Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

With me, she has a clear and present target instead of the shadows lurking in her mind.

“Listen,” I tell Konstantin, “I have to go. I’ll let you know how she is when I see her in person. Just tell your team to keep doing what they’re doing—Alexei can’t find out where we are.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t worry. He won’t.”

“Thanks.”

With one last glance at my brother, I board the plane.

* * *

Pavel is waiting for me on the couch in the jet’s main cabin, a laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. Wordlessly, I take a seat next to him and stick the flash drive into the computer.

There are two files on it, one titled “Updated report” and the other “Store camera, Boise, July 14.”

My heart rate picks up as tension pervades my body.

That’s the same day she applied to be Slava’s tutor.

I click on the video.

The grainy recording shows a nondescript street with a few stores, a coffee shop, some parked cars, and occasional pedestrians. The time stamp in the corner tells me it’s just after ten in the morning.

At first, it seems like nothing is going on, but after about thirty seconds, I catch sight of a familiar slender figure. Dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, Chloe is walking briskly down the street.

She’s passing by a clothing boutique when it happens.

With a sharp pop, the display window to her left explodes.

Pavel emits a startled expletive, but I ignore him, all my attention on Chloe’s small, frozen figure. Every muscle in my body is locked tight, fear and fury pulsing through me in sickening waves. Even on the blurry video, I can see the shock on her face as her wide eyes scan the street uncomprehendingly. Then screams about gunshots and 911 begin, and she lurches into a sprint—just as another pop! rings out and more glass around her goes flying.

Within seconds, she’s gone from view, and the video cuts off.

“Motherfucker,” Pavel mutters, but I’m already opening the other file.

The updated report.

40

Chloe

I don’t sleep well. At all. Who would, with that kind of warning?

Sleep well tonight—you’ll need it.

I can’t think of anything Nikolai could’ve said that would’ve been less likely to make me get my zzzs. He might as well have told me that he intends to fuck me to exhaustion as soon as he returns home.

Actually, he did tell me that, more or less, before he left. His dirty promises have provided ample fodder for my wet dreams and shower masturbation sessions—including the lengthy one after our call last night.

I figured a couple of orgasms might relax me, but they actually made things worse. The entire time I played with myself, I kept thinking of what he’ll do to me when he returns… how his hands and lips will feel on me… how his cock will feel inside me. My imagination went wild, painting all sorts of X-rated, non-PC scenarios, and they’re still playing in my mind now, in the bright light of the morning, dampening my underwear and keeping my pulse racing.

It doesn’t help that Alina is again nowhere to be seen. She doesn’t come down for breakfast or lunch, and when I ask Lyudmila about that, she tells me Nikolai’s sister has another headache.

“Does she get these a lot?” I ask at lunch, concerned, and Lyudmila nods, her face tight as she averts her eyes.

I wonder about that, but Lyudmila isn’t exactly chatty around me, so I decide against questioning her further. Instead, I spend the afternoon teaching Slava and counting down the minutes until dinnertime, which is when Nikolai is expected to arrive.

My student is equally impatient. Lyudmila must’ve told him that his father is coming back today because he keeps jumping up and running over to the window as we’re reviewing the alphabet.

“Do you want to surprise your daddy?” I ask when he returns from his expedition for the fifth time. “Make him happy?”

Slava’s brows furrow. “Happy?”

“Yes, happy.” I draw a smiling face with a yellow crayon. “Do you want your daddy to be happy?”

He nods, plopping down on the floor next to me.

“Then repeat after me: ‘Hi, Daddy.’”

Slava is silent. He knows both of those words from the books we’ve been reading, and he’s been repeating phrases after me when I request it, so I know it’s not a comprehension issue.

Gently, I try again. “Hi, Daddy.”

He stares at his sneakers. “Hi, Daddy.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the words are clear, as is the wariness in his large golden eyes when he lifts his gaze.

He’s hesitant, and I can’t blame him. Despite the small bit of progress we made with our joint reading session the other day, father and son are still virtual strangers.

I reach over to take his hands in mine. “I’m very proud of you. You’re being brave and strong, like Superman.”