Russian.”

“Is that right?” I don’t bother to mask the skepticism in my tone as her gaze swings toward me. “Not even enough to recognize a few words? Or a name?”

Specifically, the name Ilya carelessly mentioned, that of our team leader, Peter Sokolov—who’s on every Most Wanted list worldwide.

She blinks up at us, the very picture of innocence. “What name?”

My brother glances at me, uncertain, and I give a minute shake of my head. He’s not a good judge of whether someone’s lying, and he knows it, which is why in situations like this, I always take charge.

“Let’s kill her right now,” I say to him in Russian, watching the girl as I speak. “We can dump her body in the river before sunrise.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I’m not fooled.

She understood exactly what I said.

Ilya’s jaw tightens, and he turns to the girl. “How about we talk about this over a couple of beers?” he says in Hungarian, his tone gentle. “We’re really not going to hurt you, I promise.”

She hesitates, her gaze darting from my brother to me and back. Finally, she gives an uncertain nod. “Okay, I—I guess. But could I have water or tea instead, please? I’m too tired to have alcohol.”

“One tea coming up,” I say with a mocking salute and head into the kitchen. My cooking is shit, but boiling water is within my capabilities.

Maybe if I get some caffeine into her system, she won’t fall asleep before I can coax her into my bed.

3

Mina

“So, how long have you worked at the bar?” the guy with the skull tattoos—the seemingly kinder one—asks when I remove my winter jacket and we sit down in the living room. With its Soviet-style orange wallpaper and brown drapes, this place looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the eighties, but the ratty couch we’re sitting on is surprisingly comfortable. Maybe I will take him up on his offer to sleep here. That is, if they don’t kill me and dump my body in the river before sunrise.

I think my captor was just testing my language skills with that proposal, but I can’t be sure.

“Mina?” the man prompts, and I realize I zoned out instead of answering his question. Now that some of the adrenaline is fading, the extreme exhaustion is back, muddling my thoughts and slowing my reactions. I want nothing more than to stretch out on this couch and fall asleep, but I might not wake up if I do.

The Russians might decide that what I heard merits killing me rather than just keeping me captive overnight.

“I’ve worked there for a few months,” I answer, my voice shaking. It’s easy to sound terrified, because I am.

I’m with two men who may want to kill me, and I’m in no state to defend myself.

The only thing that gives me hope is that they haven’t already done so. They could’ve easily murdered me in the alley; they didn’t need to bring me here for that. Of course, there’s another possibility, one that every woman must consider.

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