Chapter 53: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 53

I’m in hell. Either that or trapped in a nightmare. My arm is on fire, my insides are roiling, and each time the dark haze in my mind clears and I crack open my eyelids, I see Nikolai doing something ever more terrible as his deep, smooth voice utters threats that make bile churn in my throat. And the screaming that follows… My stomach lurches, and it’s all I can do not to roll over and vomit.

This isn’t real.

It can’t be.

The dark haze threatens to swamp me again, and I focus on taking small, shallow breaths and keeping my eyes closed. It has to be a dream, a horrible, graphic dream, or a hallucination brought on by extreme terror. How else would Nikolai be here? How would he have found me?

Then again, how did my mom’s killers?

My consciousness must cut out again, because when I open my eyes next, I’m in the backseat of a moving SUV, comfortably ensconced on a man’s lap. Nikolai’s lap—I’d recognize that cedar-and-bergamot scent anywhere. His powerful arms are around me, holding me tight, and my pulse leaps with joyous relief as I realize this isn’t a dream.

Nikolai is here.

He came for me.

I must make some kind of noise because he pulls back, eyes fiercely golden in his taut face. “Almost there,” he promises, voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “The doctor is already waiting.”

As he speaks, I become aware of a throbbing pain in my right arm and the general feeling of lightheadedness and extreme weakness, along with the sensation that I’ve been beaten all over with a club. The latter must be from jumping out of the car—and also from being tackled to the ground by the younger killer. My heart rate triples as I recall his face above me, the twisted hunger in those flat, dark eyes.

How did I go from there to here?

How is it that Nikolai—

Abruptly, my mind clears and the memories rush in, each more nauseating than the next. The older man with his skull blown off… Nikolai leaping toward me, gun held like an extension of his hand… His interrogation of the man who planned to rape me; the threats Nikolai made and the brutal, skilled way he wielded that switchblade… And the screams, those raw, blood-curdling screams…

I begin to shake as my gaze sweeps the car, taking in Pavel’s stone-faced presence next to us and the two dangerous-looking men up front. I’ve never seen them before, but they must be guards from the compound. My eyes snap back to Nikolai’s face, that perfectly sculpted face that can look alternately savage and tender, and I notice a reddish-brown streak over one high cheekbone.

Blood. Dried blood.

My shaking intensifies. Misinterpreting the cause, Nikolai strokes my jaw, his fierce expression softening. “It’s okay, zaychik, you’re safe. They can’t hurt you.”

But he can. I’m painfully, acutely aware that I’m at the mercy of this beautiful, terrifying man. Being held on his lap only highlights the size and strength differences between us; his large, powerful body surrounds me completely, the muscular band of his arm at my back as inescapable as any iron chain. Not that I’d be able to escape in any case—not with his men here, not while the SUV is driving at full speed.

I’m better off not knowing, but I can’t hold back the question. “It was you, wasn’t it?” My voice emerges as a strained whisper. “You shot him in the head.”

It’s as if a veil drops over Nikolai’s face, all hint of expression disappearing. “I had no choice. If I’d only injured him, he could’ve killed you while I dealt with his partner. With the two of them there, I had to eliminate one, fast.”

“And the other man…” I swallow down a surge of nausea at the recollection of the screams. “Is he…?”

“Dead from his injuries, yes.” There’s no remorse in Nikolai’s voice, no sign of guilt in his level gaze, and shards of ice form in my veins as I realize he’s done this before.

He’s killed and tortured others.

Including, most likely, his own father.

“Stop the car!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can consider their wisdom. Ignoring the dizzying flare of pain in my arm, I wedge my hands between us and push against his chest—which, for some reason, feels like it’s plated with steel. Desperate, I resort to begging. “Please, Nikolai, let me out. I need… I just need a minute.”

He doesn’t budge, and neither do any of his men as he says quietly, “We’re almost home, zaychik. Just a few minutes longer.”

Home? My panicked gaze jumps to the window, and fear squeezes my chest as I recognize the road leading up to the compound, the steep curves of which I navigated just this morning as I fled from the man holding me… the man I didn’t truly believe was a killer.

“Don’t worry. I had the doctor and his team come out here,” Nikolai says, addressing a question that’s just started forming in my mind. “They brought everything they need to treat you.”

I take in his implacable expression, my fear growing with each passing second. “I would prefer a hospital. Please, Nikolai… just take me to a hospital.”

“I can’t.” His chiseled features might as well be made of granite. “It’s not safe.”

“Safe? But—”

“Those two were just hired guns. There’s plenty more where they came from.”

My throat goes dry. In my panic, I almost forgot about the mystery of the killers’ motivations. “Is that what he told you? The man you… questioned?” Is my theory right, after all? Did my mom witness something she shouldn’t have?

“Yes, and Chloe…” He frames my cheek with his large, warm palm, the tender gesture belying the hard set of his features. “They were there to kill you both.”

“What?” I jerk back. “No, that’s not poss—”

“That’s what the assassin said. If you hadn’t been late coming home…” He drops his hand, a muscle flexing violently in his jaw.

“But that doesn’t—” I stop short as fragments of the conversation I overheard that day surface in my mind.

Supposed to be here… Maybe there’s traffic…

I heard the killers say that, but for some reason, I didn’t put two and two together, didn’t realize they were talking about me, waiting for me.

“I don’t understand.” I’m shaking again, trembling with a chill that has nothing to do with the AC inside the car. “Why would anyone want me dead? I haven’t done anything, I don’t know anyone, I’m just—just me.”

Nikolai’s expression shifts, a strange pity entering his gaze. “No, zaychik, I don’t think you are.”

“What?” I push against his bizarrely hard chest again—and nearly faint from the fresh explosion of pain in my arm. His face swims in front of my eyes, and I’m still fighting not to pass out when a startling realization filters in.

That hardness is a bulletproof vest.

In the next moment, however, I forget all about it because Nikolai asks, “Does the name Tom Bransford mean anything to you?”

The syllables don’t make sense at first. “You mean… the presidential candidate?” As soon as the question leaves my lips, I realize how absurd it is. He can’t possibly be talking about the California senator who’s all over the news these days, the one they’re comparing to JFK. I must’ve misheard or—

“That’s the one.” His eyes gleam like antique gold. “Unless there’s another Tom Bransford with the resources to hire professional assassins, erase security tapes, and alter police records.”

“Police records? What—”

“I’ve gone through all the files relating to your case,” he says gently, “and there’s nothing about the masked men at your mom’s apartment—nor the black pickup that nearly ran you over. In fact, according to the official record, it was a neighbor who discovered your mother; you never even showed up to identify the body.”

“That’s not true! I went to the station and—”

“I know.” His gaze darkens. “And there’s more. Your emails to the journalists never reached their destination. Someone with a very specific set of skills made sure they’d be blocked or marked as spam—and they also got rid of whatever proof there was of your story, like traffic cam recordings and security tapes that would’ve shown you getting attacked.”

I feel like a sinkhole is opening underneath me. “How do you know all this?” My voice shakes, my thoughts spinning like twigs in a tornado. I don’t know what to think, what to believe, and the throbbing pain in my arm isn’t helping. “How did you—”

“Because I also have resources. Including some that Bransford doesn’t.”

Of course. That’s how he found me so fast today—and why I’m completely screwed if he intends to harm me. My heart thuds painfully, a cold sweat drenching my shirt as another wave of dizziness attacks me, making black dots dance at the corners of my vision. Blood loss, I realize dimly; that must be what’s causing this. Desperately, I suck in air, but it only helps a little, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from far away as I ask shakily, “Why did you come after me today? Why—” I drag in another breath. “Why are you bringing me back?”

His eyes return to their bright, savage tiger hue. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I ran, I think woozily. Because you’re most likely a psychopath incapable of real feelings. Because none of this, especially you and me, makes any sense.

I end up giving the only reason I can, one that weighs on me heaviest of all. “Because if you’re right about Bransford, you and your family are in even greater danger.” My voice wavers as another wave of lightheadedness crashes into me. Still, I persevere. “You have to let me go. Now. Before it’s too late.”

A dark curve touches his sensuous lips, a glimmer of wry amusement kindling in his gaze as he gently cups my cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it, zaychik,” he says softly, “but my family and I aren’t exactly strangers to danger. In fact, we’re well acquainted with it.”

He kisses me then, softly at first, then with increasing urgency, and despite everything, familiar heat sparks low in my core. He deepens the kiss, his tongue mating with mine in a primal dance that makes no allowance for our lack of privacy, and my head spins, my dizziness increasing until he’s the only solid anchor in my world. Overwhelmed, I cling to him, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, and with my thoughts dissolving under the dark pull of desire, it doesn’t matter that I’ve seen him take two lives today, that he may be the very definition of a monster.

Nothing matters except the two of us, and by the time he lets me come up for breath, we’re already past the gate, back in his domain.

“Don’t worry, zaychik,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my lower lip as a shiver racks my battered body. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.” And in his eyes, I read the unspoken:

Even if you object.