“Like it?” he asks when I’ve swallowed.
“It’s delicious,” I say honestly. “Have you tried it?”
“Not yet.”
He offers me a sip of wine. It’s crisp, tangy, and refreshingly cold. It somehow enhances the flavors of the food that linger on my tongue. With my arms stretched tightly above my head, I sit dead still while he feeds me. I watch his eyes while he watches my lips. He seems to home in on every bite and swallow. He’s meticulous in feeding me, offering small enough bites so I can chew comfortably. When the fork leaves a trace of sauce on my lip, he wipes it away with a linen napkin before giving me another bite. In this manner, he alternates between the food and the wine until half of the food on the plate is gone and I’m buzzing.
I shake my head. “I can’t eat another morsel.”
He frowns. “You haven’t eaten much.”
“It was a big portion.”
“At least finish the wine.”
I’m pathetically grateful for his kindness, for numbing my senses with alcohol for what lies ahead. When he tilts the glass, I gulp down what’s left. He puts the glass back on the tray and leaves it on the ground. I start to tremble in earnest when he stands.
This is the moment.
The shaking gets worse when he lifts a hand to my face.
“Shh.” He traces my bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it ever so gently over the healing cut.
His gaze follows the action, all his concentration focused on the task. I bite down hard on my back teeth to stop the involuntary quiver of my jaw that betrays my body’s severe state of stress. He trails a finger along the line of my quaking jaw and gently cups my face. Then he kisses me sweetly, invading my mouth with leisurely strokes of his tongue until I melt and the uncontrollable chattering stops. My eyes flutter closed. He tastes of mint and coffee.
“That’s better,” he breathes against my lips.
When I open my eyes, I catch him staring at me with searing heat. My face is slack from his kiss, but my body still trembles. He smoothes his hands over my arms, rubbing softly, and I don’t resist when he pushes me down slowly until my back hits the bench. I let him stroke me all over. I let him feel me under the shirt, brush his palms over my nipples and stomach. I let him feel between my legs where my wetness betrays me.
No meaningless words are said when he unzips his fly and takes out his cock. I open my legs and allow the touch of his hands to chase away the shivers of my body and the chill of my heart. He stretches out over me, supporting his weight on a hand next to my head. He fists the other around the root of his cock and aligns it with my opening. I sigh when he sinks into me, embracing the feelings he offers. The rocking of his hips makes me forget. I go with the ebb and flow, surrendering my fear. The shivering stops as my back scrapes over the rough wood of the bench and my arms pull at the ropes. I give over to the gentle pace of this strange, soft coupling, knowing everything from here on is out of my control.
He doesn’t kiss me again. He watches me as he touches my clit and brings me closer to the edge. He’s kind after all, this ruthless killer, giving me pleasure as a distraction. My need climbs. My back arches. In that split second before everything unravels, panic hits. Claustrophobia strangles me. I toss in my constraints, frantic with helplessness. I need to hold on to him.
“Shh.” He kisses my lips. “I’ve got you.”
I desperately need to hold on to something, so I cling to his gaze. He lets me. He doesn’t close his eyes or hide his pleasure. He gives it to me truthfully. He shows me the rawness that reflects in my body.
True to his word, he’s there for me when my body bows and the climax tears me apart. I turn warm inside. He fills me up with his release, pumping as if he’s set on making me take every drop. I’m drowning in his heat, his smell, and the angry undercurrent that’s always present between us, especially during his release. I’m high on endorphins, floating in a euphoric space. Vaguely, I’m aware of him taking something from his pocket and pushing it against my neck. The sharp prick of a needle registers too late.
My vision swims, and I start to drift away. Straining my neck, I force my head up and desperately try to claw my way through the haze. I try to hold on to that ice-green stare with all my might, but it slips out of my reach.
His words are soft, spoken in Russian. “Let go, Minochka.”
The beautiful sound of his mother tongue strokes over my senses, as does the term of endearment.
Poisonous words.
Poison seems fitting.
He catches my head when my neck fails to support the weight.
He’s still inside me when I drag in a final, laborious breath. The last word I speak when I blow out that breath is his name.
Part III
14
Mina
The nightmare is horrendous. I’m back in the car with my parents, seconds before we take the bend in the road. I ask for a cookie. My mother smiles back at me. Her hair is loose and soft around her face. My father takes her hand. She tells me I have to wait a little bit longer. We’ll have dinner soon. My body jerks forward as my father slams on the brakes. The man taps on his window with a gun, his lips pulled back over his gums in a grin.
I scream and scream.
“Mina!”
Shaking. Somebody shakes the car with me still inside. My brain sloshes in my skull. My head hurts. Mommy. Daddy. Their eyes are open, but they’re not replying. “No!”
More shaking.
