“Fine. I’ll go to Switzerland and torture the bastard.”
I pat his shoulder. “I knew I could rely on you.”
“Just do me a fucking favor and don’t screw things up.”
I manage a crooked grin. “Not a habit of mine to screw up.”
He lifts an eyebrow, leaving the unsaid hanging between us. Yeah, I screwed up royally with Mina.
The water in the bathroom turns off.
It’s time to face my princess.
31
Yan
Anton discreetly leaves, claiming he’s in the mood for restaurant dining.
I give myself a minute to get my shit together before walking into my—our—room. Mina stands in front of the closet, a towel draped around her body. She’s lost weight. The curve of her shoulders is sharper, the bones more pronounced. I push the worry onto the pile the size of Kilimanjaro I already carry in my chest to focus on what needs to be said. She must see from my shaky demeanor that something is off, because wariness creeps into her gaze.
She looks like a doll—porcelain skin, huge blue eyes framed by long lashes, slender limbs, and silky silver-blond hair. She’s indefinably gorgeous. There are no words to describe her beauty or value to me.
Crossing the floor, I stop in front of her.
She stares up at me with a frown. “Yan?”
I’m acutely aware of the difference in our sizes, of her tiny frame and vulnerable bones—not that she’d hesitate to take me on if I were to offer her a fair fight. She’s not a princess who favors pink dresses, although with her, I want to play dress-up all the time. She’s a rebel in black. An angel in white. A soldier. A woman.
I cup her face. I’m overwhelmed with how small she seems, how my palm easily envelops her cheek and jaw. “Tell me who you met in Budapest.”
Every muscle in her body locks. She’s so rigid it’s a wonder she manages to step away from me. “No one.”
I drop my hand. “I know, Mina.”
The color drains from her face. “It’s not what you think.”
“Tell me.” It’s a plea, not the order it sounds like. I’m bone fucking tired. I can’t fight this war of secrets with her any longer. I just want everything to be out in the open, so we can move on. “Please, Mina. I want to hear it from you.” I want a clean slate between us.
She swallows. “I swear, he’s a friend, nothing more. How did you find out?”
“Security feed. Why did you lie to me?”
She’s quiet, ever defiant, ever determined to protect her friend.
“Say it.” I can’t explain my urge for her to come clean. I only know I need her to tell me like I need to fuck her, and soon. “I already know everything.” She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m bluffing. “Gergo Nagy, right? Your trainer.”
“H-How do you know about Gergo?”
“Does Tóth ring a bell?”
“Tóth?” Her voice rises with one decibel of panic. “My superior officer?”
“The fucker sang like a canary before I cut out his tongue.” My smile is evil. “After that, not so much. And when I cut off his dick, even less.”
She’s whiter than the bedsheets. “You said you beat them.”
“I may have left out the part about the dick-chopping to spare you.”
“So why tell me now?”
“Someone is finishing them off.”
Her inhalation is sharp and shallow. “You mean someone is killing them?”
“Yes, and I’m going to find out why.” I give her a piercing look, but there’s only incomprehension and confusion in her eyes. “Why would someone silence them?”
“I don’t know.”
I believe her. “There’s one person left.”
She stares at me, and I can practically see her mind working, flipping through all the photos she’s seen so far. “Laszlo Kiss,” she says after a moment, and I nod.
“Anton is going after him in the hope of getting information that’ll throw a light on what the hell is happening.”
“He’s going to kill him.”
My smile is cold. “Obviously.”
“Please, Yan.” In a second, she switches gears. She goes from standing there like a salt pillar to frantic, grabbing hold of my arms. “Please don’t hurt him.” For a moment, I think she means Kiss, but then she says, “Please don’t hurt Gergo.”
“When those men attacked you, he rescued you. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she says with a soft whisper of defeat.
“That’s why you owe him.”
“My life.” She doesn’t look me in the eyes when she says, “And more.”
Gripping her chin, I tilt her head for our gazes to meet. “He taught you the art of disguise.”
She searches my face, probably trying to guess if I also know about the other lie. “It was part of our training.”
“So, you took the fall for him when Sokolov questioned you about the disguises.”
Surprise—not the good kind—makes a stark tableau of her face. It’s both a stunning and disturbingly moving canvas of truth. Falling to her knees, she wraps her arms around my legs and stares at me as big drops of tears roll over her cheeks and plop on the towel covering her breasts.
“Please,” she says again, “don’t hurt him.”
Seeing her like this, begging on her knees and crying at my feet, is more than I can take. It shatters me. For the first time in my life, I feel defeated. Utterly beaten. My chest splits open and feelings I’ve never known slip in, dark and ugly feelings of failure, remorse, guilt, and fear. Fear of losing her.
I can’t lose her.
I go down on my haunches, crouching in front of her. Reaching out, I cup her wet cheek. Her tears keep on spilling, running over my knuckles into the cuff of my shirtsleeve. My every instinct demands I off him, but I force out the words for the woman who means the world and more to me. “If it’s so important to you, I’ll spare him.”
She drags in a breath. It takes a moment before she manages, “Thank you,” through sobs and trembling lips.
I don’t deserve her thanks. I don’t deserve anything from her. I owe her an apology, but I don’t know how
