Claim Me(Capture Me: Book 3)(21)

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“—a lot of bruising on her back, face, and stomach, and yes, a mild concussion. I’m going to give her some pain medication, so she can rest comfortably. There’s no need to wake her up; it’s not that severe of a head injury. Her body’s just been through a trauma and needs to heal. The more she sleeps, the better. I suggest you take it easy as well; you’re not doing your ribs any favors with all this activity.”

The voice is somewhat familiar. Prying open my eyelids, I see Lucas standing next to a short, balding man—the doctor who inspected me when I was first brought to the estate. What was his name? Stifling a groan, I turn my head to take in my surroundings and realize I’m in Lucas’s bedroom, lying on his large comfortable bed.

I’m also clean and naked under the blanket. Lucas must’ve undressed and washed me while I was passed out.

“Where’s Misha?” My words come out in a barely audible croak. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Where’s my brother?” Judging by drawn shades and bedroom lights being on, it’s already evening or maybe even night.

Lucas and the doctor turn to face me at the same time. Lucas’s mouth is set in a hard line, but the moment I try to sit up, he crosses the room in a couple of strides and sits down on the edge of the bed. “You are to rest.” His tone is harsh, but his touch is gentle as he pushes me back down. “Don’t move.”

He starts to get up again, and I grab his hand in desperation. “I need to see Misha.”

Lucas hesitates for a moment, then says gruffly, “Fine. I’ll have him brought here. But you rest, understand?”

I tighten my grip on Lucas’s hand. “Where are you holding him?” Now that we’re out of immediate danger, a new fear takes hold of me. My brother is here, in Esguerra’s compound, in the hands of men who can snuff out his life as easily as squashing a bug. If I hadn’t stopped Lucas in that basement, he would’ve likely killed Misha—just as he’d killed Obenko and the other agents.

My captor is dangerous, and I can’t forget that.

“Misha—or Michael, as he told us he prefers to be called—is staying in the guards’ barracks,” Lucas says, his jaw muscle flexing. He seems angry about something, but I have no idea what. “Diego and Eduardo are keeping an eye on him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll call Diego and have your brother brought here.”

I release Lucas’s hand, and he gets up. “Give her the pain meds,” he instructs the doctor. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The man nods, and Lucas walks out after giving me one last hard look. Even with the pain squeezing my temples, I understand his silent warning:

Behave or else.

If he’d asked me, I could’ve told him that his caution is unwarranted. Not only am I feeling like a truck ran me over, but Lucas has my brother. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t go anywhere without Misha—which must be why Lucas had him brought here, I realize with a shudder.

“Here you go,” the doctor says, extending his hand toward me, and I automatically accept the two pills he gives me.

“Thank you, Dr. Goldberg,” I say, finally recalling his name.

The short man gives me a kind smile and helps me sit up, putting two pillows under my back as I clutch the blanket to my chest. He also gives me a bottle of water, which I use to wash down the pills. There’s no point in resisting; the pills might cloud my mind, but the headache is doing that already. Even after sleeping the whole trip, I feel sluggish and exhausted, my body aching all over.

“You should rest,” Dr. Goldberg says, then turns away to rummage in his bag as I tuck the blanket tighter around my naked chest, pinning it in place with my arms.

As if obeying his instruction, my eyelids get progressively heavier, my thoughts beginning to drift as the doctor stands there, quietly humming under his breath. I’m almost asleep when I suddenly remember something he said earlier.

“Is Lucas hurt?” I sit up straighter, my sleepiness fading in a rush of worry. “You mentioned his ribs.”

Dr. Goldberg turns around, eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh, that. Yes, cracked ribs take time to heal. He’s supposed to abstain from physical activity, not run around like Rambo.”

I frown. “When did he crack his ribs?” From the way the doctor is talking, it sounds like an older injury.

Dr. Goldberg gives me an owlish look. “You don’t know?” Then his face clears, and he shakes his head. “Of course you don’t know. What am I thinking?”

“Did something happen here?”

He hesitates, then says, “I think it’s best if Kent fills you in.”

“Fills her in on what?” Lucas asks, walking into the room, and I see my brother come in after him, his hands handcuffed in front of his body.

“Misha!” I almost jump from the bed, injuries be damned, but at the last moment, I remember that I’m naked under the blanket. Flushing, I tighten my arms at my sides and give my brother a smile instead. “How are you doing?” I ask in Russian. “Are you okay?”

Misha stares at me, and I see color creep up his neck as he glances from me to Lucas and then to Dr. Goldberg.

I turn to my captor. “Lucas, would it be possible—”

“You have five minutes,” he growls and strides out of the room. The doctor follows him out, closing the door behind him, and I find myself alone with my brother for the first time in eleven years.





26





Lucas



The moment the door to the bedroom closes, I turn to Goldberg and say, “Prepare the trackers. I want them implanted before you leave.”

The doctor blinks at me. “Tonight? But—”

“She’s already on pain meds, and as banged up as she is, she’ll hardly feel the discomfort.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You can use a local anesthetic to make sure there’s no pain when they go in.” Pausing, I frown at Goldberg. “Unless you think this will impede her recovery?”

“No, but…” He gives me a wary look. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”

“Excuse me?”

Goldberg sighs and says, “Never mind. I can see you’re set on this. I’ll prepare for the procedure.”

He walks over to the couch and sits, opening his doctor’s bag to take out a syringe with a thick needle and the sterilized implants I gave him earlier. The trackers are tiny, about the size of a grain of rice, but capable of transmitting a signal from anywhere in the globe. I watch him for a few moments, then walk over to the window and stare blindly outside, trying to contain the fury simmering in me.

Kirill escaped.

He hurt Yulia, and then he fucking escaped. I don’t know how he managed it—if Yulia was right about the damage she inflicted, he should’ve been at death’s door—but the fucker drove away in the SUV, and we couldn’t give chase without alerting the authorities to our presence in their country. As is, given all the explosions and gunfire, it was bound to be only a matter of time before we got in trouble. Our safest bet had been to hightail it out of the country as fast as we could, and that’s exactly what we did.

Of course, we only did that because Yulia had been injured, and I wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. Otherwise, I would’ve chased down the bastard and worried about getting out of the country later.

Thinking about that—about Yulia beaten and nearly raped—sends fresh rage surging through me. I don’t know which one of us I’m angrier at: Yulia for lying about being an only child and running away, or myself for not doing proper due diligence before jumping to conclusions.

Misha is her brother, not her lover.

Her fucking teenage brother.

During the flight, I had time to think about everything, and in hindsight, it’s obvious how my jealousy had blinded me to the truth. The idea of Yulia in love with another man had been so intolerable I refused to listen to her pleas.

My obsession with her nearly got her killed.

“Lucas?” Goldberg’s voice cuts into my thoughts. When I spin around to glare at him, the doctor says cautiously, “I think their five minutes are up. If you want me to do the procedure, I’m ready.”

“All right.” I force my tone to even out. “Let’s go.”

Misunderstanding or not, Yulia won’t escape from me ever again.





27





Yulia



The second the door closes behind the doctor, I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, making sure the blanket covers my chest. My head pounds with the movement, but I say, “Mishen’ka—”

“It’s Mikhail—or Michael, since you’re so fond of the English language,” my brother snaps, his light-colored eyebrows drawing together in a ferocious frown. “I’m not a child.”

“No, I can see that.” Ignoring the throbbing in my temples, I study his features, noticing the changes brought about by adolescence. At fourteen, he’s already begun the transition into manhood, his face leaner and harder than I recall seeing in pictures as recent as from a few months ago.

Suppressing an irrational urge to cry, I begin again. “Michael”—the formal American version of his name feels foreign on my tongue—“I want to talk to you about… well, about everything.”