Claim Me(Capture Me: Book 3)(28)

His eyebrows lift. “Really? A sandwich? You must be on the mend. How about eggs? I tried making an omelet recently, and it didn’t come out awful.”

“You did?” I stare at him. “Okay, sure, I’ll gladly have some eggs.”

Lucas smiles and disappears through the doorway. Twenty minutes later, he comes back carrying a tray with a delicious-smelling omelet and a steaming cup of Earl Grey.

“Here we are,” he says, placing the tray on the nightstand and picking up the plate with the fork. Spearing a piece of omelet, he holds up the fork and commands, “Open up.”

“I can feed myself,” I begin, reaching for the plate, but he moves it out of my reach.

“Too weak to swat a fly, remember?” He gives me a steely look. “Now sit back and open your mouth.”

Sighing, I obey, feeling uncomfortably like a two-year-old as Lucas sits on the edge of the bed and feeds me with the nonchalant efficiency of a nurse. However, the glint in his eyes is distinctly un-nurselike, and to my shock, I realize he’s enjoying this on some level.

He likes me helpless and dependent on him.

To test my theory, I watch him closely the next time he brings the fork to my mouth. And there it is: the moment my lips close around the fork, his gaze dips to my mouth and lingers there, his hand tightening on the handle of the utensil. The blanket bunched around my lap is blocking his lower body from my view, but I suspect that if I checked, I’d find him hard, his thick cock bursting out of the confines of his jeans.

A spiral of heat snakes down my spine, and my nipples tighten under the blanket. My body’s reaction catches me off-guard. I’m hardly in shape to be thinking about sex. Nonetheless, I’m cognizant of a growing slickness between my thighs as Lucas continues feeding me, leaning over me each time he brings the food to my lips.

The omelet is good—Lucas really did learn how to make it—but I barely register the rich, savory flavor, all my focus on the twisted eroticism of the situation. In a way, Lucas’s insistence on taking care of me is an extension of his desire to possess me, to control me completely. Weak and ill, I’m at his mercy more than ever, and for some perverse reason, the knowledge turns both of us on.

Before long, the omelet is gone, and I slump back against the pillows, equal parts stuffed and exhausted by the simple act of eating. Arousal or not, I’m still not well. Lucas puts a straw in my tea and lets me drink down half a cup, and then I fade out again, my body demanding yet more rest.



* * *



When I wake up again, I feel moderately stronger, and I remember some of the nightmares I had during the night.

“Can I please see my brother?” I ask Lucas when he brings me a sandwich and a bowl of soup. “I’d really like to talk to him.”

Lucas shakes his head. “You’re not well enough yet.”

“I’m fine. Please, I really need to talk to him.” I put my hand on Lucas’s thigh, feeling the hard muscle through the rough material of his jeans. “I just want to see him with my own eyes.”

“I don’t want you to tire yourself out,” Lucas says, but I can tell he’s wavering.

“How about this?” I push myself up to a straighter sitting position. “I’ll eat, and then if I don’t fall back asleep, you’ll let him come by. Just for a little while. Please, Lucas.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ll eat, and I’ll think about it.”

I nod eagerly and dig into my sandwich, consuming it in several big bites. Lucas insists on feeding me the soup himself, his pale eyes heavy-lidded as he brings the spoon to my mouth. I don’t object; I’m too excited by the idea of seeing Misha, and I don’t mind this weird kink my captor seems to have developed. Also, I don’t want Lucas to realize that I’m not as recovered as I thought. Once again, eating has tired me out, and I’m beginning to feel uncomfortably warm, as though the fever is returning.

Fortunately, Lucas doesn’t catch on to that, so when I don’t fall asleep immediately after my meal, he messages Diego to bring Misha to see me.

“I’m going to give you ten minutes with him,” Lucas says, dressing me in one of his T-shirts. “But the second you feel tired—”

“I’ll end it and rest,” I say, curving my lips in what I hope is a bright, healthy smile. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

Lucas frowns as he feels my forehead, but at that moment, there is a knock on the door.

My brother and Diego are here.

“Ten minutes,” Lucas warns, tucking the blankets around me. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”

I nod. “Can you please put a chair a few feet away from the bed? I don’t want Misha to catch this bug.”

Lucas does as I ask before leaving the room, and a few moments later, my brother walks in.

“How are you feeling?” he asks in Russian as soon as he enters the bedroom, and I put my hand up, not wanting him to get too close. Though I suspect I’m past the contagious stage of this illness, I still feel more like a germ-infested rag than a person.

“I’ve been better,” I say, waving Misha toward the chair Lucas prepared for him. My skin is hurting again, but my brother doesn’t need to know that. “How are you? How are they treating you?”

Misha hesitates, then shrugs. “All right, I guess.” He sits down in the chair, and I notice that his hands are not handcuffed this time.

“They let you walk around untied?” I ask, surprised, and my brother nods.

“They don’t leave me alone with weapons, and I’m handcuffed at night, but yeah, I have some freedom.”

“Good.” I rack my brain for a good place to start, then decide to just come out with it. “Michael,” I say quietly, “where are your adoptive parents? How did you end up with UUR?”

He gives me a stony look. “Uncle Vasya said he told you everything.”

“He told me… some things. But I’d like to hear it from you.” After Obenko’s betrayal, I have zero trust in my former boss’s version of the story. “Do your parents know what you were doing? Did they agree to your training?”

Misha looks at me silently.

“Mishen’ka…” My bones ache as I sit up straighter. “All I want is to know a little bit about your life. You have no reason to believe me, but eleven years ago, I made a bargain with Vasiliy Obenko—your Uncle Vasya. I promised him I’d join UUR in exchange for his sister adopting you and providing you with a good life. That’s why I left: because I wanted you to have the kind of life we had before our parents were killed, the kind of life I couldn’t provide for you in the orphanage…”

As I speak, Misha shakes his head. “You’re lying,” he says, jumping to his feet. “You left. Uncle Vasya told me you joined the program because you didn’t want the responsibility of a baby brother… because you were tired of being in the orphanage. He felt bad that you left me behind, and he told Mom about me and then…” He stops, his chest heaving. “He wouldn’t have lied to me about this. He wouldn’t have.” He repeats that as if trying to convince himself, and I realize that my brother is not as sure of Obenko as he appears. Has he already had a chance to witness the man’s ruthlessness?

“I’m sorry,” I say, lying back against the pillows as my brief burst of energy wanes. “I wish that were true, but for your uncle, his country always came first. You know that, don’t you?”

Misha’s lips flatten, and he shakes his head again. “No. He said you’re good at twisting things.”

“Misha…”

“It’s Michael.” He folds his arms across his chest. “And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay.” I’m still too sick to argue with a traumatized teenager. “Just tell me one thing… Are they good people, those adoptive parents of yours? Did they treat you well?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Misha nods and sits down in the chair. “They did—they are.” His gaze softens a little. “Mom makes potato pancakes on the weekends, and Dad plays table tennis. He’s really good at it. I used to play with him every evening when I was little.”

Tears of relief fill my eyes at the genuine emotion in his voice. Whatever caused him to end up in UUR, Misha loves his adoptive parents—loves them like I loved our Mom and Dad.

“Do you see them often?” Now that my brother is actually speaking to me, I find myself desperate to hear more about his life. “Since you started training, I mean? Are you staying at the dorms, or do you still live at home? What do your parents think of you doing this?”

Misha blinks at my rapid-fire questions. “I… I see them once a month now,” he answers slowly. “And yes, I’m staying at the dorms. Mom didn’t want that, but Uncle Vasya said it would be best, said it would help me with the transition and everything.”

I nod encouragingly, and he continues after a brief pause. “They’re mostly okay with me joining the agency. I mean, they understand that we serve our country.” His gaze slides away as he fidgets in the chair, and I read between the words.