The way she sucks in her breath…
It shouldn’t trigger a pang through my cock, but it does. I risk taking my eyes from the road to catch the way hers widen in the rearview mirror. Another twinge through my abdomen has me gritting my teeth. Fear does more for her appeal than makeup. In an instant, the cold, bitchy exterior is stripped for a stark, honest mask that almost makes her seem human.
Until she blinks, boldly meeting my gaze over the mirror’s surface. “Coming from any other lackey, I might believe that,” she admits. “But you? No. You strike me as the noble type too proud to get his hands dirty.”
“Oh?” I adjust my grip over the steering wheel, scanning the road ahead. “Then you didn’t do nearly enough research on me as you should have.”
Her mask falters a second time, and she doesn’t recover as quickly. Her mouth betrays her where her words don’t. I watch her tongue flit across her lower lip, and I mentally file the reaction for later inspection.
“Where are you taking me?” she demands, overlooking my statement entirely.
I don’t respond. I’m too busy trying to figure out the answer for myself. I’ve left the countryside, heading in the direction of the city. Not toward the hospital, I decide. Another location comes to mind, less frequented than most would ever admit.
Bringing her there could be another miscalculation, but hell, it’s not like I can let her go.
And she knows that. A grim understanding dawns across her features, hardening them. She stiffens in her seat, and I don’t doubt that she has a weapon or two hidden within that red dress.
“You’re angry,” she points out, catching me off guard once again. “Tell me why.”
“You sound nervous.”
“For you,” she points out. “I’m not the sort of woman you want to kidnap.”
“Is that a reference to your friends in low places?” I ask, though internally, I’m forced to reconcile the possibility that she’s not bluffing. Whoever attacked the Stepanovs had the resources to do so. I glance at the rearview mirror again, this time checking the road. A black sedan lurking a few yards back wasn’t there before. A tail?
Or, perhaps, her backup.
If so, I just brought her right to the manor’s front door.
The tires squeal as I slam on the brakes, swerving toward the side of the road. This section borders the forest just beyond the city limits, and it’s pretty much deserted this time of day, at least for another hour.
It’s a good thing I’ve learned to excel under a time limit. Once, my entire life was to the tune of a stopwatch. How fast I could eat. Shit. Kill…
A minute and six seconds via strangulation was my best record. The fastest way to achieve that? Crushing a windpipe with my bare hands. Her throat looks thin enough to break that record.
“What are you doing?” The tremor in her voice feeds the part of me I’ve long thought dormant. It stirs to life as I wrench open the door on my end and climb out. Three strides bring me around to her end of the van before she can even attempt to lock it. Her hand flies to the door handle, but I have it open before her fingers can even make contact.
I grab her wrist, yanking her out, and I barely manage to miss the knife she swipes at my face. My body reacts on autopilot—I pivot, knocking the weapon from her hand with a ferocity she doesn’t expect. Hell, I don’t either.
My hand is already around her neck. It’s like riding a bike, these instincts. How to move. How to anticipate a human response. How to feed off the fear of another and use it to my advantage.
She doesn’t expect the pressure I apply to her windpipe. Subtle. Nowhere near enough to break my record, but I’m not inclined to try.
Yet.
“What are you doing, Evgeni Volkov?” Her tone is almost level enough to disguise her fear, but those eyes can’t lie. They widen, and it’s like staring into reflective pools. Endless and yet shallow at the same damn time, showing more of myself than the depths they might contain.
But the man I see? He’s not the loyal mercenary under the employ of Mischa Stepanov. He’s a creature I thought I left behind a decade ago, unpredictable. Ruthless. A monster.
But she’s no victim. I tell myself that as I steer her backward, manually hauling her off the road and into the underbrush. She moves woodenly, her eyes on mine. Despite her fear, the fact that she maintains her composure at all betrays a familiarity with violence I don’t expect.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demands, her voice an octave higher.
“I think it’s my turn to ask questions,” I point out, tightening my grip by a fraction. “Who are you working for?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Did I forget to mention that I’m asking you nicely? I won’t do so for very long.” To demonstrate, I slam her against the nearest tree, ignoring the gasp that rips from her throat. It isn’t faked. I’m not holding back, but for the time being, I don’t give a damn if I do hurt her. My focus is singular, fixated on one goal.
“Tell me, or I’ll kill you.”
Her lips flit into a shadow of her coy smile. “You won’t—”
It’s comical how little pressure it actually takes to silence her. A flick of the thumb and a crook of my index finger results in beautiful, instantaneous silence. Just as quickly, I loosen the pressure.
Damn. My heart is pounding. It’s been so damn long since I’ve thought like this.
I refuse to give in now.
“Speak,” I demand, my breathing heavy. “I suggest you don’t play any more games. The truth. Now. Who are you working for? Why are you here?”
And why
