“Your boss had a partner, a woman who helped him lure young girls in off the streets. I paid her a visit last night and found three teenage girls locked and drugged in her basement, not a single one of them looked old enough to drive. So tell me, do you think I should have let her live just because she’s a woman?”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I don’t say anything.
“I’m glad you’ve lived such a sheltered life, but the real world is all kinds of fucked up. I’m not about to let someone go who’s done things like that just because that person happens to have a pussy.”
“So you killed her?”
He raises a dark brow at me and leans closer. “You really want me to keep confessing my sins,lisichka?”
He’s right. I know he’s right. The last thing I need right now is to learn about more crimes. I’m practically digging my own grave, for fuck’s sake. So I settle for a, “Are the girls okay at least?”
“They are now.”
I leave it at that and go back to eating my pizza. We finish the meal in silence, and when we’re both done, he picks up my plate and sets them both in the dishwasher.
Hmm, a domesticated hitman.
Looking around, I see that the house is quite tidy if a bit sterile and sparse. There aren’t any knickknacks, personal items of any kind, not even a framed photo as far as the eye can see. I don’t even see a pile of junk mail on the counter.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Five years.”
Damn, he either doesn’t spend a lot of time here, or the man is a definite neat freak. Maybe his line of work has taught him to always pick up after himself. I can’t help but wonder if he routinely scrubs the place of fingerprints, just in case.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my bag and starting up the staircase near the living room. I follow, trying not to stare at what has to be a perfectly chiseled ass and failing miserably. My eyes stay glued to him until I follow him into a large bedroom.
“You don’t have to give up your room for me. I mean, I’m fine on the couch,” I say, wondering why in the hell I’m trying to be accommodating to the guy who fucking kidnapped me.
He laughs and sets my bag down at my feet. “I’m not giving up my room. You’re sleeping in here with me.”
My eyes dart to the bed. Sure, it’s a big one, but still. “I’m not so sure I’m comfortable with that,” I finally say, remembering that kiss we’d shared.
“Tough shit. I need to be able to keep an eye on you.”
“Shouldn’t you at least offer to sleep on the floor?”
That really makes him laugh. “Why the fuck should I do that? It’s my house. You’re the one who butted into my business. I’m not about to walk around with a sore back.” When he sees how tense I am, he gives me a smirk and says, “Relax, I’ve never forced myself on a woman in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”
I’m not surprised to hear him say it. After everything I’ve seen tonight, he’s never once made me feel like Mr. Belsky did. He may be a paid killer, but he clearly has a moral compass of some sort.
“The bathroom is in there,” he says, pointing to a door across from the bed. “I have an extra toothbrush in the top drawer. Feel free to shower or whatever.”
He crosses to the other door in the room and opens it, revealing a large, walk-in closet. When he turns his head, meeting my eyes, I realize I’ve just been standing and gawking after him. Embarrassed at getting caught ogling him, I grab my bag and hurry my ass into the bathroom. There’s a large countertop with two sinks, a huge, walk-in shower, and there’s even a clawfoot tub. Knowing I’m snooping, but not quite caring, I start to very quietly open the drawers. I see an electric razor and deodorant, several odds and ends that everyone has in their bathrooms, and the new toothbrush he said I could use. Seeing his cologne on top of the counter, I open the lid and hold it up to my nose. God, he smells good. I’d been too out of it when he grabbed me earlier to notice, but there’s no denying it now.
I set my bag on the counter and decide that the clawfoot tub is a temptation I can’t say no to. Turning the water on, I find some vanilla scented bubble bath and feel a slight twinge of jealousy, which is absurd. I know it’s absurd, but this whole damn night has been so bizarre that I guess feeling jealous at the idea of my sexy kidnapper having another woman in his tub isn’t too far gone a thought.
While the tub fills, I pull my hair into a messy bun and brush my teeth before stripping down and carefully stepping in. A satisfied moan escapes when I’m neck deep in bubbly, hot water. God, a girl could get used to this. The bathroom I share with Shelly is barely functioning. There’s zero hot water most days, and it’s barely big enough to get dressed in. I hate it with a passion, and it doesn’t help that Shelly refuses to clean it. I tried to wait her out one time, digging my heels in and promising myself I wasn’t going to touch it, that it was her damn turn this time. I’d held out for an admirably long time, but when hair covered every surface and I started to see mold growing, I gave up and bleached the hell out of it. I couldn’t bring myself to try that experiment again, so the cleaning duties fall to me. Well, she’s going to have to clean it now, I think with a small laugh, at least for the time being.
I stay soaking in the tub until the water grows tepid and I worry I might accidentally fall asleep. The towel I grab is ridiculously soft, and I start to wonder just how much a Bratva hitman makes. A lot, I’m guessing. I have so many questions about how he got into this line of business and how he’s able to explain his bank account to the government. A thousand questions float through my mind as I step into my flannel pajamas, the ones with the polar bears in Christmas hats, that cover me from neck to ankle and groan when I see my reflection.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. Nothing is going to happen between us, and it’s not like I’d run out there in sexy pajamas if I had any. I pull on some socks and make sure I’ve cleaned up my mess before walking out and sucking in a quick breath when I see Aleksandr in bed, propped against a stack of pillows and shirtless. There are several tattoos on his tan, muscled chest, and I suddenly feel even more ridiculous in my polar bear jammies.
He looks like he’s fighting a smile when I climb in on the other side of the bed, keeping myself as far away from him as possible and tucking the blankets up to my neck. When he turns out the light, I hear the laughter in his voice when he says, “Goodnight,lisichka.”
I mumble a goodnight, convinced that I can sleep the whole night while remaining on my side, butting up against the edge, but at some point during the night, my body finds his just like a moth to the fucking flame.
Chapter4