In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(43)

Sam held his breath, teetering on the brink. “I am willing to bet money that the word cock has never spontaneously come out of your mouth in your whole life before you met me,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “Could be,” she said primly. “It’s a word I don’t have cause to use much in my daily conversations.”

“Another first, huh?”

Her smile widened to a beautiful grin, all perfect teeth and dimples. “You get off on that, don’t you? That really yanks your chain.”

He rolled her over. “Oh, yeah.”

They went at it again, nothing held back. She kept stripping layers off him. A person could get so spoiled, being known like that. Having his soul laid bare, offered up to her. Here. All yours. Take it.

His last thought, as he sank into the pit of adrenal exhaustion, was that it was going to suck serious ass when she shut him out again.





CHAPTER 9

Sveti watched the masked figure lift Mama’s writhing body high and hurl her over the stonework railing. A shriek of denial was torn from her throat. She struggled, taped to a chair, arms wrenched back. She heard a flapping sound. Silk, whipping. Her mother’s red evening gown, spread out like a parachute as she plummeted toward the churning sea.

The masked figure was moving toward her. Pale eyes glittered in the slits of the mask. His breath smelled dead. He pulled off the mask.

Yuri. He licked his fleshy, purple lips as he lifted the knife—



Sveti jerked upright with a sharp gasp. Sam shifted in his sleep without waking. She was glad. She didn’t want to be seen like this.

Stay strong, he said. It was good advice. She would try.

She drew her knees up tight around the sour ache. She’d expected this, even before she got nabbed. Dreams of Mama’s suicide were routine. Yuri was a classic, too. But her subconscious had never tossed the two anxieties together. They were bad enough singularly.

She stared up at the intricate moon shadows on the ceiling. Her mother had never worn a red dress in her dream before. In fact, she’d never noticed Mama’s clothes at all. And she’d never known nor wanted to know what her mother wore the night she jumped. The day’s fog of terror was starting to lift, just enough for her to realize the implications of what her tormenter had said. It’s amazing, the resemblance to Sonia. . . . And she wore a slut red dress, just like yours, the night she died.

This man had known Mama. What she looked like, what she’d worn. As if he were suggesting that he was the one who had killed her.

All these years, Sveti had wondered why Mama had not asked for help. Why she had not talked to someone, checked into a hospital. Or at least called her daughter to say good-bye. All Sveti had gotten was that photo in the mail, covered with cryptic scrawls. Cold comfort.

It would seem those scrawls weren’t so meaningless after all.

Her mother had urged her to take the opportunity to study in America. She’d been a focused, dedicated professional, teaching French and English poetry at the university before the bad stuff happened. Absorbed by her passion for photography. Madly in love with Sveti’s father. Devastated by his death. She hadn’t been particularly maternal, but Sveti had loved her all the same, and had felt loved in return.

Then, suddenly, she was gone, leaving Sveti tormented by the stupid, awful f*cking empty waste of it all. The terrible quiet.

But if Mama had been murdered . . .

She shied from the thought. It was a trap. She longed to blame someone besides Mama, Papa, Zhoglo. That crowd gave her no satisfaction. Just the vast silence of the dead from their direction.

But if it wasn’t Mama’s choice, if there was someone else to punish . . . oh, God, yes. Her hunger for that scenario could corrupt her good judgment all to hell. She had to watch herself, and keep it real.

She stared out the big window of the bed nook at the ocean. The big cloud had blown past, and the moon left a bright trail of light.

Until this morning, she’d had no reason to think anyone might have wanted to hurt Mama. Now that the possibility was unleashed, it was blundering around in her head, knocking everything into disarray. All her deepest assumptions about the world, her mother, herself.

It hurt to think about it, but she was accustomed to the trail of pain and tension certain thoughts made as they burned through her body. And at least this was a different kind of pain. It was preferable to be angry at a murderer than at Mama. At least, the sad, pitiful version of suicidal Mama that she’d been forced to swallow in place of her brighter memories. A brave, intrepid Mama, tragic victim of a terrible injustice . . . a Mama who could be avenged . . . that suited Sveti’s fantasies so much better, she dared not trust it.

Dawn was glowing faintly in the sky, and she was as far from sleep as she’d ever been. Sam slept heavily on. She was tempted to wake him and tell him her realization, but that would be selfish and unfair, exhausted as he was. Besides, he would be restless and mercurial, full of strong opinions about everything she thought and said. She would end up struggling against him. Striking sparks.

The thought exhausted her.

Better to lie there, savoring the contact with his hot, naked skin, staring at his beautiful face. He looked so different sleeping. She barely recognized his bold eyebrows when they were not frowning or furrowed, expressing some strong emotion, usually about her. He seemed younger. His mouth so soft. Kissable. The tenderness that stirred inside her as she watched him sleep was strangely unsettling.