Bind Me(Capture Me: Book 2)(5)

Her face whitens as I speak. “So was your boss at the front with you?” she asks, putting down her spoon. “Is that how the two of you survived?”

“Yes.” I take another breath to battle the memories. “Esguerra came into the pilot’s cabin to talk to me right before it happened.”

Yulia’s forehead creases with tension. “Lucas, I—” she begins, but I raise my hand.

“Don’t.” My voice is razor sharp. If she starts lying right now, I may not be able to control myself.

She freezes and looks down at the table, instantly falling silent. I can feel her fear, and I force myself to take another breath and unclench my hands—which had unconsciously curled into fists on the table.

When I’m sure I’m not going to snap, I continue. “So yeah, we were both at the front, and we survived,” I say in a calmer tone. “Esguerra was nearly killed afterwards, though. Al-Quadar sniffed out that he was in a hospital in Tashkent, not far from their stronghold, and they came for him.”

Yulia’s head jerks up, her eyes wide. “The terrorists got your boss?”

“Just for a couple of days. We got him back before they did too much damage.” I don’t go into the details of the rescue operation and how Esguerra’s wife risked her life to save him. “His eye was the main casualty.”

“He lost an eye?” She looks stunned, and her reaction awakens the old seedling of jealousy in me.

“Yes.” The word comes out sharp. “But don’t worry—he got an implant, so he’s still as pretty as ever.”

She falls silent again, looking down at her bowl. It’s still half-full, so I say gruffly, “Eat. Your soup is getting cold.”

Yulia obeys, picking up her spoon. After a few spoonfuls, however, she looks up at me again.

“He must hate me a lot,” she says softly. “Your boss, I mean.”

I shrug. “Not as much as he hates Al-Quadar. Or I should say, hated Al-Quadar.”

She blinks. “They’re gone?”

“We wiped them out,” I say, watching her reaction. “So yes, they’re gone.”

She flinches, so subtly that I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been staring at her. “The whole organization? All their cells?” She sounds incredulous. “How is that possible? Weren’t governments worldwide hunting them for years?”

“They were, but governments are always… constrained.” I smile grimly. “When you’re trying to be better than the thing you’re hunting, it’s hard to do what it takes. They have their hands tied by laws and budgets, by public opinion and democracy. Their constituents don’t want to see stories on the news about children killed in drone strikes or terrorists’ families abused during interrogations. A little waterboarding, and everyone’s up in arms. They’re too soft for this fight.”

“But you and Esguerra are not.” Yulia puts down her spoon, her hand unsteady. “You’re willing to do what it takes.”

“Yes, we are.” I can see the judgment in her eyes, and it amuses me. My spy is still an innocent in some ways. “The Al-Quadar stronghold in Tajikistan was one of the last big cells remaining, and from there, it was just a matter of finding the few that were still scattered around the world. It wasn’t difficult once we threw all our resources at it.”

She stares at me. “I see.”

“Eat your soup,” I remind her, seeing that she’s not eating again.

Yulia picks up her spoon, and I get up to get myself another bowl. By the time I return to the table, I see that she has nearly finished her portion.

“Do you want more?” I ask, and she shakes her head, once again letting me catch a glimpse of her nipples.

“I’m full, thank you.”

“Okay.” I force myself to start eating instead of staring at Yulia’s breasts. When I look up again, she has her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped tightly around them. It makes me wonder if she saw the lust on my face and was reminded of her nightmare.

Thinking about that—about what happened to her at fifteen—infuriates me all over again. I want to dig up Kirill’s corpse and shred it into pieces. I know it’s ironic as hell that I’m outraged over a rape when I’ve done things most people would deem a thousand times worse, but I can’t be rational about this.

I can’t be rational about her.

“So, Lucas, what made you decide to work here?” Yulia asks, dragging me out of my thoughts, and I realize she’s trying to feel me out, to understand me better so she can manipulate me. I can deflect her question, but she was open with me earlier, so I figure I owe her some answers.

A little honesty will do no harm.

“Esguerra pays well, and he’s fair to his people,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What else can one ask for?”

“Fair?” Yulia frowns. “That’s not your boss’s reputation. ‘Ruthless’ is how most people would describe him, I think.”

I chuckle, inexplicably amused by that. “Yeah, he’s a ruthless bastard, all right. However, he generally keeps his word, which makes him fair in my book.”

“Is that why you’re loyal to him? Because he keeps his word?”

“Among other reasons.” I also appreciate Esguerra’s loyalty to his own. He’s taken care of the people on this estate after his parents’ death, and I admire that. But all I say is, “A seven-figure salary helps for sure.”

Yulia studies me, and I wonder what she sees. An amoral mercenary? A monster? A man just like Kirill? For some reason, this last bit bothers me. I may not be much better, but I don’t want her to see me that way.

I don’t want to feature in her nightmares.

“So when did you meet Esguerra?” she asks, still in her information-gathering mode. “How did you end up working for him?”

“They didn’t tell you that?” I imagine she must’ve been briefed extensively on my boss, since he was her original assignment. And possibly on me, since I accompanied him.

“No,” Yulia replies. “That wasn’t in either of your files.”

So she did study up on us. “What was in my file?” I ask, curious.

“Just the basics. Your age, where you went to school, that sort of thing.” She pauses. “Your discharge from the Navy.”

Of course. I shouldn’t be surprised she knows about that. “Anything else?”

“Not really.” Yulia pauses again, then says quietly, “It didn’t even mention whether you’re married or otherwise attached.”

A peculiar warmth unfurls in my chest. Pushing my empty bowl aside, I lean forward to rest my forearms on the table. “I’m not,” I say, answering the question she didn’t pose. “In fact, I haven’t been with anyone but you since Moscow.”

Yulia gives me an unreadable look. “You haven’t?”

“No.” I don’t bother explaining how I’ve been too obsessed with her to think about any other woman.

Getting up, I take the bowls to the sink, then turn to face her. “Let’s go, beautiful. Breakfast is over.”





7





Yulia



As Lucas leads me to the living room, I reflect on what I just learned. What Lucas told me about Al-Quadar fits perfectly with the information in Esguerra’s file. Lucas’s boss is merciless with his enemies, and I’m one of them.

By all rights, I should’ve already been killed in some gruesome way, yet I’m alive, fed, and unharmed. Now that I’m thinking more clearly, I realize Lucas’s decision to manipulate me emotionally rather than torturing me physically is a stroke of unbelievable luck. My feelings may be wounded, but my body is whole, some minor soreness aside. I have no doubt that he’s playing me, but it’s possible that at least some of his game is real.

It’s possible that his desire for me is temporarily stronger than his hate.

I tested that theory when I came out of the bathroom, first by showing vulnerability, then by being subtly friendly. When my captor seemed to respond well to that, I brought up the plane crash, a topic that had provoked him before. The fact that he didn’t attack me—that he actually conversed with me, telling me some of his story—is beyond encouraging.

It means that some of the sympathy he displayed earlier may be genuine.

Feeling hopeful, I glance at Lucas as he walks beside me. He has a fresh coil of rope in his hands, and when we stop in front of the chair where he had me tied before, I do my best to assume a vulnerable expression.

“Do you really need me naked?” I ask, letting my eyes glisten with tears. It’s easy to bring them up; my emotions are still ricocheting from hurt to anger to lingering longing for comfort. “It’s cold when the air conditioning comes on.”

He hesitates, and I give him a desperate, pleading look. I’m only half-acting. It’s a small thing, clothes, but being dressed would make me feel more human. More importantly, though, Lucas granting me this request would mean that my strategy of playing on his emotions is working.

“All right,” he says, giving in as I hoped. “Come with me.” Leaving the rope on the chair, he takes my arm and brings me to the bedroom.