Bone Deep(9)

More and more her reasoning, her existence itself, was being tested by emotions. Because of this man.

She had work to do and the dark, lovely, safe depth of her lust to kill couldn’t be contained when rippled with other emotions. When he was around that lust morphed into something she didn’t understand—it became something she simply wanted to succumb to.

“Ah, but yes,” he continued, drawing her attention from the grand city below them. “You’ve already done those things.”

“Rest assured had I knifed you in the heart and broken your neck, we would not be having this conversation,” she mused aloud.

He taunted her at every turn.

Bone squeezed her eyes shut and opened them, taking in the Russian skyline before her. The multi-colored, onion-shaped domes of the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood rose above the streets below, dominating the sky with light. She wanted to laugh that the Russian Mafia had commandeered a building so close to a religious site for their “club.” They trained girls in this building, girls barely off their mother’s knees, to do things only grown women should ever consider. Things that would make even the most experienced whore gasp. She wondered what the God of her fathers would think of that.

His breath drifted over her cold cheek, warming her from the inside out. “But the truth…you’ve managed to keep that from me for years and thus you’ve held my life in your hands.”

“The truth,” she began, “has always been in front of you, Asinimov. Joseph Bombardier took your family. There has never been a reason to pursue me.”

Her mind squeezed with the memory of a different Asinimov. Sharp, jagged spikes of pain radiated through her body as the cold feel of Sacha Asinimov’s throat in her hands replaced the heat his son had started. Her own throat strangled under the pressure of a similar hold—Sacha’s huge hands taking her life even as she sought to take his. Their rakad shel mavet ended brutally, but Bone had been the one to walk away.

She took away knowledge from every contract because what did not kill you made you stronger. Sacha Asinimov taught her more than any other—strength was not the only necessity for a killer. Persistence and hatred were requirements as well.

She had outlasted Sacha. She could outlast the son.

And so the truth mocked her. Dmitry always had a reason to pursue her. He was a man honed in the fires of revenge. Most of his family had been wiped off the planet by Joseph Bombardier. And while she wasn’t the only one of Joseph’s killers to play a hand in their demise—after all, Bullet had taken his brother Alexander—Bone had taken someone who obviously meant more to Dmitry than anyone else.

Dmitry would not care that someone had not been a good man.

The urge to flee rose, taking her breath even as her muscles loosened with the flood of adrenaline. Fight or flight? She measured her options. He was close enough that the heat from his big body burned through the material of her Gortex unitard. His breath carried the hint of mint and vodka and her mouth watered. Russia had the best vodka. She could only imagine the taste when flavored with Dmitry.

His scent teased her nostrils. The smell of snow-kissed pine and juniper—fresh, seductive—sank into her pores, making her core clench.

Out of every person she’d ever met, this one man called to her on a level she was neither comfortable with nor complacent about. He made her want to move.

Into him.

Away from him.

Both.

The one thing she could never do was hold him against her. He would sink too deep then and would destroy her when he found out the truth of who she was.

So she would run again.

Another caress along the curl he held and then, “I can feel you getting ready to move. Your muscles have gone lax and your breathing has slowed. It is a singular oddity among you and your sisters—instead of your muscles bunching and drawing in to prepare, you go still and soft. It is quite unexpected. Tell me, Bone, will you fight with me or flee?”

She snorted. “I will not fight you. Do you think I have allowed you to live each time we’ve met only to take you now?”

His breath brushed her cheek again as his big body meshed against her back. She wanted to curve into him, let his strength surround her and carry her through her trials. The heat, the strength, the need. It was all there between them.

“You cannot fight without killing?”

She glanced at him, wished she hadn’t. “It is a challenge, Asinimov.”

He smiled. “So you will flee, da?”

She said nothing, just continued to take measured breaths, her body hounded by the one thing it could never have. She hated the weakness, indeed, tasted the need to harm rise in her heart and eclipse her mind with its red haze.

Hurt others before they hurt you and you will survive. Joseph’s words tortured her now. He had trained her personally until she had become too strong for him to spar. She’d been a foot and half shorter and a good one hundred fifty pounds lighter than Joseph, yet she’d been stronger, faster, more instinctive in her movements. He’d recognized it by her eighth birthday and stopped training her, turning her over instead to another, more brutal taskmaster.

She shook the memories off.

“Who is next on your list, Bone?” he asked against her neck.

“Step away from me,” she demanded in a low, cajoling tone.

“Who is next?”