I can feel his gaze following me as I move about my work. The other man is looking at me too, but it’s the dangerous stranger’s stare I feel most viscerally, as if he’s already touching me. Electricity skates over my skin, and more heat floods my core as I imagine him actually touching me, and not with the sharp edge of his blade.
Fuck. I have no idea why my libido has chosen this moment to come out of its prolonged hibernation, but I don’t like it.
Sex, especially with a Russian killer, is the last thing I need.
Another wave of dizziness hits me, and I almost welcome it this time. My arousal fizzles out, replaced by the faint nausea that often accompanies these episodes of extreme weakness. Dragging in a breath, I focus on staying upright and not dropping the tray I’m carrying. I can’t afford to give in to the urge to rest, to act in any way that would sharpen the Russians’ suspicions. I have to look like an ordinary waitress doing her job, nothing more.
The dizziness passes after a few moments, and I continue with my shift, resisting the temptation to look at the men’s table and see if the dangerous stranger is still watching me.
An hour later, I finally allow myself another glance.
The two men are gone, and a group of girls is sitting there instead, laughing and flipping their long hair over their slim shoulders. They’re as harmless as can be, and the knot of tension inside me eases slightly.
Maybe the Russians believed my innocent act, and I’ll never see them again.
It should be a relief—and it is—but there’s an illogical disappointment mixed in, too. As inappropriate as my attraction to the dangerous stranger was, it was the first time in years I felt something, and feeling anything is better than feeling nothing.
Oh, well. He and his companion are gone, and it’s for the best.
Now I can focus on my work without the temptation of staring at him.
As the night wears on, I continue with my shift, battling waves of dizziness and growing exhaustion, and by the time the last patrons leave, I’m on the verge of collapse.
“Here, let me.” Ella grabs the dirty glasses out of my unsteady hands, and I let her have them.
If I drop them, it’s more work for everyone.
Finally, everything is done, and I’m still somehow upright. With the last drops of my strength, I trudge over to the back room, throw on my puffy winter jacket, and stumble out into the freezing alley outside, my mind hazy from exhaustion.
I’m so tired I almost forget about the two Russians, and by the time I hear the footsteps, it’s too late.
They’re upon me.
2
Yan
I grab the girl while Ilya keeps an eye on the bar exit, making sure no one sees me drag my captive into an even smaller alley on the side of the bar. Despite the bulky jacket swaddling her petite frame, she’s incredibly light, as if her very bones are made of air. Keeping one hand over her mouth, I half-carry, half-drag her with my free arm—an easy feat, as she puts up hardly any struggle.
A frightened kitten would’ve been harder to restrain.
The place we’re staying at is only a couple of blocks from here, so we head directly there, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen by the one or two drunk tourists still stumbling around the dimly lit streets. It’s risky, snatching her like this—as fugitives, we don’t want to draw any attention—but the alternative was to follow her home, and who knows what or who might’ve been there.
She might’ve had a boyfriend waiting in her bed.
An unfamiliar feeling stirs in me at the thought, something dark and ugly. I don’t understand it, any more than I fully comprehend why I’m doing this. The threat posed by the girl is minimal. Even if she overheard us and understood what we were talking about, it doesn’t matter, as we’re supposed to leave Budapest tomorrow. In the worst case, we would’ve had to forego sleep and accelerate our departure to avoid the authorities.
But no. Instead of sensibly forgetting about the girl, I told Ilya we have to keep her with us until tomorrow morning, in case she decided to blab about what she’d heard, and my brother agreed readily… probably for the same reason I couldn’t stop watching the girl for two hours straight.
Because she’s the hottest little thing we’ve come across.
At first, I didn’t think so, seeing only a pale, skinny chick dressed like a punk-rock wannabe in her oversized sweater, ripped black jeans, and ugly boots. But the more I watched her, the more I found myself unable to look away. I’ve always preferred long hair on women, but her platinum-blond strands—shorter than mine and styled in spikes on top of her shapely head—emphasized the delicate prettiness of her elfin features in a way that a more feminine cut wouldn’t have, drawing attention to her thickly lashed blue eyes and soft, pouty lips. And what I initially thought was a shapeless, boyish figure turned out to be all subtle curves and tantalizing hints of muscle, as if she’d once been a dancer or a gymnast. Even the excessive piercings in her left ear and the small tattoo on the side of her graceful neck grew on me, morphing from off-putting to sexy once I realized the grungy decorations only highlighted the creaminess of her translucent skin. What captivated me the most, though, was the way she moved around the bar, with a quiet confidence and fluid deliberateness that belied her supposed clumsiness earlier, when she’d emerged from her hiding spot behind the column with the beer spilled all over her tray.
I wondered briefly if she’d spied on us on purpose, but concluded it was unlikely. If she’d had any idea who we are, the bar would’ve been swarming with Interpol. Still, her sudden appearance made Ilya and me uneasy enough to pay attention to her, and the longer we watched her, the more we both wanted her.
I could see the same lust I was feeling painted across my brother’s face.
Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me. For whatever reason, Ilya and I are often drawn to the same women, and as neither of us is the jealous type, we don’t mind sharing with each other—and on occasion, indulging the woman’s fantasy of a ménage à trois with twins.
We don’t look that much alike, but we are genetically identical.
This time, though, the idea of my brother coming anywhere near this girl makes me want to break his steroid-thickened jaw. I know what he’s thinking—that once we have her at our place, we’ll calm her down and do our best to seduce her together. But he’s wrong. He’s not touching her tonight.
The pretty waitress is mine and mine alone.
I like the way she feels against me, all small and helpless as I lift her higher and carry her up the crumbling stairs to our second-floor apartment. Her scent, something sweet like honeysuckle and fresh like lemon, teases my nostrils, and my cock hardens as dark anticipation floods my veins. I’ve always enjoyed tall women, finding them to be a better match in bed, but something about this girl’s petiteness appeals to me on a deeply primitive level.
I can do anything I want to her, and the things I want to do are dark and twisted, as wrong as kidnapping her in the first place.
“You can set her down now,” Ilya says, stepping through the door behind me and turning the lock. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Reluctantly, I release her, and she immediately stumbles back, putting as much distance between us as the narrow hallway in this shitty apartment allows. She’s clearly terrified, her blue eyes wide and her body shaking as she presses her back against the wall. Yet there’s a peculiar gleam in her gaze too, something that doesn’t seem to fit the situation.