Of course. I can see how that would be appealing after his commander’s betrayal in Afghanistan. Still, many men in Lucas’s position would’ve been blinded by greed, and that he wasn’t speaks volumes about his character.
My captor may not be close to his family, but in his own way, he’s as loyal as I am.
* * *
As our extended pseudo-honeymoon continues, I find myself with a strange problem: I have an excessive amount of free time. I have no assignments or classes, no real responsibilities of any kind. Initially, it had been nice; the illness and the traumatic events that preceded it had taken a lot out of me, leaving me exhausted mentally as well as physically. For several weeks, I’d been content to read, watch TV, spend time with Misha, and putter leisurely around the house, but as the weeks turned into months, I began itching to do more. I’d always been busy—first as a student, then as a trainee, and the last few years as an active spy on assignment. Free time had been a luxury I treasured, but now I’m awash in it and I don’t like it.
To fill up the hours, I begin experimenting with new recipes. Lucas grants me access to the Internet—on a monitored computer, since he still doesn’t trust me completely—and I find myself browsing various websites in search of new and interesting dishes. Lucas is all for my new hobby—he enjoys the results of it at every meal—and I gradually develop a kitchen repertoire that ranges from classic Russian dishes like borscht to exotic fusion cuisine that incorporates elements from Asian, French, and Latino cooking. I even come up with my own variations, like cilantro-curry sushi topped with pickled beets, Peking duck stuffed with apple-flavored cabbage, and arepas with Russian eggplant spread.
“Yulia, this is phenomenal,” Lucas says when I make delicate pastries layered with shiitake mushrooms and Camembert cheese. “Seriously, this is better than any high-end restaurant. You should’ve been a chef.”
“It really is amazing,” my brother chimes in, devouring his fourth pastry. He’s taken to eating lunch with us almost every day, and I suspect my cooking is a big reason for that. He’s even willing to tolerate Lucas these days, though they’re still far from being best buddies.
“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I say, getting up to carry my plate to the sink. I’m full to bursting after two pastries, but Misha and Lucas seem to have infinite room in their stomachs. I conceal a grin as Lucas reaches for the second-to-last pastry and my brother instantly grabs the last one, stuffing it into his mouth like he’s afraid it’ll run away.
“Do you have any extra?” Misha asks after he chews and swallows. “Diego and Eduardo begged me to bring back some leftovers.”
“What the hell?” Lucas pauses mid-bite to give Misha a glare. “They can make their own pastries. We won’t have any leftovers.”
“Actually, I made an extra batch just in case,” I say, heading over to the oven. This is not the first time the two guards have begged for food through my brother, and I suspect it won’t be the last. If Lucas allowed it, they’d come over to eat here every day, but since he doesn’t, they find other ways to benefit from my new hobby. “Just tell them to eat the pastries before they cool completely. They won’t be as good reheated in the microwave.”
“Of course,” Misha says as I put plastic wrap over the foil tray and hand it to him. “I’ll give it to them right away.”
Lucas observes us with an unhappy frown. “But what about—”
“I’ll make more soon,” I promise, grinning. “For dinner, I’m making enoki pasta with cashew sauce, and chocolate bread pudding with yuzu-raspberry topping. If you’re still hungry after that, I’ll make these pastries again, okay?”
Misha listens with clear envy before asking, “Do you think you’ll have some bread pudding left if I come by after dinner? The guards invited me to a barbecue tonight, but I’ll probably have some room for dessert…”
“Yes, of course.” I beam at him. “I’ll be sure to save some for you.”
“Yeah, him and half the guards,” Lucas mutters, getting up to wash his plate. “Next thing you know, we’ll be feeding the whole compound.”
I laugh, but before long, Diego and Eduardo start finding various excuses to stop by, often bringing a couple of their friends with them. I don’t mind cooking larger portions—it’s a fun challenge for me—but Lucas gets irritated, especially when our meals get interrupted by frequent visitors.
“This is not a fucking restaurant,” he roars at Diego when the young guard “just happens to swing by” with six of his buddies at lunchtime. “Yulia cooks for me and her brother, got it? Now get the fuck out before I give you an extra shift.”
The guards leave, dejected, but the next day, Eduardo comes by right before Lucas is due to return for lunch. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that shrimp salad left, would you?” he asks, keeping a wary eye on the front door. “Michael mentioned that you made some last night, and—”
“Sure.” I suppress a grin. “But you better hurry. I think Lucas and Michael are almost here.”
I give him a container of the leftover salad, and he thanks me before rushing out the door. The next day, Diego copies Eduardo’s maneuver, stopping by a half hour before dinner, and I give him a whole extra cranberry-and-rice stuffed chicken I made for just such an occasion. He thanks me profusely, and for the next week, I surreptitiously feed the guards that way. On the following Monday, however, Lucas catches me in the act, and he’s not pleased.
“What the fuck is this?” he snarls, stalking into the kitchen just as I’m giving a tray of freshly baked meat pies to Diego. Stopping next to us, he gives the guard a furious look. “I warned you—”
“Lucas, it’s okay. I made enough for everyone,” I assure him. “Really, it’s fine. I don’t mind cooking for them. I enjoy it.”
“See? She’s fine with it.” Diego grins, snatching the tray out of my hands. “Thanks, princess. You’re the best.”
He sprints out of the kitchen, and Lucas turns toward me, jaw clenched. “What the fuck are you doing? It’s not your job to feed the guards. They have a cafeteria in the barracks, you know.”
“I know.” Impulsively, I step toward him and lay my hand on his hard jaw, feeling the muscles working under the stubble-roughened skin. “It’s okay, though. This is fun for me. I like it that the guards enjoy my cooking. It makes me feel…” I pause, searching for the right word.
“Useful?” Lucas says, his expression softening, and I nod, surprised that he pinpointed it so well.
He sighs and covers my hand with his before bringing my fingers to his mouth. Brushing his lips over my knuckles, he studies me, his expression now more troubled than angry. “Yulia, sweetheart… You are useful to me, okay? You don’t need to feed every person on this estate to prove your worth.”
I stare at him, my stomach inexplicably tight as he releases my hand. “What if I don’t want to be useful just to you?” I whisper. “What if I need more than to warm your bed and take care of your house? You know I finished a university for real, right?” I can see Lucas’s gaze darken as I speak, but I can’t stop, my voice growing stronger with each word. “I have a degree in English Language and International Relations, and I was an excellent interpreter as well as a spy. For six years, I lived in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world and interacted with the highest-ranked officials in the Russian government. I was always going places, doing things, and now I barely step foot outside your house because I don’t want Esguerra to remember that I exist.” I stop to draw in a breath, and realize that a muscle is ticking in Lucas’s jaw.
“Is that right?” he says, his voice deadly quiet. “You miss being a spy?”
I instantly curse my loose tongue. I should’ve known how Lucas would interpret my words. “No, of course not—”
“You miss fucking men on assignment?” He moves closer, backing me up against the kitchen counter.
My pulse spikes. “No, that’s not what I—”
His hand grips my throat, tightening just enough to let me feel the steely strength in those fingers. Leaning in, he whispers in my ear, “Or is it that I’m not enough for you?” His breath heats my skin, making my arms erupt in goosebumps. “Do you need more variety, beautiful?”
“No,” I choke out, my breathing turning shallow. A jealous Lucas is a terrifying thing. “That’s not it at all. I just meant that—”
“You’re mine,” he growls, raising his head to pin me with an arctic stare. “I don’t give a fuck what kind of life you led before. I caught you, tagged you, and you’re fucking mine. No man will ever touch you again, and if I want to keep you in a fucking cage for the rest of your life, I will. Understand?”
His grip on my neck loosens, but my throat closes up, the pain like a tidal wave crashing through me. For weeks, I’d existed in a bubble of domestic bliss, playing house with a man who views me as nothing more than a possession, a glorified sex slave he “tagged” with the trackers. Any other woman would’ve fought tooth and nail for her freedom, but I embraced my captivity like I’d been born to it, letting myself imagine our messed-up relationship could someday turn into something real.