Bind Me(Capture Me: Book 2)(15)

“I wish we had fresh dill,” she says, grabbing one of the bottles from the spice rack. “But I think the dried one will also work. Next time, if you like this dish, do you think you could get us some fresh herbs?”

“Sure.” Fresh herbs. I make another mental note. “I can get us anything.”

“Great. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll season this myself. The potatoes won’t be any good if you dump the entire salt shaker in.” She looks like she’s about to start laughing again.

“Be my guest,” I say, moving the knife I used to peel the potatoes behind me. “This mess is all yours.”

And for the next half hour, I watch as Yulia whirls around the kitchen, humming under her breath. She seasons and fries the potatoes, bathes lamb chops in some kind of marinade, and washes greens for the salad. She’s practically vibrating with excited energy, and for the first time, I realize how little I’ve seen this side of her—how subdued she usually is in my presence.

It’s not surprising, of course. Though I haven’t hurt her, she’s my prisoner, and I know she still doesn’t trust me. No matter how much I push for answers, she either changes the topic or refuses to respond. It frustrates me, but I force myself to remain patient.

Once Yulia realizes I truly don’t intend to harm her, she’ll hopefully see the light and give up the people who fucked up her life. For now, all I can do is keep her reasonably comfortable—and restrained—until the trackers I ordered arrive.

“All done,” she says when the oven alarm goes off. Smiling brightly, she bends to take out the lamb chops, and my cock hardens at the sight of her ass in those tiny shorts.

If the lamb didn’t smell so delicious, I would’ve dragged Yulia to bed right then and there.

As it is, while she carries the dish to the table, I have to take several deep breaths to control myself. It’s ridiculous. I’ve always had a strong sex drive, but around Yulia, I’m like a randy teenager watching his first porn. I want to fuck her all the time, and no matter how often I take her, the desire doesn’t diminish.

If anything, it grows stronger.

It takes a few more breaths before my erection subsides enough for me to help her set the table. By then, Yulia’s got the salad arranged prettily in a bowl and the frying pan with the potatoes sitting on a neatly folded towel in the middle of the table. I presume the latter is to keep the hot pan from burning the table surface—a clever solution my parents’ housekeeper used as well.

Finally, we both sit down to eat.

“Yulia, this is amazing,” I say after demolishing half of my plate in under a minute. “The best I’ve had in a long, long time.”

She gives me a happy smile and picks up her lamb chop. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it? I love it.” I can’t remember the last time I had a meal this satisfying. The savory potatoes are perfect with the rich lamb and the crisp, lemony greens of the salad. “If I could eat this three times a day, I would.”

Yulia’s smile widens. “Good. I thought about making dessert too, but I figured we’ll be too full from this. We’ll just have some grapes instead.”

“Whatever you say,” I mumble through a mouthful of potatoes. “It’s all good.”

She laughs and digs into her own food. We eat in easy, companionable silence, and when most of the food is demolished, I put away the leftovers and wash the dishes. I do it automatically, without thinking, and it’s only when I sit down to eat the grapes that it strikes me how content I feel.

No, more than content.

I’m fucking happy.

Between the meal, Yulia’s bright smile, and the anticipation of taking her to bed, I’m thoroughly enjoying this evening. And it’s not just today, I realize as I grab a handful of grapes.

This past week, ever since I decided to keep Yulia, has been my happiest in recent memory.

“So, Lucas,” Yulia says before I can digest the revelation, “tell me something…” Her soft lips twitch with a poorly suppressed smile. “How did you get this far in life without ever peeling a potato?”

I pop a grape into my mouth as I consider her question. “I suppose I had a pampered upbringing,” I say after swallowing the grape. “We had a housekeeper, so neither of my parents did any chores, and they didn’t force me to do them. Later on, when I was in the Navy, we ate whatever was served to us, and after that…” I shrug, recalling the hardscrabble days of camping out in the jungle with small groups of men as lawless and desperate as myself. “I guess I just saw food as sustenance. As long as I didn’t go hungry, I didn’t think about it much.”

“I see.” She eyes me thoughtfully. “What made you decide to leave home? It’s a big leap to go from a family with a housekeeper to enrolling in the Navy.”

“I suppose it was.” My parents certainly thought I’d gone insane. “It just seemed like the right thing to do at that point in my life.”

“Why?” Yulia seems genuinely puzzled. “You don’t have a draft in the United States. Did you feel called to defend your country?”

I chuckle. “Something like that.” I’m not about to tell her about the thug I killed in that Brooklyn subway station, or the sick rush I got from seeing his blood spill over my hands. She already fears me; she doesn’t need to know I became a killer at seventeen.

“That’s very admirable of you,” Yulia says, and I can hear the skepticism in her voice. “Very self-sacrificing.”

“Yeah, well, someone had to do it.” I bite on another grape, letting the cold, sweet juice trickle down my throat. I want her to drop this topic, so I add, “Just like someone had to be a spy, right?”

Predictably, she clams up, her face assuming the shuttered expression she always wears when I get too close to that subject. “Would you like some tea?” she asks, rising to her feet. “I saw there was some Earl Gray in one of those boxes.”

I lean back in my chair, watching her. “Sure.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had tea, but I got it because I remembered Yulia drinking it at the Moscow restaurant where we first met. “I could go for a cup.”

She puts on some water to boil and readies two cups for us, her movements as graceful as usual. Everything about her is graceful, reminding me of a dancer.

“Did you ever do ballet?” I ask as the thought occurs to me. “Or is that a stereotype about Eastern European girls?”

Yulia turns to face me with a cup in each hand. “It is a stereotype,” she says, her tense expression fading. “In my case, though, it’s true. My parents had me take ballet lessons from the time I was four. They thought it would help me overcome my shyness.”

“You were shy as a child?”

“Very.” She walks back to the table. “I wasn’t a cute kid—far from it. Other children often mocked me.”

“Really? I can’t imagine you as anything but beautiful.” I accept the cup Yulia hands to me. “How does one go from a not-cute kid to the hottest woman I’ve ever seen?”

Warm color sweeps over her high cheekbones. “I’m not exactly Helen of Troy.” She sits down, cradling her cup. “My mom was pretty, though, so I think I got some of her genes. They just kicked in later, after I went through puberty. Oh, and braces helped, too.” She gives me a wide smile that shows off her straight white teeth.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say wryly. “Total ugliness to total gorgeousness, just like that.”

She shrugs, blushing again, and I have a sudden mental image of her as that shy child.

“I bet you were cute,” I say, studying her. “All that blond hair and big blue eyes. You just didn’t realize it. That’s why they took you from the orphanage, isn’t it? Because they saw your potential?”

Yulia stiffens, and I know I ventured too close to the forbidden subject again. My mood darkens as I reflect on the fact that over the last several days, I’ve made zero progress with her. She may smile at me, cook for me, and willingly take me into her body, but she still doesn’t trust me one bit.

“Yulia.” I move my tea to the side. “You know this can’t go on forever, right? You’re going to have to talk to me one day.”

She looks down into her cup, her body language all but screaming for me to back off.

“Yulia.” Holding on to my temper by a thread, I get up and walk over to pull her to her feet. Holding her arms, I stare into her mutinous gaze. “Who are they?”

She remains silent, her thick eyelashes lowering to conceal her thoughts.

“Why won’t you tell me about them?”

She doesn’t answer, her eyes trained somewhere on my neck.

My grip on her arms tightens, and she flinches, tensing in my hold. Realizing I’m inadvertently hurting her, I force myself to unlock my fingers and drop my hands. I’m getting angry, which is not good. The fact that I’m not willing to torture her means I have to gain her trust to get answers, and this is not the way to do it.

Taking a breath to regain control, I lift my hand and tuck her hair behind her ear, being careful to keep the gesture gentle and nonthreatening. “Yulia.” I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “Sweetheart, they don’t deserve your loyalty. They ruined your life. What they did to you was wrong, don’t you see that? I told you I’ll protect you—from them and from anyone else who wants to harm you. You don’t have to be afraid to talk to me. I’m not going to turn on you once I have this information—you have my word on that.”