To prove it, he grinds his erection against me, letting me feel my effect on him. And this time, my skin heats in response, my breathing picking up as my body—the one he’d brought back to life in Budapest—comes awake with a rush, the earlier malaise disappearing.
“I want you,” he says huskily. “Still tired?”
“No.” And spreading my legs, I wrap them around his hips, allowing him to touch me, to make me feel all the beauty and pain of being alive.
* * *
When morning comes, I’m woken with a tender kiss on my shoulder. “Time to get up.”
I snuggle deeper under the covers as Yan gets out of bed. What’s the point? I have nowhere to be, nothing to do. I’ll just stay here until mid-morning, or noon, or evening.
“Ilya is making pancakes,” Yan says.
“I’m not hungry.”
I pull the sheet over my head, only to shriek when the warm comforter is suddenly jerked from my body and a rush of cool air contracts my skin.
“What the—?”
Yan throws a T-shirt and a pair of shorts at me. “Get up.”
I grab the pieces of clothing grudgingly. “What’s your problem?”
“We’re going jogging.”
“What?”
“You need to get out, to exercise. That’s why you’re so grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re depressed.”
“I’m not depressed!”
He regards me with his hands propped on his hips, a frown marring his brow. “Denial is the first symptom of depression.”
“Fine. Label me however you like. I’ve been called worse.”
He grabs my ankle and yanks me to the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing?” I squeal.
“I’ll drag you outside in your T-shirt and panties, or you can get dressed. Your choice.”
“Asshole,” I mumble, sitting up.
He grins. “Call me that again, and you won’t sit for a week.”
I shut my mouth, because I don’t doubt he’ll make good on his threat.
“Now, Mina.” He has the audacity to snap his fingers at me on the way to the bathroom.
“Hardheaded mule,” I mutter, getting out of bed.
We dress without speaking, me sulking and him in an irritatingly good mood. When we enter the quiet living area, it’s clear Anton and Ilya aren’t up yet. I give Yan a narrowed glare. He lied about the pancakes.
“Don’t fret,” he says with a wink. “I’ll make you pancakes when we get back.”
He drapes an exercise towel around my neck and pushes me to the door. “Let’s go.”
I suck in the early morning air as we hit the street, and fall into pace next to him as he starts jogging toward the old town. His pace is taxing, but as soon as my body feels the tease of adrenaline, it perks up. My energy returns with a rush. I keep up, and even give him a run for his money. We jog for a good hour before we stop to do some resistance training, using an outdoor exercise area in a park.
I’m sweating by the time we’re done, but a lot happier than when we left his apartment. The strenuous workout was exactly what I needed.
“See?” he says, giving me a gentle punch on the shoulder. “I was right.”
I roll my eyes. “All men think they’re right.”
“Admit it,” he says, a glint in his eyes.
“Fine. I enjoyed it. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He gives me a peck on the lips. “I’ll race you back.”
I’m always up for a dare. And I always win. Of course, he says I only won because he let me.
28
Mina
The days after the morning Yan dragged me outside to exercise are easier. Despite my flagging energy, we run and work out every day. It helps to channel my frustration and chase the depressive feelings away. And that’s not the only gift he gives me. He also continues to give me vengeance.
Ten more men.
Yan brings the proof of their torture to me like a cat would proudly show off a mouse to its owner—an undead mouse, one he’s cruelly playing with. I’m terrified he’ll stumble onto Gergo at any moment, but so far, it seems like he’s only focused on the men who assaulted me. I’m also worried the violence will catch up with us and we’ll have to flee before we finish the job in Prague, but my ex-teammates aren’t talking about their run-ins with Yan’s hired team. It’s not as if they can press charges. What will they say? They don’t want the world to know what they’ve done—or what was done to them in retaliation. Yan intends to let them suffer for a while; then he’ll go back to finish them off. Of course, it takes him time to flush them all out, and by the time there’s only one name left on the list, we’re two days away from our meeting with Dimitrov.
The stress runs high. The apartment is small, and the men get on one another’s nerves. It’s a good thing this will soon be over. Not only for the men, but also for me. As the days go by, my strength deteriorates. It’s happening faster than before. I can almost feel the defective cells growing inside my body, destroying me little by little.
And as I deteriorate invisibly, our plan progresses.
Dimitrov uses the secure number I gave to ensure our meeting is still on. The painting is dry, thanks to the acrylic paint. The fact that it’s not oil will be obvious on closer inspection, but by that time, Dimitrov will already have a bullet in his brain. I try on the dress with the body pads and practice my disguise. I work on my persona. We go back to the hotel and speak to the manager, making sure everything is set. We do a practice run on site. We rent a room in another hotel up the street where I can disguise the two hotel security guards. Yan and Ilya test the weapons. They clean and take the rifles apart for less conspicuous transportation. They
