She took a deep breath and her gaze dropped to his throat. “Maybe you should get clear of all of this, Casimir. I have to see it through. I started something a long time ago, and I’m going to finish it.”
He shook his head, his hand sliding up her back, beneath her long hair to curl around the nape of her neck. “Look at me, golubushka.” He waited until she lifted her gaze back to his. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together. You may not want me right now, or trust me, but you need me. You’re mine, and I’m going to protect you and help you through this. The best way to do that is to show you who and what I am. You’ll see into my mind. I won’t be able to hide from you. Not anything. You have to be able to count on at least one person right now. Your sisters are a long way away, so you’ve got me. Only me. And, Giacinta, I’m more than up for whatever has to be done.”
He was looking forward to it. No job had ever been personal for him. This was. Still, he was a man of control. He was fire inside. He always had been, but he could twist those flames to be whatever he needed. He’d learned restraint from the many lessons of his youth. He was able to use the fire to his advantage, keeping it smoldering and under control all these years. The first loss of control he’d experienced since the days of his boyhood had been this night with Lissa in his bed.
Once more he took her wrist and turned her palm up to him, laying it over his bare thigh. He didn’t wait for consent. He didn’t want her to struggle with her decision. She was trying to protect him, and he didn’t need that from her. He needed trust. He turned up his own palm and took her other hand and pressed her thumb hard into the exact center, then repeated the action with his own thumb on her upturned palm.
At once the connection arced through both of them, much like an electrical current. The sizzle started in their palms and forked outward, spreading along pathways, nerve endings, straight toward their brains. He felt her in his mind and deliberately, he forced himself to open to her, to allow her access to his memories, to everything he was, both good and bad. He wanted her always. He didn’t hide that from her. He wanted a home and a family with her. He wanted everything with her, and he was ruthless enough to take it. To protect it. He didn’t try to keep that from her either.
His past flooded her mind. Memories of his mother and father. He’d been so young, but he’d been traumatized, just as she’d been, by their ugly deaths. He’d been ripped from his brothers, so frightened, just a young boy, beaten and threatened, humiliated and tortured to keep him off-balance and afraid of those who held power over him. Unashamed, he left himself open for her to see everything.
Casimir Prakenskii, like his brothers, had been forged in the fires of hell. Lissa wanted to weep for the young boy – for all of them. She’d suffered trauma when her parents and those she loved had been murdered, but her torment had been swift and then over. Casimir’s hadn’t ended for years. He’d been caned, whipped, had electrical shock applied. He’d even been water-boarded.
Training sexually should have been at least pleasurable, but it was all about performance and control. If he failed to control his arousal, he was beaten severely. If the woman failed to arouse him, she was beaten. Sickened, Lissa nearly pulled her thumb away, but then his memories of work were there. Years of being alone. Lissa had never really felt completely alone, not like he did.
She saw the many roles he’d played in order to get close to his targets. He’d hunted with great efficiency and patience. He’d refined his skills over the years, relentless in his pursuit and yet never hurrying or making a mistake. Consequently, he had a perfect record. He was sent out and didn’t stop until the job was done. She couldn’t help but admire his skills.
Still, along the way, with as many hits as he’d made, things had been bound to go wrong. He bore those scars. The worst were on his face and scalp and had come from a fellow student targeted because the man had switched sides. He’d begun working for the Russian mob, using his skills for monetary gain. The elder Sorbacov hadn’t liked that.
Lissa held her breath as that particular memory unfolded and she saw the weapon the target had used to try to take Casimir’s head off. The man had forged the blades, curving them to fit over a skull and face like a mask. He wielded it as a sword, slamming the cage of sharpened steel onto his victims in order to hold them in place for the kill. The more they struggled, the deeper the blades penetrated.
Casimir hadn’t struggled. He’d allowed the assassin to pull him close and he’d struck with his own blade. It had taken longer to remove the mask of blades from his face and skull than it had to kill his opponent. Who had that kind of discipline? What would it take to be that man who could have his face and skull slashed to pieces, blood running everywhere, and calmly kill his attacker and remove the horrible device?