And her life is mine.
11
Mina
It’s been a while since Yan left, taking my dirty clothes with him, but the scent of musky sandalwood and spicy pepper lingers in the space. Contrary to his overpowering personality, his signature cologne is subtle and airy, but it still dominates the shed, enough to mask the musty smell of the wood in my nostrils. It clings to his shirt, the one I’m wearing. Why did he bathe, feed, and dress me in something clean? Is this some psychological tactic, a way of softening me before breaking me? If so, it will be most effective. If he’s going to be physically cruel to me later, these kindnesses will make it seem worse.
Bars of shadows from the thin gaps between the wall planks stretch over the floor and finally disappear. Crickets start to chirp. There’s one somewhere in the corner of the shed, trapped inside, like I am. His song is out of tune with the chorus of the free ones outside. I distract myself by trying to spot my little companion, but the glow of the light Yan left on doesn’t bleed into the corners. It falls around me in a white pool, failing to reach the dark corners of my heart where fear beats out of tune.
It’s completely black outside when the door opens and Yan steps into the shed carrying two metal cases. They’re generic cases, the types that can be used for weapons or instruments of torture. The knot in my stomach tightens as I look from the cases to his face. His angular features are set in a hard expression, and the masculine beauty of his face somehow makes it look more dangerous, more calculated. He locks the door and crosses the floor. With every step he takes, my insides wind tighter together.
He drops the cases at my feet. “How are you doing, my little waitress?”
The accusation is bitter. To reply to it would only add to his wrath. And I can’t fault him for feeling this way. I understand how it looks from his perspective. One night, we meet and have sex, and fifteen months later, he finds out I’m the sniper who tried to get his friend/boss killed. What is he supposed to think? The only logical conclusion is that I was spying on him that night at the bar. To top it off, because I lied to protect Gergo, he believes I helped frame not only Sokolov but him and his brother by putting their faces on the team that committed a terrible act of terrorism. He doesn’t know that I had no idea what Henderson would do with the Delta Force men whose files I gave him, nor that I never would’ve taken the Sokolov job if I’d had any clue he was connected to Yan. And I can’t tell Yan the truth.
In his eyes, I’m a heartless monster, and I have to remain that way for as long as they let me live.
“We’re going to do this in reverse,” Yan says. “You’re going to disguise me to look like one of the Delta Force assholes.” Leaning over, he grips the armrests and adds in a soft, menacing voice, “For your sake, I hope you fail.”
I swallow. I already failed when I took responsibility for the job.
His full lips tilt in one corner, but there’s nothing friendly about the gesture. “Ready, princess?”
I nod.
His mouth ghosts over mine. “If you try anything, I’ll make you wish you were dead. Understand?”
I shiver more at the cold deliverance than the threat itself.
“Good,” he says, taking my silence for the correct answer. In this game, I don’t have a choice.
I study him as he crouches down to untie my feet. He’s wearing a fitted dress shirt and pants, and he’s not carrying any weapons, at least none I can see. Not that he needs any. His hands are strong enough to inflict lethal damage. And coming unarmed is wise. It eliminates the chance of me disarming him and using his own weapon against him.
He walks around me to work on my wrists. “Need to pee?”
“Yes.”
I hiss when the ropes fall free and he moves my arms to my sides. After hours of being in the same position, even the slight movement hurts. He rubs his big, warm palms over my arms, aiding the circulation. When most of the pins and needles are gone, he pulls me to my feet by my upper arm and guides me outside.
There’s no light around the shed, but I can make out two guards, different ones, in the moonlight. One of them is holding a dog on a leash. The animal bares its teeth when we pass. This is more than a sniffer dog. It’s trained to attack.
“You don’t want them to get their hands on you,” Yan says softly against my ear.
I understand what he means and he’s right. I don’t. I also understand why he brought me out here. It’s to make sure I understand what waits for me if I do somehow manage to overpower him.
He takes me to the same tree, but this time, he doesn’t turn away as I relieve myself. Despite my training, my cheeks turn hot. The tail ends of his shirt hide my private parts, but he stares at me as if he can see right through the shirt. When I’m done, he takes a travel-sized packet of wet wipes from his pocket and hands it to me. I quickly clean myself before wiping my hands, appreciating the small hygienic luxury. Not knowing what to do with the used wipes, I ball them in my fist.
He grabs my arm and steers me back to the shed. The exercise, however minute, is welcome. Some of the ache in my back dissipates.
Back inside, he locks us in and drops the key into the front pocket of his pants. Then he pulls me roughly to the chair.
Indicating
