Her eyelashes sweep up as she meets my gaze. “So what are you going to do if I tell you about them? What’s going to happen to the agency?”
I suppress my pleased smile. This is the closest she’s come to giving in. “We’re going to take care of them.”
“The way you took care of Al-Quadar?” Her eyes are wide with what appears to be curiosity and hope. “You’ll wipe them out?”
“Yes, you’ll be safe from them. By the time we’re done, nobody connected to the organization will be around to hurt you.” I intend my words as a reassurance, a promise of better things to come, but as I speak, I see color leaching from Yulia’s face.
She steps out of my reach, her lashes descending to hide her gaze again, and a sudden suspicion stirs within me.
“Yulia.” I catch her arm as she turns away. Spinning her around to face me, I stare at her pale face. “Are you protecting them? Are you protecting someone there?”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the tension on her face, the fear that she’s trying so hard to hide. This goes beyond simple loyalty to an employer, beyond concern for coworkers.
She’s terrified for them—like someone would be for a person one loves.
Stunned, I release her arm and step back. I don’t know why this possibility never occurred to me. I’d been so hung up on the idea that they fucked up her life, I never wondered whether there might be someone Yulia cares about in Ukraine.
Whether she might have a lover who’s not an assignment.
* * *
I spend the rest of the evening functioning on autopilot. Esguerra and I have another late-night call with Asia, so I tie Yulia up in my office, letting her read while I take care of business. She’s unusually wary around me, watching me like I might attack her at any moment, and her fear adds to the rage bubbling deep within my chest. It takes everything I have to hand her a book and walk out of the room without grabbing her and demanding answers.
Without resorting to violence that I can’t and won’t use on her.
As I listen to our Malaysian suppliers argue over the quality of the latest batch of plastic explosives, I try to keep my thoughts from straying to my captive, but it’s impossible. Now that the idea is lodged in my mind, I can’t push it away.
A lover. A man Yulia cares about and wants to protect.
The mere thought of that fills me with murderous fury. Who is he? Another operative from her agency? Someone she met during her training, perhaps? It’s not out of the question. She would’ve been very young when she met him, but girls that age fall in love all the time. He could’ve been another trainee, someone she felt close to because they shared the same experiences. Or he might’ve been older—an instructor or an already-trained agent. Kirill couldn’t have been the only one who noticed the ugly duckling blossoming into a swan.
The more I think about it, the more likely it seems. They could’ve met during her training and continued their romance later on. Just because Yulia’s job involved getting close to men for information doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had a genuine relationship on the side. And if she did have one, another agent would’ve been the most logical choice for a lover. Someone from her organization would’ve understood her profession, forgiven her for doing what she had to do.
Accepted that she let me fuck her while she was in love with him.
The pencil I’ve been toying with during the call snaps in my hands, the crack startlingly loud in the pause during the conversation. Esguerra lifts his eyebrows, shooting me a cool glance, and I force my hands to unclench from the broken pieces of the pencil.
I can’t give in to this anger. I can’t allow myself to lose control. I need to figure out a new strategy, something that doesn’t rely on Yulia ultimately trusting me.
If I’m right about her lover, she’ll never give me the answers I seek.
She’ll protect her agency because he’s part of it.
* * *
Yulia is still reading when I step into my office, her blond head bent over the open pages of a Michael Crichton techno-thriller. She’s holding the book on her lap—the only position the ropes securing her to the armchair allow.
At the sound of my entry, she looks up, her gaze filled with wariness. She’s expecting me to push for information, and her fear is like gasoline on the flames of my fury.
Far be it from me to disappoint my prisoner.
“Why are you protecting them?” I cross the room and stop in front of her. My voice is cold, though the anger coursing through my veins is hot enough to burn. “What do they mean to you?”
Yulia’s gaze drops to my stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I crouch in front of her, so we’re at the same eye level. Extending my hand, I grip her jaw and force her to look at me. “You don’t want us to go after your agency. Why?”
She’s silent as she holds my gaze.
“Is there someone there you’re protecting?”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I catch a glimpse of panic in their blue depths. “No, of course not,” she says quickly.
She’s lying. I know she is, but I play along. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”
“Because they don’t deserve your vengeance.” Her words tumble out, fast and desperate. “They were just doing their job, protecting our country.”
“So it’s all about patriotism for you? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Of course.” A pulse is throbbing visibly in her throat. “Why else would I do this?”
“Maybe because they took you when you were a fucking child.” My hand tightens on her jaw. “Because the only choice they gave you was to whore for them or rot in the orphanage.”
Yulia flinches at my harsh words, her eyes filling with tears, and I stop, fighting a swell of rage. Realizing my fingers are digging into her skin, I unclench my hand and lower it to my lap. My palm immediately curls into a fist, and she shrinks back against the chair, as if afraid I’ll hit her.
I relax my hand with effort. “Yulia.” I manage to moderate my tone. “They’re fucking monsters. I don’t know why you can’t see it.”
She closes her eyes, and I see a tear trickling down her cheek. “It’s not that simple,” she whispers, opening her eyes to look at me again. “You don’t understand, Lucas.”
“No?” Unable to resist, I raise my hand and wipe the streak of wetness off her face. My touch is almost gentle, the worst of my violent anger receding at the sight of her tears. “Then explain it to me, beautiful. Make me understand.”
“I can’t.” Another tear escapes, undoing my work. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” There’s only one reason I can think of for her continued silence. My suspicions were correct. Yulia has someone there she’s protecting—someone she can’t tell me about because she knows what will happen if I learn of his existence.
Because she knows he’ll die at my hand.
She doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she says quietly, “May I please use the restroom? I really have to go.”
I stare at her, my fury deepening. In less than five days, I’m going to Chicago, and I’m still no closer to getting real answers.
I will never get any closer for as long as she loves him.
As I look at her tear-streaked face, an idea comes to me, one I would’ve once dismissed as too cruel. Now, however, with this new knowledge fueling my rage, I can’t see any other way. I can’t keep Yulia locked up in my house forever; at some point, I’ll have to give her more freedom, and when I do, I need to be certain there’s nowhere she can run and hide.
I need to make sure she can’t go back to him.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out my switchblade and cut through her ropes while she watches me, pale and visibly terrified.
Schooling my face into a hard, impassive mask, I take hold of her slim arm and pull her to her feet. “Let’s go,” I say, my voice like ice.
As I lead her down the hallway, my resolve firms.
It’s time for the gloves to come off.
One way or another, Yulia is going to talk tonight.
18
Yulia
My pulse hammers with anxiety as we walk silently to the bathroom. I can feel Lucas’s anger. It’s different from what I’ve seen from him before—colder and more controlled. He’s both furious and resolved, and that frightens me more than if he had just exploded at me.
He lets me go into the bathroom alone as usual, and I close the door behind me, leaning against it to gather my thoughts and calm my frantic heartbeat. The food I ate at dinner is like a brick in my stomach. I haven’t felt the bite of terror in over a week, and I’ve forgotten how powerful it can be.
He lied. He lied when he promised not to hurt me. I could see the dark intent on his face, feel the barely restrained violence in his touch.
He’s going to do something to me tonight—something terrible.
Feeling sick, I use the toilet and wash my hands, going through the motions despite my panic. The knowledge of Lucas’s betrayal is like a spear through my chest. In the beginning, I suspected he may be playing me, but as the days went on, I slowly began to lose my natural distrust of him, to believe that the bizarre domesticity of our arrangement might continue for some time.