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“He’ll be at Slava.”
“Give me the address.”
“Lots of Bratva in a place like that. He’s the top dog, as you Americans say. The alpha.”
“No, my friend,” I reply. “Men like this one are never the alpha.”
I hang up, and then we roll out, using the private elevator that takes me directly to my private parking lot. I climb into my pickup, modified to resemble a jackal combat vehicle, with all the protection a civilian car can legally have. It’s sleek black with tinted windows.
Jackal is sitting on his side of the jackal, pawing at the door. It’s scuffed from where he’s done it before, but I never get it repaired. He’s eager to begin. When I open his door, he leaps into the seat. He looks like he’d buckle himself in if he had hands. I attach his harness to the seatbelt, and we get going.
Climbing from the pickup, I walk back and unlock the dog entrance. There’s dry food and specially designed water bottles made to be punctured and consumed by Jackal. If I don’t return to him, he’s trained to come here and wait. Eventually, somebody will find him. He’s been trained well. He’s docile unless I tell him to be violent. He’ll be okay.
I’ve parked in the deep shadows behind the bar. My pulse is pounding far harder than it should, considering I’ve done this sort of thing countless times: in operations overseas, with the teams and the contractors, and alone.
It takes a moment to realize what it is—rage at what these people are putting her through, my Katy. I push all that away. In the teams, some of my brothers had families. They had wives. They had to operate despite all that. I’ll have to as well.
“With me,” I say, opening Jackal’s door.
He takes on more intense energy when my voice gets that clipped tone I use while we work. He stalks at my side like he’s superglued to me as I walk quickly across the lot, gun in my hand and rifle strapped across my back. I lead him between two trashcans.
“Done.”
He grunts and sits upright. He always wants to help me every step of the way, but it can’t work like that. I holster my gun, hide the rifle under the trashcan, and then pick the lock to the rear door.
Music plays softly from the end of a hallway, the lyrics in Russian. A couple of men laugh. I slink through the hallway until I’m almost in the main part of the bar, then drift into the shadow opposite the toilet. I hide behind several large metal shelving units, making myself as small as a big man can be. Then I wait, watching men come and go from the bathroom. They never look at me. I give them no reason to.
I try to keep my mind as empty as it would usually be, but there are those niggling thoughts of Katy. I’d like to see a real smile on her face, see how much more radiant and beautiful she is without the weight of the world dragging her down. I’d like to see her smile while in the birthing bed.
A white bear interrupts my thoughts. He’s a large man with broad shoulders, chunky arms, and a stained shirt. He looks like he’s in his mid-twenties, his hair drenched with sweat sliding down his neck. He reaches into his pocket, takes out a bag filled with white powder, and looks up and down the hallway.
When he walks into the bathroom, I emerge from the shadows.
CHAPTER 5
Katy
This is the last thing I should be doing, lying tangled in the sheets, breathing hard, my hand pawing eagerly between my legs. I tried to fight the urge for as long as I could, but when it was bedtime—the music outside finally quiet—I couldn’t stop myself.
At first, I just looked at his photo and let my gaze move over his solid arms. The veins bulging in his biceps, but not in an OTT way, just the right amount. His hair’s silver and not short. It was just about long enough to be messily swept to the side. Clean-shaven, with a powerful jaw, one I can imagine moving my fingertip down.
Then I started wondering what it would feel like to move my hands over his chest, to press down and feel how solid and hard it was. A woman could be confident she’s protected with a man like that. No, I don’t need a protector. Maybe just now, for these circumstances, but not in general.
As I rub my clit harder, I can’t stop thinking of his muscular arms wrapped around me and then… Oh, I know what sex is. I know what people do. I understand it, but I can’t imagine it as vividly as I wish I could.
I’d melt against him, let him lead the way, his eager, powerful hands moving over me. I’d stroke his cock and listen to his groaning noises to see if I was doing it right, and then, when he was hard, oh, he’d push inside of me. He’d push deep, and I’d bury my hands in those crazy muscular shoulders of his.
