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Her body is so damn small. My fingers overlap when I circle her waist. Placing a palm between her shoulder blades, I feel her chest expand with breaths, and I soak in the reassurance of her heartbeat. It’s a wild rhythm. Even if I tried to take it easy, the sex must’ve been hard on her tiny frame. I check for blood or signs of bruising and sag in relief when I find none.
Rolling her onto her back, I kiss her gently. I cup her face and caress her like a man who lays himself at a woman’s feet. I want to give her this for the gift she’s given me. It’s inadequate, but it’s all I have that truly matters. It’s more than money and gifts, but nothing as prosaic as love.
Ours is not a sweet romance. It’s larger than love. Darker than love. And it’s hers. All hers.
After a long while of kissing, I pull back to look at her face. She’s a little pale, but she’s smiling.
“I thought you weren’t going to kiss my mouth,” she says, stretching her arms above her head.
“I lied.”
She pouts. “That’s not nice.”
Her playfulness is enticing, but I’m not biting yet. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“A little.”
I like her honesty. I much prefer it to her lies. “Does it hurt still?”
“It burns a little.”
Getting up, I lift her into my arms and carry her to the bathroom. We shower together. It’s tender. It’s nice. Just like that, we’re back to the way we were, as if Budapest never happened. A gnawing tenseness darkens my mood when I think of the man she met, but I push it aside. I don’t want to spoil the moment.
While I pull on my clothes, I watch her dress from under my eyelashes. I drink her in until I feel drunk on the novelty of having her back here, in my space. This is where she’ll fucking stay. I don’t care if she wants him. I’ll give her more, and in time, she’ll forget about him.
I’ll make it so good for her she won’t even remember his face.
Anton and Ilya are in the lounge when we go to the kitchen for breakfast. Our brief exchange is strained, but I don’t linger long enough for their sulking faces to sour my spirits. I tell them to clean the apartment—an instruction that elicits much protest—and take Mina clothes shopping for her meeting with Dimitrov.
We drive to an exclusive boutique chain store Petrova frequents. While Mina is browsing the dresses for something in Petrova’s style—a task she’s better equipped for than I am—I take a seat on the sofa in the waiting area and check the messages on my phone.
There’s a new one from our hackers.
Keeping one eye on Mina, I read the message. When I get to the second paragraph, I sit up straighter. My stomach churns, my blood boiling. I read the sentence again. And again.
“Yan?”
Mina’s soft voice breaks through the cloud of fury that threatens to smother me. I look up to see her standing in front of me, a white dress dangling from her fingers and a frown on her face.
“Is everything all right?” she asks warily.
No. Nothing is all right. I want to go on a murdering rampage. In fact, that’s exactly what I’ll do. “Did you say something?”
“I asked what you think about the dress.”
With difficulty, I turn my attention to the garment in her hand. It’s sleeveless and short, definitely something Petrova would wear. “Seems fitting for the occasion.”
She throws a thumb toward the fitting rooms. “I’m going to try it on.”
“Do that, and come show me.”
With a roll of her eyes, she walks off. I watch her enter the changing area. I see how dainty and beautiful she is, how fucking perfect, and everything is tainted with red and nothing is all right. I feel like vomiting. I turn back to the text on my phone, to the reason why Mina left the Special Forces, but all I can see is her small body and the ten soldiers who tried to violate it.
All I can see is the photo of my beautiful, perfect Mina, and how broken they left her.
23
Mina
The door of the changing room opens as I’m pulling up the zipper of the dress. For crying out loud. Did Yan seriously pick the lock? I get that he doesn’t trust me, but where will I go in a cubicle with no windows? I’m in a dead-end changing area. I’m not Houdini, for God’s sake.
“You don’t have to check up on me in here.” I turn with a scowl and freeze.
The man shutting the door behind him and turning the lock isn’t Yan. He’s blond with brown eyes and about sixty years old. I can easily take him out, which is why I don’t. I don’t feel threatened, but I’m vigilant.
