Page 7 of Blazing Embers

“No, you didn’t, but now I do.”

3

RUSLAN

Tara looks almost peaceful when she’s unconscious, which is the only reason I haven’t ripped the IV out of her arm yet. There’s something about a tranquil Tara that sits well with the universe. Then there’s the other reason—after months of hunting her from one side of the world to the other, I get to see her finally at rest, tied to a narrow bed on my jet, arms roped at the wrists, black hair fanned out like a spill of ink on the starched white pillow. The only sounds are the muted hum of the G-700’s engines and her slow, measured breaths. I could watch her for hours. Maybe I will.

It took me eight long, frustrating months to find her. Tara’s godfather, Nikolas Vasilikis, is not a man you want to fuck with. From what I’ve learned, he’s a former SAS member and now runs the elite eraser team he was recruited to after leaving the SAS. He’s also one of the wealthiest men in the world, as his family owns the Matriarch Corporation. I was foiled by a Brit. But at least he was a worthy if not deadly opponent. I’m guessing I was only able to get this close to Tara because he was currently not in America. If I understand my intel correctly, Nikolas has no idea that his Goddaughter has disappeared with his trustyminion, Clyde Smythe. Not that I give a fuck about their family politics. I’m relieved I finally found her because the truth is, the longer it took to find her, the more obsessed I became.

I run my tongue over my teeth, a sour taste building at the memory of every failed dead drop, every false lead. Every time some idiot on my payroll swore they saw her in Seattle, or Miami, or in the arms of some burly British thug, my hands itched to throttle them. I hate to admit that Konstantin was probably right all along. Tara had never left the vicinity of Vegas. At least not until my sister and her husband, Gavriil, were killed in a car bomb explosion. Then Tara went on the run with a man who had been a ghost his whole life. The hulking Brit, Clyde, who positioned himself as her new protector. Or, by her attire I found her in, in the only bedroom in that cabin in a secluded woods in Boston, her new fuck toy.

The jet banks slightly, dipping toward Moscow, and Tara’s eyelids flutter. My body tightens at the possibility of her waking. I’m not ready. I want to savor this a little longer. The drug cocktail will keep her pliant for another hour at least, so I let my gaze run over every inch of her. She’s lost weight, probably ten kilos, and the effect is sharp as a knife. Her cheekbones cut deeper; her collarbones are rail-thin. But she’s lean and toned like she’s worked out a few times a day, every day. Clyde was probably training her. I saw the way she had that Glock pointed directly between Konstantin’s eyes.

Her stance, voice, posture, and the fact that not a single shake of her hand betrayed her as she held the weapon had spoken volumes. I believed if Clyde had been at the cabin and harmed, we’d all probably have been dead as Miss Annie Oakley would’ve pulled the trigger without so much as batting an eye. I finally got the files on the RMSAD’s Jewel Initiative Subject #11. I have tosay, it’s a good fucking thing that her father had taken her and left Russia. At three years old, Tara had excelled at everything the RMSAD had thrown at her. I can’t imagine just how deadly she’d have become had her father not defected to the United States.

I can’t believe that the last time I saw her was eight months ago. My eyes scan the ropes tying her to the bed. I know they are secure. Sure, we’re up in the air, but my paranoia has a lot of grounds. Especially after I’ve witnessed more than once, just how quickly, quietly, and completely Tara can disappear. And that was before she’d had God knows how much training from Clyde over these past months. It’s bad enough that she’s not only resourceful but also well protected. I’m not an idiot, I know Nikolas Vasilikis had hidden her. I now know that the rumours about Nikolas are true; if he makes someone disappear, they are gone for good. Whether it be to a new life or six feet under. The man was that good, and what I wouldn’t give to have him working for me…

Tara stirs again. I let my gaze drift over her again, and I’m not sure what’s stronger—my hate, or my want. The two have started to overlap. My eyes land back on her hair. Jet black. I fucking hate it. Tara should have auburn curls, not this wannabe goth shit. Although I know she’d change it to go into hiding but why the fuck would she choose raven black? She could’ve gone for blonde or red. But while it gives her a harder edge, she’s still fucking beautiful no matter the color of her hair.

Even though she’s still unconscious, her lips part and her jaw tenses, as if she’s arguing with someone in a dream. If I had to guess, she’s probably dreaming of pulling that trigger and blowing Konstantin’s brains out. When I saw her standing inthat room in just that long shirt and socks I wanted to blow Konstantin’s fucking brains out just for looking at her like that.

One long bare leg has been pushed out from under the blanket I put over her, as she is still only wearing her black cotton panties, long nightshirt, and those socks with the non-slip grip at the bottom. Ironically, they have pink hearts sliding down rainbows on them. Quite the contrast to the woman who was holding a gun pointed at my best friend's head. I had to put the blanket over her as the shirt kept sliding up in her restless sleep, exposing her abs, and I know she has no bra on under that shirt. I didn’t feel one when I carried her limp body.

I shift in my seat, stretching out a cramp in my thigh, adjust my once again stiffening member, and study her hands. The left one is curled in a fist so tight her nails have dug half-moons into her palm.

She really is having a bad dream. It’s probably the drugs. I stand and go to the comms that patch me to my pilot.

“How much longer before we land?”

“Two hours,” my pilot responds.

It's time to awaken Tara from her drug-induced slumber. I need her to be alert when we arrive in Moscow, and I want her to be dressed appropriately. Turning away from the phone, I approach the bed and reach up to turn off the IV drip. It's time for her to start regaining consciousness. As I glance at her again, my gaze settles on her flat stomach, and a wave of anger washes over me once more. I understand that she is heartbroken, but I can't shake the nagging thought that she might have played a part in the miscarriage. My jaw tightens at this idea, and the memory of my pregnant sister and husband’s charred car fromthe bombing incident flashes in my mind, further fueling my growing rage and resentment towards her. I’m convinced she was involved in that murder as well.

With my pent-up fury towards Tara back in full force and my obsession for her now subdued with her finally under my control, I let out a low, menacing snort, savoring the anticipation of seeing her expression when she awakens to the grim reality of her captivity. There will be no escape this time. Grabbing a bottle of water from the mini fridge, I take a deep, satisfying gulp, letting the icy burn cleanse the bitter taste of frustration from earlier. I stand menacingly over her, casting a shadow across her face. With a sinister grin, I glance at the frosty bottle before splashing a handful of the freezing water into her face. The shock of the cold jolts her awake, and she gasps, her eyes wide with horror and disbelief.

She blinks, slowly at first, then wide and frantic. I watch the exact moment the realization crashes over her. Her back snaps like a bow, her muscles coil like steel springs. Tara yanks viciously at the restraints, eyes darting from one wrist to the other, flashing with raw fear before they lock onto mine—her fear ignites into a blazing rage as her gaze bores into me.

“You!” She spits the word with venom, her glare a tempest of defiance and something else, something that makes me hesitate.

The blaze in her eyes is a fierce, formidable force I've seen before, but now it's been tainted by a steely, lifeless shadow that chills me to the core. A knot of unease tightens in my chest, colliding with an almost hysterical urge to laugh as I gaze at the fuzzy pink socks that starkly clash with the storm of darkness raging within her.

“Welcome back,” I utter, my voice devoid of warmth as I ruthlessly suppress any flicker of compassion or concern for her well-being.

“I should've known that Konstantin's leash never extends beyond your pathetic grasp.” Her voice is a gravelly rasp, worn from the endless hours of sleep as we traverse the miles from America to Moscow. “Where am I?” Her words slice through the air, sharp and unyielding, but there's a simmering rage beneath, hinting at a turmoil far deeper than her immediate predicament. When she turns to look at me, her eyes widen in horror as they settle on the I.V. stand and bag beside me. I watch her face contort as she pieces it together, her gaze falling on the I.V. needle still embedded in her hand. “You fucking drugged me?” She stares at me, momentarily frozen in disbelief before fury ignites within her, and she begins to wrench at her restraints once more. “You’d better pray these hold, because if they don’t…” Her voice drips with unrestrained venom, and I can feel the weight of her murderous intent hanging in the air like a palpable threat.

She looks around, quick and clinical, like she’s already planning her next escape. She really has changed. Eight months ago, she was still figuring out who she was after finding out her whole life had been a lie. I can only imagine now that she knows what kind of a shit storm hit her life. That alone is enough to change a person, let alone losing a baby on top of it, and everything else going on in her life.

My heart constricts with a vise-like grip as I recall the baby she lost... we lost... A surge of raw emotion twists my gut into knots, an unwelcome agony I can't shake off. The camera feed from the hospital burns in my mind, showing her fragile and alone, except for the looming presence of her bodyguard, Clyde. A searingregret pierces through me—it should've been me standing by her side, not him.

For the past month, ever since I stumbled upon the hospital and that cursed video feed, her tormented expression and the bloodstains on her jeans have seared themselves into my mind, haunting my every waking moment. I swallow hard, trying to quell the haunting images, but then the crushing reality crashes over me again—my sister, her unborn child, and her husband, all brutally taken from this world. Their lives snuffed out for something Gavriil was entrusted to deliver, and I can't shake the ominous suspicion that whatever it was had deep ties to Tara. A relentless, gnawing feeling grips me, whispering that she might even have been the one blackmailing Gavriil all along.

“Where the hell am I?” she asks again angrily.

“You’re on my jet.”

“Gone to where?” Tara asks suspiciously.

“Home.” That's all I say, staring down at her.

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