“Taking care of you is my job now.”
“Am I not allowed to be proud?”
I admire that. It pisses me off that I find it endearing. Unnecessary, but cute. Still, my voice is harder than intended when I ask, “And exactly how much were you hoping to earn?”
She intertwines her fingers on my chest and rests her chin on her hands. “How much is the hit worth?”
I smile. Nice try.
She shrugs when I don’t bite. “A million.”
I raise my brow.
She huffs. “Five hundred thousand?”
She looks so hopeful with her big, doll-like blue eyes I can’t help but drag my fingers through her hair. Fine. What is giving her a little pride when I’ve taken her freedom?
“Tell me what you’re going to do with the money.”
She bends her legs and crosses her ankles. “Shoes, handbags, jewelry.”
Why does the thought of her splurging on the things women like send a jolt of heat straight to my chest? I’ve never wanted to play house, but imagining her wearing pretty things, dresses to look good just for me, has an unexpected appeal. She’s joking a little. Her half-smile says so, but I suddenly want that: the shoes, handbags, and jewelry. The illusion.
I tangle my fingers in her hair. “You know what will happen if you let the information slip, right, princess?” Despite all the sweetness she makes me feel, I can’t go soft.
“Yes.” She doesn’t wince or blink. She gets me. She understands how it works because she’s part of my world.
“Good.”
She pulls on my chest hair. “Does that mean it’s a yes? Five hundred?”
I catch her hand. “We’ll see.”
She presses her cheek to my chest, but not before I glimpse her smile. “Who ordered the hit?”
Whether I like it or not, she’s in on this. She’s in on my life, because I’m never letting her out of my sight again. “Government.”
“Czech?”
“Yes. Dimitrov is a thorn under their skin.”
“And they can’t arrest him without starting a crime war.”
“Exactly.”
“I need my phone and laptop.”
“You don’t.”
“People will start asking questions if I don’t reply to my messages.”
“What people? You don’t have any friends.” I checked, especially to make sure there weren’t any boyfriends.
“I have employers. Bar gigs.”
“Taken care of.”
She lifts her head. “What?”
“My hacker set up an auto-reply.”
Her pretty features tighten. “With what excuse?” She looks like an angry little kitten.
“You’re traveling around Europe.”
“I can’t be on holiday indefinitely.”
“You needed a break. You’ll earn your way as you go, like a backpacker. The profile suits you, no?”
“What about my apartment? I have to pay the rent.”
“You moved.”
“What?” she cries out, pushing on my chest. “What about my clothes and furniture?”
I press on her back to prevent her from rising. I like her where she is. “Don’t fret. I put everything in storage.”
“You can’t do that!”
I pin her with a look. “I can do whatever I want.” My words aren’t warm, and the message even less so. I pull her face to the crook of my neck. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we contact your friends.”
Her sigh is exaggerated, rebellious. I grin.
I should shower and change the sheets, but I can’t make myself leave the bed. Not when I’m holding her like this. It gives me a feeling of warmth, of something I’ve never had. She must be tired, because seconds later, her soft, even breaths fill the room.
* * *
Her stirring sometime in the middle of the night jostles me awake. She’s a restless sleeper. I know that from our first night together. I turn us on our sides and drag her body against mine. It settled her that night in Budapest, but not tonight. Her muscles tense. She mumbles something, then repeats it.
“No.”
I shake her gently. “Mina.”
“No!”
“Mina, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
Her lashes lift. I watch her face in the moonlight. There’s terror in her eyes.
“Nightmare?” I know all about those.
She rolls onto her back and throws an arm over her forehead. “Sorry I woke you.”
“Was it the same one as this morning?”
Dropping her arm to her side, she stares at the ceiling. “What does it matter?”
“Tell me about it.”
Her gaze meets mine. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
She tries to turn away, but I catch her waist. “Tell me.”
“Why? What do you care?”
“It helps.”
She scoffs. “Does it help you?”
I don’t give her an answer she already knows. “Maybe talking will make it better for you.”
She smiles sadly. For a moment, her eyes soften as she cups my cheek, but then she pulls away.
I’m not letting this go. Once, yes. But having the same nightmare twice? I want to know what this is about. Mina is no angel. She’s not unfamiliar with sights and deeds that would make grown men spill their guts. Whatever the dream is about, it’s bad.
“Don’t make me drag it out of you,” I say.
She sighs. “A car hijacking. There. Happy?”
I push up on an elbow. “When did it happen?”
“A long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“Six.”
And it still haunts her? “Who was driving?”
“My father.” She swallows. “Both my parents were in the car.”
“What happened?”
“Two armed men forced us to get out.”
I rub her arm. I didn’t think I had compassion left in me, but my heart clenches because I know even before I ask, “Were you injured?”
“Not me. They shot my parents.”
Fuck. Just like that, she switches off, her expression going blank. I grip her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“As I said, it was a long time ago.” She turns on her side and folds her hands under the pillow.
I spoon her from behind and throw an arm around her waist, holding her close until she falls asleep again. Me, I’m battling to wrap my mind around the information she shared. I try to picture a six-year-old Mina with a tiny body and big blue eyes standing next to the corpses of her parents.
Other than Ilya, I don’t have family—unless you count the abusive uncle who raised us until we turned fifteen. The only feeling I had for that alcoholic pig was hatred. My mother was a
