Page 61 of Twisted Enemy
“Breagha!” I call, quickly closing the distance and pulling her into a hug.
Clutching me back, she whispers in my ear, “I have so much to tell you!”
I hide my surprise by offering my obligatory greeting to Tarasov. “Pyotr,” I say, keeping my distance. I don’t offer him my hand.
“Lisichka,” he responds, with a greasy smile that twists my belly like a sour rag. He looks hungry as he turns to my husband. “Wolf.”
Cole’s lips tighten just enough to show his eyeteeth. “Tarasov,” he says. He doesn’t offer his hand either.
“I believe you have something for me?” Tarasov asks. He’s expecting more data from Da’s files.
Cole touches the breast pocket of his jacket. The black summer-weight wool disguises the hard lines of the thumb drive he loaded this morning.
Reluctantly, I step into my assigned role. “Not here,” I say, batting Cole’s hand down to his side as I shoot a cautious glance toward a nearby security camera. “Do you want us all in jail?”
Breagha looks from me to Cole to Tarasov. It’s beginning to dawn on her that today’s zoo visit might be about more than her favorite animals. But she takes my hand as if we’re children again, saying, “Let’s start with the pandas.”
But Cole says, “Lions first.”
I glare at him, only partially acting my role. “We want to see the pandas.”
“And you will. But we’ll start with the big cats,” Cole says coolly.
I snarl. Tarasov smirks. All the old insults rise to my lips: Wolf is a feckin’ shitehawk, he’s a controlling eejit, only men with little pricks have to issue orders about something as meaningless as zoo animals.
But Breagha pets my arm and says, “That’s okay. I’m just happy you invited us today. Let’s start with the lions.”
I stomp down the path, barely making sure Breagha can match my angry pace. She waits until Wolf and Tarasov are a fewsteps behind before she says softly, “I thought things were going better for you two.”
“They are,” I snap, because that’s what the old Kate would say.
“When you came to Sunday Roast, he seemed…”
I’ll never find out how he seemed, because the men catch up with us.
The next hour and a half are hell. When I say I want to take a path to the right, Wolf orders me to the left. When I want to linger at the elephants, he insists on going to the reptiles. We dance our way through a dozen different power struggles, and he yanks my invisible leash on each and every one.
I agreed to this. Tarasov must believe I disapprove of this meeting. He has to think I don’t trust the venue, that I fear we can all be tracked by law enforcement as my husband consorts with a known career criminal.
One more hour. That’s what it will take to soften up the bratva brigadier. After that, I’ll protest Cole handing off the thumb drive. I’ll say it’s meant for Da. I’ll say I’ll die before I let the Russians have it.
And if Cole and I play our cards right, Tarasov will agree to take Viktor just to spite me. He’ll prove he has as much power over me as Cole does. He’ll spring our trap, loading unknown software onto his computer, all to prove he’s a man.
Judging from the frown on Breagha’s face, my play-acting is quite successful. Several times, I catch her shaking her head, studying me with a worried scowl. Once, when Wolf snaps his fingers to get my attention, Breagha shoots a worried glance at Tarasov, as if to ask if he’s noting the same behavior. Another time, Wolf cuts me off mid-sentence, and Breagha cringes, waiting for me to explode.
Finally, the four of us are sitting at a tiny table near a snack bar, balancing on molded plastic seats. I’m sulking as I eatvanilla ice cream. I wanted chips, but Wolf said he didn’t want to smell them on my breath. I’m moving my plastic spoon around the flimsy bowl, wondering how much more of the dessert I have to choke down.
My dear. He called me that by the front gate. He kissed my knuckles. He made me swoon.
He’s acting now. We both are.
If we were in the dungeon, he’d have every right to snap out his commands. When it’s just the two of us, I’ll even call himMaster. He makes the rules. He sets the pace. And every bit of it, every step of the way, he measures my response.
He does it for me. I know that. He takes responsibility for my pleasure. He makes decisions so I don’t have to. He proves to me, over and over again, that I can bear so much more than I ever thought I could, that I’m stronger than I ever imagined.
But here in the outside world, his domination feels entirely different. It’s insulting. Demeaning. As I choke down another bite, I fight the nearly overwhelming urge to scratch the red scars carved into my thighs.
“Finish your ice cream,” Wolf says. “Or you won’t get to go to the pandas.”
