Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (15 page)

NAOMI

We return to the hotel in silence. Vasily is not talking, and I’m rather sleepy. It was exhausting having to leave the club without my earplugs and blindfold. The entire situation rattled my brain until it was only Vasily’s tightly clenched hand on my shoulder that kept me from spiraling.

Actually, I probably spiral a little anyhow. I can with Vasily controlling things. He makes the strange situation safe for me, so I can sink into my mind and relax. At some point in the car, I lose track of things and retreat to my safe “Itsy Bitsy Spider” song. When I blink back to reality, I realize it’s four a.m. and I’m in bed. Someone has taken off my shoes and tucked me under the covers. I’m still clothed, so I know I didn’t do it myself. I never sleep with clothes on.

It constantly surprises me how kind Vasily is to me. I know
he’s an assassin and I’m just his bizarre hacker partner in crime, but he is . . . different. More than a friend. In fact, if we weren’t in the situation we were in, I’d call him my best friend. No one else ever takes care to make sure that I’m comfortable like he does. It’s small things that tell me he’s thinking of me and my quirks even when I’m not in my own head. No one, not even my brother Daniel, is so attuned to my needs.

Around Vasily I don’t feel like a freak or a weirdo. He makes my idiosyncrasies seem normal instead of strange. And I’m filled with a weird sort of affection for this man . . . affection and fascination.

I wonder where he is right now.

I’m thirsty, so I get up out of bed. My laptop is open, and I’m unable to resist a computer screen, and so I sit, yawning, and begin to do maintenance. I check my sites, handle incoming correspondence, pick through my accounts to see how my script is working, shut down any hacks that have gone over the allowed time. Small, minute, daily things that settle my brain. I set up a script to send money to Daniel every other day at random times. Only a little here and there, dribbling into his account so he won’t get suspicious. My brother is very lax with his bank account; I’m pretty sure he only checks it once a month just to make sure he has money in there. It’s a good thing I figured out his password years ago so I can manage things for him. I like control.

I set the computer to do a few search strings on past history regarding Marco Cassano and Dorsoduro. I also set the query to look up random spellings of those names, removing or adding an
S
in case of mistyping. I also search for dollar signs in places of
S
and zeros for
O
, since it’s another way black hats try to stay under the radar and mask information. I yawn and smile at the
computer in satisfaction as the script begins to chug away, picking through millions of bits of information.

There’s a sound, almost like a thump in the living room of the hotel suite. I pause and head out to check on it, since I’m thirsty anyhow and want a drink.

When I open the door to the suite, I see the back of Vasily’s head. He is seated in one of the overstuffed leather chairs, and as I approach I see he has a glass of clear liquid in one hand, and his gun resting on his knee. He stares into space, not even watching TV or checking his phone.

I hesitate. I don’t want to disturb him if he’s meditating. But while I pause, he flicks a hand at me, indicating that I can come forward.

I do, and move to the side of his chair. It’s curious that he’s awake. “The human body requires seven to nine hours of sleep a night. Sleep deprivation can cause memory problems and depression.” I peer at him. He doesn’t look happy, but I have a hard time telling that sort of thing anyhow. “Are you depressed, Vasily?”

One side of his mouth turns up in what should be a smile, but looks about as false as my own forced smiles do. Sometimes I wonder if Vasily is an Aspie like me, but just hides it better. He seems to be as uncomfortable with things as I am.

I remain where I am, unsure of his mood. Eventually, he looks over at me and as he does, his gaze goes up and down my body. He takes another long swig of his drink, then says, “Someday, Naomi, we are going to have to talk about appropriate clothing.” His Russian accent has returned, and it’s thick and warm like a blanket.

I look down at my clothing; I’m still in the corset and panties. “If you didn’t want me in them, you should have taken me out of them.” Of course, picturing him undressing me brings a flash of
memories from the club, mostly the scent and feel of him in my mouth. “I’m thirsty,” I announce.

“Grab a drink. Join me.”

I rub my arms, looking at the glasses set on the bar in the room. They march in a row, lip down, across a paper placeholder. I’m sure they’re supposed to be clean but they’ve been in the open air for who knows how long, and I think of all the hotel documentaries I have seen in regards to cleanliness, and I’m unsettled. My OCD always gets worse when I’m out of my comfort zone, and I am right now. I fight the urge to take the glasses to the sink and wash them; there is no dish soap, no towels, no drying rack. I lick my lips and think, then move to Vasily and take the glass from his hand. I carefully turn it to where he drank, and put my lips there.

He watches me as I drink. It’s more of that awful vodka, but it’s the only drink available, and so I take it. When I lick my lips, he says, “Why do you do this?”

I frown. “My lips are dry.”

“
Nyet
. It is not what I meant.” He takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing my own, and turns the glass, then touches his tongue to where my lips had been moments ago. “You put your mouth where I put mine. Always. Why is this?”

“I am not certain of the cleanliness of the glassware, but I am already familiar with your germs. If you had a communicable disease, I would have already caught it, so it stands that you are for the most part, safer to drink from than the rest of the lip of the glass.”

He snorts and looks at it musingly. “It is never a compliment with you, is it, Naomi? You always tell the truth.”

I frown. Did he want compliments? He’d asked me a question and I’d answered. “I . . . don’t understand.”

He waves a hand. “Ignore me. I am maudlin when I get in a foul mood. I suppose I was hoping to hear that you put your mouth there because you enjoy my touch.”

I tilt my head, considering this. “I do enjoy your touch. But that wasn’t really what you asked.”

Vasily looks up at me for a long moment, and then his gaze goes to my breasts, still plumped from the grip of the corset. To my surprise, he sets the gun on a nearby table and slides a hand around my waist. Then, he drags me into his lap. My thighs are cradled crosswise against his, and my breasts are practically pressed against his face. The chair is not large enough for the two of us to sit comfortably, but I don’t think that was what Vasily had in mind anyhow. The look on his face is strange, and I wish I could read him better.

“Are you comfortable?” I ask, shifting on his lap.

“No,” he says in a low voice. “I ache. But I shall control it. I do not wish to frighten you.” His big hand grips my bare thigh, pressing my body against him.

Vasily’s not making any sense tonight. I study him, his face so close to my breasts, and he seems drawn and unhappy. I’m not good at recognizing most facial expressions, but I know when the corners of someone’s mouth turn down, it means they want comforting. I’m very bad at this sort of thing, though. I’m not good with emotions, at all. I bite back the urge to spout facts about muscles and frowns, because I want to do more than just distract Vasily.

I want to help him. I want to help him because I like him, and he is thoughtful and kind despite his fierceness. I try to think of what Daniel would do. I picture my brother, and, after a moment’s consideration, I pat Vasily’s shoulder awkwardly. “Do you need to talk?”

He looks up at me. “Talk?”

Perhaps I’ve misinterpreted. I’m so bad at this. But I want to be better at it to help him. Seeing him unhappy makes me distressed. I continue to pat his shoulder, feeling out of place about the whole thing. “It’s something Daniel always says to me. I thought it might be appropriate here. Did I guess wrong?”

Vasily is quiet for a long moment. Then, he says, “I suppose we should discuss what happened in the room tonight.”

Should we? I consider this, and think about what happened tonight in the room. My focus automatically goes to Vasily’s lap and my ministrations there. “If you want to talk about it, sure. I enjoyed myself. Quite a bit, really. It was my first attempt at fellatio and I wasn’t sure it was something I’d be interested in, but I found I was rather aroused in the moment and I wanted to see your reactions. It was something Karen would do. And I really enjoyed it. I am sad you did not, though—”

“
Nyet
, Naomi,” he says, and his voice is soft. “It is not that I did not enjoy it. I enjoyed it. I was referring to Emile.”

I wrinkle my brow. “But I didn’t want to put my mouth on Emile. Just you—”

“I mean that I killed him. In front of you.” He tilts his head, regarding me. “I threatened him, and I shot him. Several times.”

“So you did.” I shrug. “I didn’t know him and he was standing in our way. I’m not sorry.”

“And yet you are still not scared?” His hand slowly caresses my arm, as if he’s now allowing himself to touch me.

I think of his ability to flip back and forth like a switch. One moment he was shoving the gun in Emile’s crotch and shooting his balls, his expression that of a statue. In the next, he was
looking at me and staring at me so hard that I’d thought he wants to kiss me right now. I supposed the dichotomy should have bothered me more, but I’m used to people that are wired differently, being one myself. I know Daniel has killed people. I don’t think any less of him for it, or any more of him for it. I don’t know those people, so I don’t care about them. It sounds harsh, but it’s true. “I am not scared of you,” I tell him. “Do you want me to be?”

“
Nyet
,” he says, and his voice is husky. His hand caresses my shoulder, then his fingers trail across my collarbones. Little shivers move over my skin in response to his touch. “Of all the things I wish for you to feel, Naomi, it is not hate.” His fingertips skim the cleavage bared by my corset. “Yet I do not think you comprehend what it means when I say I am wolf. Perhaps I should open your eyes.”

“You kill bad guys,” I tell him, pressing forward so his fingers can tease my nipples. They’re so close to where he’s touching. If he just moves them down a bit, he can touch them, and I’m getting wet with anticipation at the thought. “You washed your hands, didn’t you?”

He chuckles. “You say such things as if they are foreplay. Yes, my hands are clean, Naomi. Do not change the subject. Do you understand what it means for me to be
volk
?”

“You kill for the
Bratva
,” I say, not sure where this is going. I study his face, but I see features—his big, strong nose, his square jaw, his firm mouth pulled into a hard line. I don’t see expressions. I desperately wish I did, because I can’t interpret what he’s thinking right now.

“I am the
Bratva
’s wolf. I let nothing stand in my way. Do you understand this?”

“Say it plainly, Vasily,” I say, a bit grumpy. I’m ready for him to reach deeper into my bodice instead of quizzing me. “You know I can’t read emotions and now you’re just irritating me.”

“I mean that no matter what is asked, the
Bratva
comes first. It must always come first. This is what being
volk
means.” His fingers move up instead of down into my bodice—I stifle a protesting whimper—and then he caresses my throat with his big hand. “If they ask me to kill, I do it. No matter who or what it is. The
Bratva
comes first. Do you understand this?”

His hand caresses my throat, but the wheels in my brain are spinning and the caress takes a sinister turn. He wants me to think about what he means. No matter who or what it is. There aren’t many in this world I care about—being Aspie has turned off that part of my brain—but there are some I love fiercely and would die for.

Like my brother, Daniel. Like my parents.

There is a fierce hurt in my heart, and I pull away from Vasily’s hands. “You would kill Daniel?”

“If he stood in my way.”

I leap off of his lap as if scorched. “What?”

He tilts his head as if nodding to himself. “So now you see. I am
volk
, and it is not always convenient. You do not care if I kill those who are strangers. You will kiss and cuddle me as long as I am
volk
on chain, yes? What if I must kill those who are not? Who stand in my way?”

I stare at him as if seeing a stranger. I see the gun on the table, the glass of vodka in his hand. His shirt is rumpled, but I don’t reach forward to smooth his collar. For the first time, he looks . . . menacing.

I don’t know what to do. What to think. This is a man who
demands that people clean my purchases and wrap them so I won’t be troubled by germs. This is a man who holds me tenderly and dyes my hair so I won’t have to touch the chemicals. This is a man who has memorized things that trigger me and keeps me safe from them.