Capture Me (13 page)

Y
ulia

M
y pulse racing
, I hold my breath as I listen to the sound of Lucas’s departing footsteps. He’ll be back soon, he said. Does that mean he went to take a shower, or did he leave to go somewhere? No matter how much I strain, I can’t hear the front door opening, but that doesn’t mean anything. The bedroom is probably too far away from the entrance.

After a few more minutes of silence, I shift on the blanket, trying to ease the strain in my shoulders. With my hands tied to one leg of the bed and my ankles to the other, I can’t move more than a couple of centimeters in any direction, and the stretched-out position is only a shade more comfortable than sitting in the chair.

Growing frustrated, I test my bonds. As expected, there’s no give in them, and the wooden king-sized bed is so heavy it might as well be welded to the floor. Every pull on the rope makes it cut into my skin, so I stop tugging on it.

Inhaling slowly, I try to relax, but I’m too anxious.

Where is Lucas? Why did he leave me here like this? When he got the rope and told me to get down on the blanket, I was sure he was going to force me, girlfriend or no girlfriend. I could see his erection, feel the intense hunger in his touch, and it was only the knowledge that it would be infinitely worse if I fought that made me comply with his orders.

If I did as he demanded, I hoped he wouldn’t be as rough.

Except he didn’t touch me. He just tied me to the bed and left me lying here on the blanket. He even gave me a pillow, as though my comfort matters to him.

As though I’m not someone he ultimately plans to kill.

Another few minutes tick by with no sign of Lucas, and I decide that he did leave the house after all. It must be because of that text message he got. Is it work-related or personal? Does it have something to do with that mysterious girlfriend of his? She knows I’m here. She’s seen me sitting in his house naked. Could she have called Lucas to her because she suspects something’s going on between us? Because she doesn’t want her boyfriend toying with his captive like this?

Irrationally, the thought makes my insides twist. I don’t know why I care that Lucas has a girlfriend. We’re not in a relationship, at least not in a romantic sense. He brought me here to torment me, to make me pay for what I’ve done. If anyone has a claim on him, it would be that girl, not me.

I’m the other woman—the one he may want, but will never love.

Closing my eyes, I try to relax again. Exhaustion presses down on me like a layer of bricks, but for some reason, sleep refuses to come. The draft from the air-conditioning is cold on my bare skin, and my shoulders ache from having my arms extended up like that. As ridiculous as it is, a small part of me wishes that Lucas were here—that I were even now lying in his hard embrace.

The fantasy is so alluring that I give into it, like I did in that prison. In my dream, none of this is real. Lucas doesn’t hate me. There was no plane crash, and we’re not on opposing sides. He’s just holding me, kissing me... making love to me.

In my dream, he’s mine and I’m his—and there’s nothing keeping us apart.

L
ucas

B
y the time
I get to the guard tower, Diego and the others have strung up the trespasser in a small shed nearby. It’s pitch-black outside, and there’s no electricity in the shed, so I bring a battery-operated lantern with me to inspect the intruder.

As I shine the light on him, I see that he’s an average-looking Colombian man, likely in his early thirties. His clothes look cheap and rather dirty—though that could be from struggling with our guards. He’s also gagged, likely to prevent him from annoying the guards with his pleading.

I step back and turn to Diego. The young Mexican is sporting a mean black eye—a reminder of my earlier outburst over Yulia. For a moment, I consider apologizing more sincerely, but decide that now’s not the time. “Where did you find him?” I ask instead.

“He was by the river,” Diego says, keeping his tone low. “He had a boat, and he claims he was fishing.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“No.” Diego glances at the guy. “His boat doesn’t have a scratch on it. It’s brand new.”

“I see.” Diego’s right to be suspicious. Few fishermen around these parts can afford a new boat. “All right. Ungag him, and let’s see what he says.”

I
t’s
two in the morning by the time the trespasser finally breaks. I don’t enjoy torture as much as Esguerra does, so I let the guards have a go at the guy first. They pummel him, breaking a few ribs, and then I ask him what he’s doing here. He tries to lie, claiming he came to the estate by accident, but after I do a few rounds with my switchblade, he begins to sing and tells us all about his employer, a powerful drug lord from Bogotá.

“Do these
cabrons
never learn?” Diego says in disgust when the man’s speech devolves into sobbing pleas for mercy. “You’d think they’d know better than to try this shit. Sending this joker to find holes in our security—could they be any stupider?”

“They could.” I step toward the blubbering man and slice my knife across his throat, putting him out of his misery. “They could try attacking us here.”

“True.” Diego steps back to avoid the spray of blood. “Do you want his body shipped to his
patrón
or taken to the incinerator?”

“The incinerator.” I wipe the switchblade on my shirt—it’s so bloody that an extra stain is nothing—and close the knife before putting it away. “Let his boss wonder.”

“Okay.” Diego motions to the two other guards, and they drag the body out of the shed. The place will need to be cleaned, but that’s a task for the next shift. I wait for the new guards to arrive and give them those instructions before heading out to my car.

Diego walks out beside me, so I ask, “Need a ride?”

“Sure. I was going to walk, but a ride sounds good.” He shoots me a grin. “Get myself to bed faster.”

“Yeah.” Before we get in the car, I take out a rolled-up towel I keep for these occasions and spread it on the driver’s seat. Diego isn’t as dirty as I am, so I let him get in the passenger seat as is.

It’s a short drive, but Diego manages to talk my ear off on the way. He’s hyper, like some guys get after a kill. It’s as if he needs to reinforce that he’s alive, that it’s not his body that’s about to be incinerated out there. I know how he feels because a version of the same excitement is humming in my veins. It’s not as extreme as it was with my first few kills—you can get used to anything, even taking lives—but I still feel sharply alive, all my senses heightened by the proximity of death.

“Listen, man,” Diego says when I stop in front of his barracks building, “I just want to say I didn’t mean anything earlier today with that girl of yours. You were right—it’s none of my business.”

“She’s not my girl.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know them to be a lie. Yulia may not be “my girl,” but she’s mine.

She’s been mine from the moment I laid eyes on her in Moscow.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.” Grinning, Diego opens the door and jumps out. “See you tomorrow.”

He shuts the door, and I drive off. Loose gravel shoots out behind my car as I floor the gas, filled with sudden impatience.

I’ve waited long enough.

It’s time to claim what’s mine.

B
efore I go
into the bedroom, I take a long shower, washing off all traces of blood and dirt. The warm water takes some of the edge off, but the dark thrum of adrenaline is still there as I step out of the stall and towel off, my cock hardening with anticipation.

I don’t bother to get dressed before I leave the bathroom. The air is cool on my still-damp skin as I walk down the hallway, and my heartbeat quickens as I picture Yulia lying there, naked, tied up, and completely at my mercy. I’ve never wanted a woman in that position before, but everything about my prisoner brings out my basest instincts. I want her bound and helpless.

I want her to know she can’t get away.

It’s dark in the bedroom when I step in, so I reach for the light switch. When the bedside lamp comes on, I see Yulia there, stretched out on the blanket in front of me. Her naked body is long and sleek as she lies on her side, her back toward me. Even after her weight loss, her ass is nicely curved, and her pale skin looks like alabaster against the dark blanket. She doesn’t move as I approach, and I see that she’s asleep, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Her plump, round breasts move with her steady breathing, her nipples soft and pink in her repose.

The lust that’s been building all day roars back, more violent than ever. Kneeling beside her, I run my hand over the side of her body, stroking her from shoulder to mid-thigh. Even bruised in a few places, her skin is gorgeous, so soft and smooth it makes me want to taste her all over.

Giving in to the urge, I lean over her, trapping her between my arms, and lower my head to take her nipple into my mouth. It immediately contracts, hardening as I suck on it, and I feel her tensing underneath me, the rhythm of her breathing changing as she wakes up.

Lifting my head, I look down at her, meeting her gaze. There’s fear in her eyes, but there’s also something more—something that turns me on unbearably.

Desire.

Slowly, using every ounce of willpower to control myself, I trail my right hand over her waist and hip. She doesn’t make a sound, but I see her eyes darkening as my hand moves lower to cup the firm, round curve of her ass. Her skin is cool and smooth to the touch, her flesh resilient as I lightly squeeze her ass cheek. She feels good, so fucking good that my cock is all but ready to explode, and my hand shakes with lust as I move it lower, slipping my fingers under the curve of her ass and between her thighs.

Yes, that’s it.
A savage triumph fills me as I reach her folds and feel the wetness at the rim of her opening. Her pussy’s ready for me, just like it was the first time I touched her. Still holding her gaze, I push my finger into her tight heat and feel her shudder as she suppresses a soft gasp.

“You want me, don’t you?” My voice is low and hoarse. “You want
this
.” I find her clit with my thumb and press on it, watching her reaction. She seems to have stopped breathing, her eyes enormous in her thin face as she stares up at me.

“Say it.” I curl my finger inside her and put more pressure on her clit. “Tell me you fucking want this.”

She swallows, her pale throat moving, and I feel her pussy squeezing my finger as a long shudder ripples through her. “Lucas, please...”

“Fucking say it,” I grit out, but she shuts her eyes, turning her face away from me. She’s breathing fast now, her chest expanding and contracting in a frantic rhythm, and I feel her muscles clenching as I push a second finger into her, stretching her tight channel.

She’s fighting me, denying me.

My hunger turns dark, lust intermingling with rage and frustration. How fucking dare she do this to me? She’s mine—her body’s mine to do with what I will. I don’t have to give her a choice. She’s my prisoner, my spoils of war, and I’ve been more than patient with her.

“Look at me.” Keeping my hand on her sex, I rise up on my knees and grab her jaw with my other hand, forcing her to face me. “Don’t play games with me,” I growl when she opens her eyes. “You’ll lose, do you understand me?”

She blinks, and I feel her inner muscles rippling around my fingers. She’s dripping wet, her body welcoming my touch. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” It’s all I can do to keep talking instead of fucking her right then and there. My thumb moves over her clit, forcing a gasp out of her. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, I—” She sucks in a breath, her voice shaking. “I understand.”

“Good. Now stop lying and answer the fucking question.” I curl both fingers inside her, wringing another ripple out of her. “Do you want me?”

Her nod is faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough.

I release her face and withdraw my fingers from her pussy, my balls ready to burst. I’m tempted to take her right on this blanket, but I’ve been imagining her in my bed all these weeks, and that’s where I want her this time.

Too impatient to bother with the knots in the rope, I get up and go to the laundry room, where I left my bloodied clothes. Thirty seconds later, I return with my switchblade.

Approaching Yulia’s legs, I open the knife. Her eyes widen with sudden fear, but I just cut through the rope, freeing her ankles.

“Lie still,” I order, getting up to walk around her. A second later, her arms are free too. Not wanting a weapon near her, I go to the other side of the room and put the knife into the top drawer of my dresser before turning to face her.

Yulia’s already on her knees, about to get up, but I don’t give her a chance. Closing the distance between us, I bend down and lift her up against my chest. I know she can get on the bed herself, but I need to touch her, to feel her. I can see the pulse beating in her throat as I place her on the white sheets, and my lust intensifies.

Mine. She’s mine.

The words are a primal drumbeat in my mind. I’ve never felt so possessive about a woman, have never wanted to claim one so badly. The desire is purely visceral, a need that’s as dark and ancient as the urge to kill. I’ve already had her that one night in Moscow, but it’s not enough.

It’s nowhere near enough.

Watching her, I reach into the bedside drawer and pull out a foil packet. Ripping it with my teeth, I take out the condom and roll it onto my throbbing cock. Her gaze follows my fingers, and I see her body tensing even more. With fear, with lust? I don’t know, and I’m past the point of caring.

“Come here,” I order, climbing onto the bed. I don’t know what I expect when I reach for her, but what happens isn’t it.

The moment I touch her, Yulia wraps her arms around my neck and presses her lips to mine.