Unfortunately, there are a lot of goddamn cowards in this world, which is why I learned early in life to function on very little sleep. In my line of work, I can’t afford to be left vulnerable to my enemies, and more often than not, my enemies are lying in the shadows, patiently waiting for me to let my guard down. A moment of weakness when I keep my eyes closed just a second too long . . . only to ensure I never open them again.
The girl asleep on the couch in the next room is no exception. Her physical appearance is misleading. She may appear to be a tiny, frail little thing—standing at least a full foot shorter than me and weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet, with a sweet, innocent face to boot—but I see the way she tracks my every movement, mentally cataloguing where everything is kept in this isolated cabin. The amount of time she stares at the kitchen drawer where the knives are kept isn’t lost on me. I know she wants to kill me. She wouldn’t think twice about bludgeoning me to death if it meant her freedom. But I can’t let that happen. And she’ll never be free.
Yesterday, when she thought I wasn’t looking, I caught her peeking out the small window, frantically surveying her surroundings. I then saw the despair settle in her eyes when she realized we’re in the middle of nowhere, and that even if she were to miraculously escape from my custody, she’s got nowhere to go. This safe house—hidden in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California—was built by my family in the early eighties for exactly this type of situation. Disappearing from the face of the Earth. Only, the ironic thing right now is that the place I most want to disappear from is this fucking place. Because of her.
As if on cue, I hear her moving around in her sleep in the next room, the old couch squeaking its complaints as she shifts her weight. Then she begins to murmur something I can’t quite decipher, so I slide off of the rock-hard mattress to go check on her and make sure she’s actually asleep.
Ever since our first night here, especially after she spit in my face and told me to fuck off, I’ve been trying my best to put some distance between us, her presence disarming in a way it shouldn’t be. It was easier that first day back at my place in L.A., when she stayed locked in her room and I had the whole rest of the house to do my thing. But here in these close quarters, it’s not that simple.
Peering around the doorframe a second before I step into the living area, I freeze mid-stride at the mind-blowing sight laid out before my eyes and I hiss in a sharp breath. Ty che, b`lyad’?
With her blanket in a heap on the floor, apparently having fallen off when she was moving around, she is completely uncovered as her oversized t-shirt is bunched up around her waist. Sheer, white lacy panties are on full display, revealing her soft, milky thighs, but that’s not even the worst of it. One of her hands is resting just on top of the elastic waistband, her fingers slowly stroking back and forth across the exposed skin of her lower stomach as a playful smirk tugs on the corners of her lips. My dick stirs to life at the erotic image.
Apparently, my little captive is having quite the pleasant dream, and as much as I know I need to spin my ass around and return to the bed I was just in, I don’t. I can’t. It’s too much like watching my Darya again, the way she used to enjoy playing with herself for me, purposely driving me mad with lust. In my family, I am known for my exceptional self-control and unwavering willpower, but this is something I can’t deny myself. She may be my biggest threat yet.
When the muffled whimpers pass through her lips and she arches her back like a sleepy kitten, pressing her taut nipples against the thin cotton of the shirt—my shirt—it takes every ounce of resolve I have not to stalk over to the couch and touch her. Just once. Just a reminder of what a woman’s smooth skin feels like beneath my hands.
Somehow, I refrain. However, I find myself rubbing my thick shaft outside my black athletic pants as I leer at her, imagining how it’d feel if it were her hand on my dick instead of mine. Or better yet, her mouth. My entire body tenses at the visual, a feral growl rumbling inside of my chest.
“Please . . . please . . . oh, please,” she begs repeatedly while squirming on the couch, clenching her upper thighs together.
My hand moves inside my pants, my fingers wrapping securely around my shaft as I begin to slowly stroke. She lifts her arms above her head, causing her hands to fall over the side of the arm rest, wrists crossed like they’re bound together, and the memory of her tied to the bed the first night she was in my house flashes in my mind. I feared then she would ruin me. When I looked into her eyes the first time, I knew she would.
Those fucking eyes. A blue with such depth that not even the most expensive sapphire in the world could compare. A blue that I’ve only seen once before. Moi Darya. My fucking kryptonite.
A loud moan followed by a clear “Yes, Sir” demands my attention, and I begin to increase my tempo. I’ve jacked off hundreds of times in the last couple of years, been to so many strip joints that seeing a naked woman isn’t even exciting for me any longer, but this . . . watching her like this is one of the fucking sexiest things I’ve ever seen. She’s my best dream and worst nightmare all in one package. And I’m fucking powerless.
Just as I feel my balls contract, my orgasm threatening, she winces and coughs out a scream, her expression instantly changing from one of pure ecstasy to that of complete horror. Immediately, I release the grip on my cock, confused.
Her arms swing down and wrap around her midsection like a coat of armor. Then, drawing her knees up to a fetal position, she begins to tremble as she shakes her head repeatedly.
“No! No! Get off me!”
The panic in her voice slices through me, and straightaway, all of the sexual hunger in my body is instantly replaced by concern. Her neck twists violently from side to side as her body contracts, all while she continues to cry out her pleas for whoever to stop what they’re doing. My heart sinks as my stomach clenches, slamming into one another in a powerful explosion that hurls me toward her.
Scooping her into my arms, I lower myself into the chair adjacent to the couch and hold her close to me, desperate to soothe her. I rock my upper body back and forth slightly while pressing my lips to the top of her head in a comforting kiss.
“Quiet there, kotyonok. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you,” I whisper, my brain still dealing with the whiplash of the previous couple minutes.
Thankfully, she snuggles deeper into my chest, and her frantic breathing gradually begins to even out, the sobs subsiding. I have no idea what the fuck just happened, but I know all too well dreams like that aren’t the product of an active imagination. Whatever nightmare she just faced while asleep is one she knows all too well while awake. And it makes me want to fucking kill whoever did it to her. After I torture them for hours upon endless hours.
The moment she shakes off the lingering slumber haze and realizes she’s tucked up against me, every muscle in her body pulls taut and she stops breathing. I can almost hear the war going on inside her brain. Part of her wants to push off of me, to scamper back to the couch and put some distance between us, but at the same time, she’s shaken and distraught over whatever she just remembered, and finds much-needed security and solace in my arms.
My hold on her never wavers. I can’t forget what I just saw, and even though it was quick, there’s no denying the intensity of whatever she experienced. I have to know what happened. I have to make sure she’s okay. I don’t know why, but I have to.
“Are you okay, girl?” I finally ask, my throat feeling thick.
“Yeah.” Nodding, she hiccups back a sniffle.
I’m pleased she makes no effort to break free from my lap, and I take it as my cue to keep talking. “Do you remember what you were dreaming about? I heard you calling out, so I came to check on you.” It wasn’t a total lie.