Claim Me (10 page)

L
ucas

Y
ulia
.

I have to get to Yulia.

The thought hammers in my brain as I run down the stairs, ignoring the blood dripping down my arm. A bullet had grazed my shoulder and my ribs ache from all the movement, but I’m barely cognizant of the pain. The fight turned out to be lengthy and brutal; even caught off-guard and dazed by the bombs we set, the UUR operatives weren’t easy to take down. Being forced to exchange fire with them while Yulia was getting assaulted downstairs nearly drove me mad. As soon as we took out two of the three agents defending the house on the first floor, I sprinted to the basement stairs, leaving Diego and Eduardo to deal with the remaining shooter. I hope they’re able to capture him instead of killing him like we did the other two, but either way, it’s not worth me sticking around.

Saving Yulia beats gathering intelligence any day.

When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I force myself to slow down. The young agent ran this way after we killed the second shooter, and Yulia’s assailant could be lying in wait for me here too. He couldn’t have missed the shots and explosions upstairs. Or so I’m hoping, at least. I gave the order to detonate the bombs before we were optimally positioned for that exact reason: I figured the man was unlikely to continue with Yulia once he realized they were under attack.

Gripping my M16, I stop as I reach the corner. The hallway with all the rooms is to my right. If my recollection is correct, Yulia’s cell should be the fourth one on the left.

This is going to be tricky. I can’t shoot indiscriminately, like I did upstairs—not without risking Yulia’s life.

Crouching, I risk a quick look around the corner.

The hallway is empty.

I risk a second glance, this time eyeballing the distance to the nearest cell with an open door.

Ten feet. I can make it.

Tightening my grip on the gun, I dive for the cell, rolling across the floor. I half-expect to feel the bite of bullets, but nothing happens as I throw myself through the open door and leap to my feet, scanning the room for danger.

Empty. No sign of anyone.

I inhale to steady my racing heartbeat. The knowledge that Yulia is only a few rooms away from me is like a fire in my blood, but I know I need to be patient. Somewhere down here are two potentially dangerous opponents, and I have to be cautious if I’m to survive and get her back.

Plastering myself against the wall next to the door, I study the hallway, all my senses on alert. I have no doubt they know I’m here, which means it’s just a matter of time before someone gets impatient and tries to take me out. To combat my own urge to act, I mentally count to ten, then do so again.

By my third count, I hear a faint scrape and catch a flash of movement. It’s almost nothing—just a shadow changing shape inside one of the other doorways—but I know.

This is the enemy.

The safest move would be to pepper that doorway with bullets, but I can’t risk shooting Yulia by accident. As is, I can see that the bombs we set off did some damage down here. The floor is covered with plaster, and the ceiling lights are flickering madly. The idea of Yulia hurt in any way is intolerable, so I push the thought aside, along with the fear and rage clawing at my chest. I can’t focus on any of that, not until I have Yulia safely with me.

Taking another breath, I mentally measure the distance to the other doorway.

Seven feet, give or take a few inches.

I allow myself one more steadying breath, and then I spring for it, covering the distance in three long strides. A shot rings out, but I’m already there, knocking the gun out of the shooter’s hand as I tackle him to the floor and pin him with my assault rifle across his throat.

No, I realize a split second later.

Across
her
throat.

Yulia is on her back underneath me, her blue eyes huge with shock. Her pale face is dirty and bruised, marred with blood and bits of plaster, but there’s no doubt that it’s her.

“Lucas?” she chokes out, and I see her gaze suddenly flick to the right.

I react instinctively. Clutching Yulia with one hand and the M16 with the other, I throw myself to the side and roll, pulling her with me. My ribs hurt like hell, but the brick that was about to connect with my head crashes into the floor instead, and I jump up to meet the new threat—the young agent I saw in the video feed.

The boy has clearly had some training, and he’s fast. As I swing my weapon at his head, he ducks and simultaneously kicks out with his right leg. I jump back, causing his foot to miss my side, and before he can regroup, I thrust the gun forward, ramming the barrel into his solar plexus.

His face turns ghostly white, and his knees buckle. He collapses to the floor, gasping for air, and I raise the gun to knock him out. But before I can bring the handle down on his head, I spot a flicker of movement at my side.

It’s Yulia leaping at me, teeth bared.

“Get away! Don’t hurt him!” Her scream verges on hysterical as I catch her mid-leap and twist to pin her against the wall. Her fist lands in my side, causing my ribs to scream in agony as I struggle to contain her without dropping my weapon. She grabs for the gun, trying to wrestle it away from me, and I grunt in pain as her elbow hits me in the ribs again.

“Fucking hell, Yulia, stop!” I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t let her get that weapon. She’s already shot at me once; there’s no telling what she’d do with a fully loaded M16. As I’m wrestling with her, in my peripheral vision I see a shadow move across the hallway.

If it’s the other agent joining the fight, I’m screwed.

Steeling myself, I twist and slam my elbow into Yulia’s ribcage. It’s a carefully controlled blow—I use just enough force to knock the air out of her—and then I jump back and turn to face the boy, who’s still on the floor but beginning to recover from my hit.

His eyes widen as I raise the gun, pointing it straight at him, and for the first time, I get a good look at his features.

Features that are oddly familiar.

“No!”

Before I have a chance to process what I’m seeing, Yulia slams into me, tackling me with such force that I stagger back before I can catch myself. Her face is twisted with terrified anger as she wrestles with me for the weapon, and I begin to get an inkling of what’s happening.

“Misha!” she yells at the top of her lungs, followed by some Russian word, and my suspicion crystallizes into certainty as I see the boy struggle to his feet and rush at me, his teeth bared in a grimace that’s nearly identical to the one on Yulia’s face.

Motherfucker.

“Stop,” I snarl, yanking the gun out of Yulia’s hands with one hard pull. “I’m not going to fucking hurt him!”

The boy crashes into me before I finish speaking, and I hit him in the throat, tempering the force of my blow to avoid crushing his trachea. Even with my light tap, he collapses, choking and gasping for air, and I’m left to deal with Yulia’s attack.

She flies at me like a feral creature, all teeth and claws, her eyes wild with terror. She clearly didn’t believe my promise not to hurt the boy, whoever he is to her, and is fighting like a mama bear protecting her cub. Cursing, I block her attempt to knee me in the balls, and duck to avoid her swinging fist. Before she can lash out again, I catch her and pin her arms to her sides, squeezing her tightly. The M16 is still in my hand, but I don’t use it. I just hold Yulia against me, letting her tire herself out with her desperate struggles.

She weakens faster than I expected, likely because she’s injured. Within a couple of minutes, she goes limp in my arms, her breathing fast and shaky. I feel her muscles quivering in exhaustion as I hold her, and despite the violent ache in my ribs, a familiar mix of lust and tenderness spreads through me, warming my chest and stiffening my cock.

Yulia.

I finally have my Yulia.

Her breasts are soft against me, her body slim and delicate in my embrace. She smells of fear, sweat, and blood, but underneath it all is the faint scent of peaches—a fragrance I’ll forever associate with her. I breathe it in, indulging myself for a moment, but then I recall the shadow I saw moving earlier.

The other agent—Yulia’s attacker—is still on the loose.

“Did he hurt you?” My voice thickens with spiking rage. “Did that bastard touch you?”

Yulia’s whole body goes rigid, and then she starts struggling again. “Let me go.” Her words are muffled against my shirt. “Let me go, Lucas!”

I tighten my arms around her, ignoring the pain the move causes me. “Answer me.”

She stills, breathing rapidly, and I see the boy trying to get to his feet. I clench my jaw and turn Yulia so I have my M16 pointed at him. He freezes immediately, and I try to figure out how to proceed next. Everything in me demands that I rush into the hallway to capture the agent who assaulted her, but if I let go of Yulia, she’ll attack me again, and I don’t want to have to hurt her.

Also, there’s the fucking kid.

As I wrestle with my dilemma, I realize that I’m no longer hearing any gunfire—that, in fact, it’s been quiet for a couple of minutes. Just as the thought occurs to me, I hear running footsteps on the stairs, and a minute later, Eduardo bursts into the room, ready to take down our remaining opponents.

“Wait,” I order as he points his weapon at the kid. “Don’t shoot him.”

Yulia begins to struggle again, so I squeeze her tighter and whisper in her ear, “Calm down. We’re not going to hurt him. If I wanted him dead, he’d already be dead.”

That seems to get through to her. She stops fighting, and I risk loosening my grip on her. When I see that she’s still not attacking, I release her and step back. At the last moment, I change my mind and grab her wrist with my left hand, anchoring her to me.

There’s no way I’m chancing her escaping me ever again.

“There’s one more down here somewhere,” I tell Eduardo in a hard voice. The thought of Yulia’s attacker on the loose is intolerable. “Find him and bring him to me.”

Eduardo nods and disappears, and Yulia stares at me, trembling all over. She looks like she’s on the verge of either fainting or bolting. “You’re not—” Her voice breaks. “You’re not going to hurt Misha?”

I glance down at the boy, who’s wisely remaining motionless on the floor. “If that’s Misha, then no.” I take a calming breath, trying not to wince at the pain in my ribs. “Who is he to you?”

Yulia’s eyes widen. “You don’t know? But you said—”

“I think it’s possible I misunderstood,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Who is he? Your cousin?”

She blinks. “My brother.”

Now it’s my turn to be taken aback. “You said you were an only child.”

“I lied,” she says. Then her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “But you said you knew. When I asked you not to kill him, you said you knew. What did you mean? Why did you—”

“I thought he was your lover, okay?” Anger—at myself this time—clips my words. “Why did you lie about being an only child?”

Yulia moistens her lips. “Because I didn’t trust you.”

Of course—and apparently, with good reason. I force myself to take another breath. In a calmer tone, I ask, “Are you hurt? Did that fucker hurt you?”

She stiffens again. “How do you—”

“I hacked into this facility’s video feed,” I say. Releasing her wrist, I raise my hand to run my fingertips over the swelling on the left side of her face. “Did he do this?” I ask, trying to suppress my fury. “Did he hit you?”

“He…” Yulia swallows. “I fought, so he hit me. Then you—” She stops. “How did you find this place?”

I narrow my eyes, refusing to be distracted. “Did he rape you?”

“He tried, but no.” Her gaze drifts down. “Not this time.”

“This time?” I all but explode on the spot. “He hurt you before?”

She looks up, seemingly startled. “I told you about that. You don’t remember?”

“That was—”

“Kirill, yes.” Her bruised lips flatten. “They lied to me about him. He was alive. Alive and training Misha…” She glances down at the boy, who’s been utterly silent during our conversation. I don’t know how much English he understands, but judging from the stunned look on his face, he must’ve gotten at least some of it.

I can see Yulia is about to start talking to him, so I grip her chin firmly to bring her attention back to me. “We’re going to get him,” I promise grimly. “He won’t get away this time.”

To my surprise, Yulia’s mouth curves in a small smile as I lower my hand. “It’s okay. I took care of him.”

“What?”

“He’s dead—or will be shortly, if he’s not already.” Yulia’s smile sharpens. “He’s in my cell. Or at least his body should be there.”

I’m about to tell her to take me there when Eduardo enters the room. “He’s gone,” the guard says with evident disgust. “The bastard somehow made it to one of the SUVs in the backyard and squealed out of here. There must’ve been another exit down here. He bled the whole way to the car, though, so he’s hurt pretty badly. Maybe he’ll bleed out on his own.”

Yulia’s eyebrows draw together. “Who are you—”

“He’s talking about Kirill.” I fight to keep my voice level. “I saw a shadow move in the hallway earlier, when you and Misha were doing your best to bash my head in. He must not have been hurt as badly as you thought, or else—”

“I shot his cock and balls off.” Yulia’s curt statement makes me—and all the other males in the room—flinch instinctively. “Also, I put a bullet in his side,” she says, and before anyone can respond, she rushes out of the room, running down the hallway toward her cell.

“Keep an eye on him,” I tell Eduardo, nodding at Yulia’s brother, and then I take off after her, determined not to let her out of my sight ever again.

Y
ulia

L
ucas is here
. He promised not to hurt my brother. Kirill might have escaped.

I can’t process any of it, so I don’t even try. As I burst into the cell where Kirill attacked me, I see right away that Eduardo was right.

Kirill is gone.

There’s blood all over the place. I turn to follow the trail leading out of the room, but Lucas is already there, looming in the doorway like a human mountain. His hard jaw is shadowed with blond stubble, and his eyes are the color of an iced-over lake. With his SWAT-like gear and machine gun, he looks like the ultimate merciless soldier.

I want to flee from him and jump into his arms at the same time.

I do neither. Instead, I say dully, “He’s gone.” I know I’m stating the obvious, but all forms of higher thinking seem to be beyond me at the moment. My head is throbbing with pain, and my knees feel like they might buckle at any moment. The adrenaline that sustained me during my fight with Lucas is gone, leaving me trembling in the aftermath.

Kirill almost raped me again. Lucas saved me. Lucas had thought Misha was my lover.

I shake my head, a hysterical laugh escaping my throat.

“Yulia…” Lucas reaches for me, frowning, and my laughter intensifies. I can’t stop laughing, not when he pulls me into his embrace, his M16 digging into my back, and not when he rocks me against him, whispering soothing nothings into my ear. He promises that he’ll find Kirill for me, that he’ll make sure the fucker suffers, but I’m not listening to him. My mind is like a ping-pong ball, leaping from one insane fact to the next.

Lucas is in Ukraine. My brother is here with me. Lucas doesn’t intend to kill him—though he did when he thought Misha was my lover.

My hysterical laughter turns into equally hysterical sobbing. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t stop. All the heartache and stress of the past few hours coalesce into an expanding ball in my throat, and no matter how much air I draw in, I can’t stop feeling like I’m suffocating.

Misha could’ve been killed. He could still be killed if Lucas changes his mind. I want to plead for my brother’s life again, but all I can manage is a choked sound that devolves into another sob.

“Hush, sweetheart, it’ll be all right…” Lucas’s voice is a soft rumble in my ear. “I’ll protect you from him, I promise.”

Bending down, he picks me up, cradling me against his chest, and I wind my arms around his neck, pressing my face into his throat. Almost instantly, I feel calmer, my sobs easing as he carries me down the hallway.

When we pass by the room where I left my brother, however, I see that it’s empty, and the choking sensation returns. “Where is he?” My voice takes on a higher pitch as I push at Lucas’s shoulders. “Where’s Misha?”

“I assume Eduardo brought him upstairs, which is where I’m taking you now,” Lucas says, pressing me tighter against him. “Don’t worry, baby. He’s going to be fine, and so will you.”

His words reassure me somewhat. I still don’t trust Lucas, but I don’t see what he has to gain by lying to me in this instance. As he told me, if he wanted Misha dead, he would’ve already killed him.

“What are you going to do with him?” My tone is a tiny bit calmer as I pull back to look at my captor. “With us, I mean?”

“You’re coming with me, and so is your brother.” Lucas’s eyes glitter as he takes the stairs two at a time. “Now relax—we’ll sort all the rest of it soon.”

And before I can ask anything else, he steps out into the ruins of the first floor of the house.

T
he next several
hours are hazy in my mind. I recall seeing Obenko’s bloodied corpse as Lucas carried me out of the wreckage, but I must’ve passed out soon after that because I don’t remember the drive to the airport or the plane taking off. My last semi-clear recollection is of my brother sitting in the car next to me, his eyes red and swollen and his hands handcuffed behind his back.

A few times during the flight, Diego shakes me awake and makes me tell him my name and how many fingers he’s holding up. The first time that happens, I ask about my brother, and Diego points to a blanket-covered bundle on the couch across the cabin.

“We gave him a sedative so he wouldn’t keep fighting us,” the guard explains. “Your brother didn’t take the other agents’ deaths well.”

I try to get up to make sure Misha is all right, but my whole body lodges a violent protest, beginning with my skull, and I fall back into my plush seat with a pained groan, fighting a wave of nauseating dizziness.

“Don’t try to move,” Diego says, buckling me in with the seatbelt. “Lucas thinks you might have a concussion. He said I’m to watch over you while he’s flying the plane.”

“But Misha—”

“He’s fine.” Diego walks over and pokes Misha’s shoulder. My brother makes an incoherent noise, and the guard says, “See? He’s sleeping. Now relax. We’re already over the Atlantic and should be home soon.”

“Home?” I try to think through the throbbing pain in my temples.

“Our compound.” The young Mexican grins. “The wind is at our back, so we’ll be landing in no time.”

I want to argue that Esguerra’s compound is not
my
home, but the pain in my head intensifies, and I fade into unconsciousness again.

“—
a
lot of bruising
on her back, face, and stomach, and yes, a mild concussion. I’m going to give her some pain medication, so she can rest comfortably. There’s no need to wake her up; it’s not that severe of a head injury. Her body’s just been through a trauma and needs to heal. The more she sleeps, the better. I suggest you take it easy as well; you’re not doing your ribs any favors with all this activity.”

The voice is somewhat familiar. Prying open my eyelids, I see Lucas standing next to a short, balding man—the doctor who inspected me when I was first brought to the estate. What was his name? Stifling a groan, I turn my head to take in my surroundings and realize I’m in Lucas’s bedroom, lying on his large comfortable bed.

I’m also clean and naked under the blanket. Lucas must’ve undressed and washed me while I was passed out.

“Where’s Misha?” My words come out in a barely audible croak. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Where’s my brother?” Judging by drawn shades and bedroom lights being on, it’s already evening or maybe even night.

Lucas and the doctor turn to face me at the same time. Lucas’s mouth is set in a hard line, but the moment I try to sit up, he crosses the room in a couple of strides and sits down on the edge of the bed. “You are to rest.” His tone is harsh, but his touch is gentle as he pushes me back down. “Don’t move.”

He starts to get up again, and I grab his hand in desperation. “I need to see Misha.”

Lucas hesitates for a moment, then says gruffly, “Fine. I’ll have him brought here. But you rest, understand?”

I tighten my grip on Lucas’s hand. “Where are you holding him?” Now that we’re out of immediate danger, a new fear takes hold of me. My brother is here, in Esguerra’s compound, in the hands of men who can snuff out his life as easily as squashing a bug. If I hadn’t stopped Lucas in that basement, he would’ve likely killed Misha—just as he’d killed Obenko and the other agents.

My captor is dangerous, and I can’t forget that.

“Misha—or Michael, as he told us he prefers to be called—is staying in the guards’ barracks,” Lucas says, his jaw muscle flexing. He seems angry about something, but I have no idea what. “Diego and Eduardo are keeping an eye on him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll call Diego and have your brother brought here.”

I release Lucas’s hand, and he gets up. “Give her the pain meds,” he instructs the doctor. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The man nods, and Lucas walks out after giving me one last hard look. Even with the pain squeezing my temples, I understand his silent warning:

Behave or else.

If he’d asked me, I could’ve told him that his caution is unwarranted. Not only am I feeling like a truck ran me over, but Lucas has my brother. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t go anywhere without Misha—which must be why Lucas had him brought here, I realize with a shudder.

“Here you go,” the doctor says, extending his hand toward me, and I automatically accept the two pills he gives me.

“Thank you, Dr. Goldberg,” I say, finally recalling his name.

The short man gives me a kind smile and helps me sit up, putting two pillows under my back as I clutch the blanket to my chest. He also gives me a bottle of water, which I use to wash down the pills. There’s no point in resisting; the pills might cloud my mind, but the headache is doing that already. Even after sleeping the whole trip, I feel sluggish and exhausted, my body aching all over.

“You should rest,” Dr. Goldberg says, then turns away to rummage in his bag as I tuck the blanket tighter around my naked chest, pinning it in place with my arms.

As if obeying his instruction, my eyelids get progressively heavier, my thoughts beginning to drift as the doctor stands there, quietly humming under his breath. I’m almost asleep when I suddenly remember something he said earlier.

“Is Lucas hurt?” I sit up straighter, my sleepiness fading in a rush of worry. “You mentioned his ribs.”

Dr. Goldberg turns around, eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh, that. Yes, cracked ribs take time to heal. He’s supposed to abstain from physical activity, not run around like Rambo.”

I frown. “When did he crack his ribs?” From the way the doctor is talking, it sounds like an older injury.

Dr. Goldberg gives me an owlish look. “You don’t know?” Then his face clears, and he shakes his head. “Of course you don’t know. What am I thinking?”

“Did something happen here?”

He hesitates, then says, “I think it’s best if Kent fills you in.”

“Fills her in on what?” Lucas asks, walking into the room, and I see my brother come in after him, his hands handcuffed in front of his body.

“Misha!” I almost jump from the bed, injuries be damned, but at the last moment, I remember that I’m naked under the blanket. Flushing, I tighten my arms at my sides and give my brother a smile instead. “How are you doing?” I ask in Russian. “Are you okay?”

Misha stares at me, and I see color creep up his neck as he glances from me to Lucas and then to Dr. Goldberg.

I turn to my captor. “Lucas, would it be possible—”

“You have five minutes,” he growls and strides out of the room. The doctor follows him out, closing the door behind him, and I find myself alone with my brother for the first time in eleven years.