Taken by the Russian

“You’ve become invaluable to me, not just as Anya’s bodyguard but as an operator.”

We trade a look. Operator. Hit man. Same difference.

“You’re the best I have on my payroll, but those skills haven’t been utilized as much as I’d like. Once you help Anya transition to college life, I need you back here working for me.” He leans forward across the desk. “Without Anya as a distraction, we can really focus your…talents…where they’re needed. Name your price.”

I’m saved from having to answer when Anya explodes into the room, bringing color and light along with her. And too little clothing for my liking. Bubbling with life, she turns in a pirouette, giving me a three – hundred – and – sixty – degree view of my tight, teenage tease, her slender curves covered in nothing but green strips of wet nylon. My muscles flex, my hands eager to reach for her. But I don’t have to, because as usual, Anya reaches for me first.

“Sasha,” she sing – songs, taking her rightful spot on my thigh, throwing herself sideways against my chest and snuggling there. “You said you’d come outside and watch me dive.”

My features stay neutral, but my head is filled with a forbidden image. Anya’s legs spread on David’s desk while I tongue – fuck her to a hip – bucking orgasm. “Your father needed to speak with me.”

Her fingers toy with the button of my coat. “About what?”

David smiles absently, his gaze drawn by something on his computer screen. “Your drive to college tomorrow.” He refocuses on his daughter, seeming to find nothing at all wrong with her clinging to me half naked, still dripping from the pool and looking like an advertisement for expensive internet porn. The ones I never click on because they aren’t Anya.

David’s cluelessness is only one of the reasons I have no guilt about what’s to come. He has taken my reputation as a killer into consideration and still allowed me to raise his daughter. Me. A red – blooded male taking on responsibilities of her meals, her schooling, even the purchase of her clothing. Caring for her when she’s sick.

Does he actually believe I could now part ways with my reward?

“You know I have my reservations about letting you attend school so far from home, but we’ve registered you under an alias. Your pictures haven’t been in the media since you were thirteen, so there’s no danger of being recognized. Sasha is going to check your dorm for security and speak with personnel, to make sure you’re settled before he leaves.” David raps a fist on his desk. “Any instructions he gives you are for your own safety. Make sure you listen.”

“Of course.” Green eyes flash up at me, full of wit and sass. “Don’t I always?”

Anya

This is it. I’m finally free.

I get a running start and slide across the hood of Sasha’s black Mercedes, my butt making a long squeaking sound. Sticking the landing on the other side, I throw back my hands like I’ve just dismounted the uneven bars at the Olympics.

Watching me through broody, slate – gray eyes, Sasha tosses my final suitcase into the trunk without cracking a smile.

What is his deal today?

Most times, he would at least give me a little lip tilt action.

“Aw. Are you going to miss me, Uncle Sasha?” I saunter closer and prop my hip against one of the rear car doors. “Is that why you’re so quiet?”

His gaze tracks down to my jean skirt, probably finding it too short to be decent. “Nyet.”

Hurt swamps my belly knowing he’s eager to get rid of me, but I don’t let him see it. Some days I think he likes caring for me. He does it so well. When my father checked out emotionally after my mother was killed, Sasha became the only constant in my life. He’s stayed that way for five years. Would a hardened man like Sasha do anything he didn’t want to do? I have no idea. Then again, this is part of the reason I’m going so far away from home for school, isn’t it? The confusing way Sasha makes me feel?

My hormones officially went bananas right after I turned sixteen and walked in on Sasha in the shower. Through the water – speckled glass, I saw his naked, six – foot – eight frame covered in jet-black ink, water coasting down that handsome face — so frustratingly made of stone — splashing on his hard packs of ruthless muscle. He didn’t see me in the bathroom. No, he couldn’t have. Or he wouldn’t have continued stroking that huge, heavy trunk of flesh between his legs, muttering curses in Russian.

Sasha being none the wiser about my accidental peep show is the only reason I can still call him Uncle with a straight face. Because I’m pretty sure girls aren’t supposed to have sweaty fever dreams about their uncles. Even if they’re not actual blood relations. And even if the dreams are against a girl’s will.