Page 85 of Lethal Torture
The difference between Zinaida and me is that I had a sister I needed to save and a mother too helpless to leave, even for her own children. Had it been only me forced to deal with my sadistic bastard of a stepfather, I’d have killed him without hesitation. And just like Zinaida did with Oleg, I’d have relished every moment of the pain I caused.
Instead I had Liana to care for. Which meant I had to run, to survive.
I spent the best part of two decades learning to channel that rage. To hone it into a tool I could use. I turned the rage into an elite combat skill set, from covert intelligence operations to stone-cold killing.
I put the savage bastard inside me on a leash, and I’ve damned well kept him there ever since.
Instead of taking my revenge on the man who deserved it, I took out my rage on a hundred battlegrounds. It’s the core of fury inside me that no amount of blood can ever truly appease, the original battle wound that never got dressed. I’ve learned to live with that rage. To use it.
But that doesn’t mean I managed to exorcise it.
The ghost of that past lives inside me like a dark passenger.
I’ve always thought that part of myself was something to hide.
Until I saw Zinaida crouched by that container and a dozen men stalking her with guns.
Because in that moment, it wasn’t the ruthlessly disciplined soldier who went into battle.
It was the dark passenger.
The untamed part of myself that I’ve kept ruthlessly contained since I walked away from my stepfather and into the careful control of the army. That drove me to become the best at what I did, and then kept me moving restlessly from one job to the next.
Right up until I found myself taking Zinaida Melikov in a shipping container like a wild animal.
And now that part of me is off the leash, I have no idea how I’ll ever contain it again.
Nor am I sure I want to.
The only thing I’m really sure of is that I need to find a way out of this contract.
Fast.
Because despite what took place tonight, I meant what I said to Zinaida back in my apartment: I don’t sleep with clients.
Which means that Zinaida can’t be my client anymore.
I turn the bike into the wind and speed toward London, Zin’s heat like a fire against my back, lighting the darkness inside of me.
20
ZINAIDA
It’s breakingdawn when we enter the outskirts of London.
I’m almost sorry to leave the nowhere space of the long ride down. So long as the surroundings were strange and the night was rushing past me, I could press myself against the heat of Luke’s rock-solid bulk and try to forget the shitstorm that just went down.
A shitstorm for which I have nobody but myself to blame, and which only Luke’s unexpected arrival saved from being a complete and unmitigated disaster.
Not to mention the earth-shattering, mindless sexual aftermath, which I can’t allow myself to dwell on. Particularly not while I’m clinging to him doing seventy miles down the motorway with the vibration of the Ducati between my legs a constant reminder of the terrifying hunger I still feel for him.
He could have died tonight.
Luke slows the bike at a set of lights and straightens up, lowering his feet to stabilize it. One gloved hand comes downfrom the handlebars and rests on my leg. It’s a brief touch, gone as soon as the lights change and we roar down the street, but it’s enough to leave me simultaneously weak with relief and filled with terror.
It is deeply unsettling to realize that after a night of horrors, the one that has loomed largest is the prospect of losing Luke.
He was contracted to help protect my life. Instead he nearly lost his own.
