“What do you want to know?” he murmurs after a second, shifting to fit me more comfortably against him.
Why do you think my husband massacred your family? That’s what I’m dying to ask, but I’m not stupid enough to go there directly. I remember his rage the last time we touched on this topic. Instead, I say softly, “They told me you were born in Russia. Is that true?”
“Yes.” His deep voice takes on a note of amusement. “You can’t tell by the accent?”
“It’s very mild, so no. You could be from pretty much anywhere in Europe or the Middle East. In general, your English is excellent.” I’m speaking too fast from nervousness, so I make myself take a breath and slow down. “Did you learn it in school?”
“No, at my job.”
The job where he tracked down and interrogated supposed threats to Russia? I suppress a shudder and try not to think about those interrogation methods. Keep it light, I tell myself. Work up to the heavy stuff. In an upbeat tone, I say, “As an adult? That’s impressive. Usually, you have to learn a language as a child to be able to speak it as well as you do.”
There, that’s good. A little flattery, a little genuine admiration. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in a vulnerable position: establish a rapport with your attacker, make him see you as someone he can empathize with. Of course, that strategy hinges on said attacker’s ability to empathize—something I suspect the psychopath wrapped around me is missing.
“Well, I did learn a few English words and phrases as a child,” he says. “I suppose that helped.”
“Oh? Where did you learn them? In school, or from your parents?”
He chuckles, his muscular chest expanding against my back. “Neither. Just from American movies. They’re your main export, you know—that and hamburgers.”
“Right.” I inhale, trying to ignore the heavy arm slung across my ribcage and the hard evidence of his arousal throbbing against my ass. It bothers me in ways I don’t care to think about. “So what made you decide to go into your… um, profession?”
He buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply, as if breathing me in. “What exactly did Ryson tell you?”
I tense at his casual use of the agent’s last name, then force myself to relax. Of course he’d know who Ryson is; he likely saw us talk at the cafe. “He said you were Russian Special Forces. Is that right?”
“Yes.” His voice sounds husky as he shifts behind me again, his cock like a steel pole pressed against me. “I headed a small off-the-books unit specializing in counterterrorism and counterinsurgency.”
“That’s… unusual.” Talking to him—and thus keeping him awake in this aroused state—is probably not such a great idea, but I can’t make myself shut up. “How does one get into something like that? Did you join the army and get recruited there?”
“No.” He continues to nuzzle his face against my hair. “They found me in what you would call juvie.”
“A prison for juvenile delinquents?”
“It was more of a labor camp, but yes.”
“What—” I swallow, trying to concentrate on his words rather than the effect his obvious desire for me is having on my body. “What did you do to end up there?”
This has nothing to do with George, but I can’t suppress my curiosity. I suspect that whatever I learn will only frighten me more, but I want to know what makes my enemy tick.
I want to know his weaknesses, so I can use them against him.
“I killed the headmaster of the orphanage where I was raised.” There’s no trace of regret or apology in Peter’s words, no emotion beyond the lust thickening his voice. He could just as well have been relaying what he had for dinner. “I guess you could say I started on my career path early.”
“I see.” My skin crawls, but I do my best to sound calm. “How old were you?”
“Eleven, almost twelve.”
“What did he do to you?”
He sighs and pulls back slightly. “Does it really matter, ptichka? You’ve made up your mind about me, and no sob story from my past is likely to change it. Right now, you hate me too much to feel anything other than joy at whatever misfortune I might’ve endured.”
So much for building that emotional rapport. “Well, what did you expect?” I ask bitterly, dropping all pretense of sympathetic listening. “That you could torture me and kill my husband, and we’d be pals?”
“No, ptichka. Despite what you may think, I’m not delusional. Your negative feelings toward me are rational and expected. I’m just hoping to change them over time.”
He is delusional if he thinks I’ll ever feel anything but hatred toward him, but I don’t bother arguing. “What is that word you keep calling me? Ptee-something?”
“Ptichka.” He resumes nuzzling my hair, or smelling it, or whatever the hell he’s doing. “It means little bird in Russian.”