"Come here, Olena," I tell her, standing with her in my arms. I know I'm being too tender, too careful with her, but I tell myself that it's best if she comes to trust me in this. Perhaps I can use that to my advantage.
And I can't help myself. She's a beautiful, terrified, fucking innocent woman.
This time when I try to conjure up the thought of Taya to fuel my revenge, I can't do it fully. The memory fades like a wisp of smoke. Here one moment, gone the next. I can't focus on what happened, because I'm too intent on the woman in my arms. The woman who's become like a little girl, weeping out of fear and anger.
"Did you see anything at all?" I ask. "Anything that would identify who that was?"
She shakes her head. "They were dressed in full black," she says. "I saw nothing at all that would help me identify them. They didn't even speak. Just crept in through the bathroom," she chokes, as if still gasping for air.
I shake my head. "That's enough," I tell her. "We'll check security footage in the morning."
I'm laying her down on the bed, but her hands are still clasped about my neck, holding onto me as if she's drowning and I'm her savior.
I'm no one's motherfucking savior.
Not Taya's. Not Olena's. No one's.
I gently detach her arms from my neck. The tears that fall down her cheeks are ripping me apart. I want to hold her to me and bring her comfort until she falls asleep curled up to me and sleeps like a baby.
Why do I care? Why should I? I shouldn't want her comfort at all.
But it's fruitless to protest. Of course I fucking care. She might be my captive, but she belongs to me. She's mine now.
When I've untangled her arms from around my neck, she draws her hands to her face and weeps freely. I quickly undress, then crawl into bed beside her. I don't want to sleep beside her, but there's no way I'm leaving her alone after what just happened. They actually had the nerve to come in after her with me right outside the door. Fuck. Whoever came in here was bold. Fucking bold.
It can't be one of Yuri's men.
Could it be one of ours?
As soon as the notion comes to me, I shake my head. Why the hell would one of our men do this? We serve a mutual purpose. We're joined like brothers. I trust them all.
Then who did this?Chapter 8Olena
I can't calm the rapid pounding of my heart. I can't stop my tears from falling, and I hate this.
I hate this I hate this I hate this.
I don't want to be this weak woman who's come apart. Though he's laid himself down beside me, I try to hold my body apart from him, pushing myself to the very edge of the bed. I don't need him. I don't.
I hate that I clung to him and let him soothe me. He is no better than the man who just tried to murder me.
Someone just tried to murder me.
As soon as the thought comes to me, I can't breathe again. I gasp for breath, my lungs suddenly constricted like someone's just wrapped a rope about my throat again. I claw at my neck, as if to remove the invisible bindings about me. I'm shaking so hard my whole body shivers in my fear. I close my eyes and focus on trying to breathe, when his strong arms wrap about me.
"Olena," he says in my ear, his deep voice calm and somehow soothing. "Breathe in. You're not drowning. You're not choking. You can breathe now. No one's hurting you. You're safe. Breathe."
Safe? The hell I am.
I close my eyes and breathe so deeply, my lungs expand. My shoulders rise. Cool, life-giving air fills my lungs.
"Again," he orders in his deep growl. "Do it again."
I do, following his instructions. I'm falling off a cliff and he's at the very edge, reaching for me. Pulling me back. Saving me.
I won't fight this irony for now. Not now. Right now, I just need to be able to fucking breathe.
"Come here," he says gruffly, turning me so that I face his chest. He's bare but for a pair of boxers. Somehow, the feel of his bare skin against mine helps me breathe more easily. I rest my head in the crook of his neck and embrace this intimacy, because it's helping calm me. He holds me so tightly it's nearly painful, while he shushes me. So gently I wonder if I'm imagining it at first, he strokes his hand down my hair. The gesture is so soft, so soothing, my breathing begins to slow, and I feel a weariness descending on me.
I close my eyes and breathe him in, the strong, masculine scent of him.