Bind Me(Capture Me: Book 2)(14)
“You don’t owe them a damn thing,” he says furiously when I refuse to talk about the agency for the fifth time. “They took you when you were a fucking child. What kind of bastards send a sixteen-year-old to a corrupt city like Moscow and tell her to sleep her way to government secrets? Fuck, Yulia”—he slaps his palm on the table—“how can you be loyal to those motherfuckers?”
How, indeed. I want to scream at him, tell him that he doesn’t understand anything, but I remain silent, looking down at my plate. There’s nothing I can say that won’t expose Misha to danger and ruin his life. My loyalty is not to Obenko, the agency, or even Ukraine.
It’s to my brother—the only family I have left.
To my relief, Lucas lets my non-response slide, ultimately changing the topic to the plot of a post-apocalyptic thriller I read that day. We discuss it in great detail, as we frequently do with books and movies, and we both agree that the author did a good job of explaining why the scientists couldn’t prevent the Gray Goo from taking over the world. The meal concludes on an amicable note, but my determination to escape is reinforced.
Eventually, Lucas will get fed up with my silence, and I don’t want to be around when he does.
16
Yulia
As I plan my escape, I realize that I’m faced with three major obstacles: the fact that I’m tied up when Lucas is not around, the military-level security of the compound, and Lucas himself. Any of those three would be enough to contain me, but when all three are combined, escape is all but impossible.
On the surface, it shouldn’t be difficult. When Lucas is home, he usually keeps me untied, letting me eat at the table and even do a few stretches and body-weight exercises to keep fit. However, he always keeps a watchful eye on me during those times, and I know I won’t win in a physical battle with him. Even if I managed to grab a knife, he’d probably wrestle it away from me before I could inflict a serious injury. A gun would be a different matter, but I haven’t seen anything more deadly than a kitchen knife inside the house. I know Lucas usually carries weapons—I saw him with an assault rifle that first day—but he must leave them in the car or some other location outside.
Contrary to appearances, I’m more likely to escape when he’s not around.
To that end, every time Lucas ties me up, I test the rope to see if he left some slack in it, and every time, I discover he didn’t. The bonds are always just tight enough to keep me restrained without cutting off my circulation. I don’t want to leave betraying marks on my skin, so I don’t tug at the rope too hard. Even if I managed to get free, I’d still need to get past guard towers and through a jungle patrolled by Esguerra’s men and high-tech drones—assuming Lucas didn’t catch me before I got that far.
For me to stand a chance, I need my captor far away, and I need to know the patrol schedule.
I begin by trying to get the latter out of Lucas when we’re lying in bed, relaxed and satisfied after a lengthy sex session.
“How did you get this?” I ask as I trace my fingers over a bruise on his ribcage. “The compound wasn’t attacked, was it?”
My concern is only partially feigned; the idea of Lucas getting hurt in any way bothers me. He seems invulnerable, every inch of his body packed with hard muscle, but I know that won’t save him from a bomb or a gun. In his line of work, life expectancy is much shorter than average—a fact that makes me sick with worry when I dwell on it too much.
“No, nobody would attack the compound,” Lucas says, a smile curving his lips. “I got this bruise in training, that’s all.”
“I see.” Acting on some irrational impulse, I press a small kiss to the injured area before looking up to meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t someone attack the compound? Doesn’t your boss have a lot of enemies?”
“Oh, he does.” Lucas’s eyes darken as he slides his hand into my hair and guides me lower, toward his stomach. “But they would be suicidal to come here. The security is too tight. And now”—he pushes my head toward his rising erection—“I want something else that’s tight.”
Hiding my disappointment, I close my lips around his cock and apply the strong suction he likes.
Lucas is too smart to give me the security details I need—which means I’ll have to figure out something else.
* * *
As the days drag on without me getting any closer to a viable escape plan, I console myself with the knowledge that I’m using the time to recover from my ordeal at the Russian prison and rebuild my strength. Between sitting most of the day and consuming every bite of food—no matter how boring—Lucas puts in front of me, I’m steadily putting on weight, my body regaining the curves it lost during my weeks of near-starvation. By the time I’ve been in Lucas’s house nine days, I’m no longer a skeleton—and I’m desperate for something other than sandwiches and cold cereal with milk.
“You know, you seriously should let me try cooking,” I say after yet another sandwich for lunch. “I can make omelets, soup, chicken, lamb, mashed potatoes, salad, rice, dessert—anything you want, really. If you don’t trust me with a knife, you can help me by cutting things up. I’ll just add seasoning and things like that. You’ll be perfectly safe—unless you store rat poison in your kitchen.”
He laughs, making me think he’s going to ignore my offer, but that afternoon, he brings in several boxes of food, including all kinds of fruits and vegetables, two types of fresh fish, several whole chickens, a dozen lamb chops, and an entire collection of spices.
“Where did all of this come from?” I ask, eying the bounty in astonishment. There’s enough in those boxes to feed five people—assuming one knows how to prepare it all, of course.
“Esguerra gets weekly deliveries, so I took some for us,” Lucas says. “I figure it’s time to test your cooking skills.”
I can’t conceal my startled joy. “You’d trust me to cook?”
“I’d trust you to direct me.” He grins. “You’ll sit there”—he points at the kitchen table—“and tell me exactly what to do. I’ll follow your orders, and who knows? Maybe I’ll learn something.”
“Okay,” I agree, more than a little excited by the prospect of ordering Lucas about. “I can do that. Let’s start by putting everything away, and tonight, we’ll make lamb chops with garlic-dill potatoes and green salad.”
17
Lucas
As I peel potatoes and chop garlic under Yulia’s guidance, she lounges in the kitchen chair, her blue eyes bright with amusement.
“You know you don’t have to take half the potato off with the skin, right?” Grinning, she glances at the pile of mangled potatoes on the counter. “Haven’t you ever done this before?”
“No,” I say, doing my best not to cut too deeply into my current root vegetable. It’s harder than it seems. “And now I know why.”
“They didn’t make you peel potatoes in the Navy?”
“No, that’s a thing of the past. We had private contractors who handled the mess halls.”
“I see. Well, you need a potato peeler,” she says, crossing her long legs. “Like with everything else, a specialized tool helps.”
“A peeler. Got it.” I make a mental note to order one. I also do my best to keep my eyes off those bare, distracting legs. Four days ago, I finally got Yulia some clothes of her own, but they’re of the skimpy summer variety, and I’m now realizing my mistake.
In a white midriff-baring top and tiny jean shorts, Yulia’s no-longer-starved body is impossible to ignore.
“Okay, that’s enough potatoes, I think,” she says, getting up. Her flip-flops—the only shoes I got her—make a slapping noise on the tile floor as she comes toward me. “Now we need to take the garlic, mix it with dill, salt, and pepper, and place everything on a frying pan. You have oil, right?”
“Oil. Check.” I grab a bottle of olive oil from a cabinet to my left. “Do I pour it over the potatoes?”
She props her hip on the edge of the countertop. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I frown, not appreciating the mockery.
She bursts out laughing. “Lucas, seriously. Have you never fried anything in your life?”
“Nothing that was edible afterwards,” I grudgingly admit. “I may have tried it once or twice and given up.”
“Okay.” Yulia manages to stop laughing long enough to explain, “You pour oil into the frying pan. No, not so much—” She seizes the bottle from me before I can pour out more than a quarter of its contents. Laughing hysterically, she grabs a paper towel and dips it in the oil, mopping up the excess. “We’re not deep-frying the poor potatoes,” she explains when she’s able to talk again.
“All right,” I say, watching as she picks up the potatoes and the garlic and deposits everything into the oiled pan. Her movements are fast and sure, her slim hands moving with graceful economy.
She wasn’t lying when she said she knows what she’s doing.