Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
We walk back to the building in silence. Together. Apart. Somehow entwined in a way I don’t understand.
In this moment, I don’t need to understand it. I’m content to just walk by this man’s side. Receive his warmth and strength. The vulnerability he just offered me to match my own.
For the moment, I’m going to surrender. He knows where Mika is. He showed me a picture.
Maybe everything led me to this moment. To exactly where I’m supposed to be. In some cosmic arrangement of our fates, I was taken prisoner by the one person who could help me.
And then I feel Anya. Not the pitiful woman who overdosed, but young Anya. The one who tried to protect us both with a butcher knife.
She had warrior energy then. Same as mine.
And it feels like she’s here with me now. Right by my side.
It feels like a promise that everything is going to be okay.
Maykl
I’m reluctant to put Kira back in the handcuffs when we return to my apartment. She stands at the window for a while, looking out at the lake, and then she walks into my kitchen and starts opening cupboards.
“What are you looking for?”
“I want to bake,” she declares. “Anya is the one who taught me to bake. Do you like tea cakes?”
I swallow my surprise. “Yes.”
Russian tea cakes are my favorite, not that I’ve had one for years.
“Do you have any powdered sugar?”
“I’ll order some. What else?”
She rattles off a short list, and I order it to be delivered from the local grocery store. Forty-five minutes later, one of the soldiers knocks on the door with the ingredients.
Another thirty minutes, and my apartment is filled with the delicious scent of warm vanilla and sugar.
I wanted to tell Kira.
About her father.
I tried.
But in the end, I couldn’t quite choke it out. Especially when I realized she didn’t need me adding another layer of trauma to what was already a difficult day.
Now, nothing satisfies me more than seeing her make herself at home in my kitchen. It’s not that I think a woman belongs in the kitchen. I didn’t grow up with a mother at home. I never had that sort of ideal.
But I like the way she seems comfortable here. Like she belongs here.
When the cookies have cooled, we sit at the table and dip them into milk.
“How much older was Anya?” I ask.
“Four years. She was like a mother to me in many ways.”
“Did you have a mother?”
“Our mother was a ghost of a person. She worked very hard for very little pay. Our dad was a deadbeat, so I think she was just sort of checked out emotionally. Almost like a zombie. She did help us out with Mika after he was born. Babies have a way of bringing out qualities you didn’t know you had.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
“Mika is well.” Ravil forwarded me the photo of the teen. He is still discussing with the boy’s adopted father if they even want contact with Kira. “Kira, he may not want or need your presence in his life anymore. Are you prepared for that?”
She stares at me. Her light blue eyes are wide, causing some of the water in them to spill. She sucks in a sobbing breath and holds it then lets it out slowly. “Yes,” she nods. “I guess if he’s happy, I’m happy. I’ve been so worried about him. I guess I thought he needed to be rescued.”
“You were so brave to come here all by yourself to rescue him. In a foreign country, with no help. Going undercover into a bratva stronghold. Very brave.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “But I screwed up completely.”
I raise my brows. “Did you?”
We stare at each other across the table. I want her to feel what I do. That our explosive encounter was a gift. Something meant to be. She will get the result she desired–the information about her nephew, but she also gets this.
The intangible connection forged between the two of us.
The one I want to keep forging until it’s as thick as a rope and stronger than iron.
“Didn’t I?” she asks, her voice softer than feathers.
I shake my head slowly.
She gets up abruptly from her chair. Considering she’s my prisoner and her hands are unfettered, I take note when she launches herself at me with vicious intent.
But it’s to kiss me. To straddle my lap and sweep her tongue between my lips. She tastes of powdered sugar and sweetness.
I grip her hips and yank her over my lap, needing that warm core rubbing over my swelling cock. My hands slide up inside her sweater, cupping her breast over her bra.
She unbuttons my shirt then loses patience and tries to rip it open. When she’s unsuccessful, I chuckle and do it myself, sending the buttons in a spray around us.