Carnal Urges

35

19

Declan

T

he warehouse is near the docks. It’s cold, dank, and smells like rancid seawater and rotting wood. But it’s not close to any other buildings, which makes it a convenient spot for interrogations.

Screams get lost here. Blood washes easily off the cement, into the sewer, and out to sea.

“Hullo, Stavros.”

He’s tied to a metal chair with a black cloth hood over his head. Normally, I’d have him on his knees—freezing-cold cement is hell on the knees—but he was already like this when I got here.

The hooded head lifts. A voice with a slight Russian accent says, “Who’s there?”

“Sloane’s new best friend.”

After a short pause, he curses viciously in Russian.

Amused, I turn to Spider, standing beside me. “I bet he thinks I don’t understand his language.”

Spider chuckles. “I bet he thinks a lot of things that aren’t true. Stupid people are like that.”

“What have you done with her? If you’ve hurt her, I’ll f*****g kill you!”

His angry shouts echo off the walls. He struggles against his bindings. His breathing is rough and fast.

“Relax. She’s still in one piece. But keep it up, and I’ll bring you one of her fingers for every time you shout at me.”

Streaming through the hood, his breath sends white clouds into the frigid air. His voice lower but still shaking with fury, he says, “You’ll regret this.”

I’m intrigued. From Sloane’s description of him as boring, I was expecting less energy. “Why? Is your master, Kazimir, coming to rescue you? You’re not high up enough on the totem pole, boyo.”

“I’m talking about kidnapping my woman.”

Hearing him call her that sets my teeth on edge. “Your woman? You seem to be operating under the misconception that she gives a shite about you.”

Or that she could belong to anyone. No man could ever really own her. Like all unbroken spirits, she can’t be claimed.

Stavros is undeterred by my sarcasm. “You have no idea how she feels about me.”

“I know she thinks you’re as interesting as curdled milk.”

“She wouldn’t tell you the truth!”

“She might. Under pressure.”

The insinuation that I’ve tortured her for information doesn’t faze him. He shakes his head vehemently.

“You don’t know her. Sloane’s not like other people. She won’t give anything she doesn’t want to give, no matter what it costs.”

I’m starting to get aggravated by his confidence. Could she have lied to me about her feelings for him?

“Everyone has a breaking point. You, for instance. How many fingers of yours will I have to remove before you tell me everything I want to know about your boss?”

His reply is instant. “None. I’ll tell you anything. I’ll tell you everything about him that I know.”

Spider is astonished. “This is the loyalty you show your king?”

“I don’t care about him. I only care that you don’t harm Sloane. If you let her go, I’ll do whatever you ask. I’ll spy on him if you want me to.”

Disgusted, Spider spits on the cement. “Unfuckingbelievable. For a woman.”

I turn and give him a cold stare. In Gaelic, I say tightly, “That’s a mighty high horse you rode in on. Have you already forgotten how easily the same woman tested your loyalty, Homer?”

He freezes. A look of guilt comes into his eyes.

“Take off his hood. And get me a chair.”

I turn back to Stavros and watch as Spider pulls the hood from his head. Stavros sees me standing in front of him and gives me a quick once-over.

I’m satisfied to see him swallow in fear.

Spider places a chair in front of me and stands back. I turn the chair around, straddle it, and sit facing Stavros with my forearms resting on top, my hands dangling loosely over the edges.

Then I tell Spider to leave us alone.

When the echo of his footsteps have faded, I say to Stavros, “You’re in love with her.”

The question catches him off guard. I can tell he’s trying to guess what angle I’m playing. He debates with himself for a moment, then says simply, “Yes.”

“So much so that you’d betray Kazimir without a thought.”

“Yes.”

Interesting. “How long were the two of you together?”

He’s starting to look confused. Maybe he expected I’d be slicing off body parts by now, not engaging in polite conversation.

“Three months.”

That’s all? When I raise my brows, he says defensively, “Fourteen weeks, to be exact. And two days.”

Jesus. I’m sure if I asked him how many hours and minutes, he’d know.

He blurts, “Tell me if she’s all right.”

Holding his gaze, I say quietly, “You’re in no position to be making demands.”

“Please. I have to know. It’s killing me. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

His dark eyes plead with me. I experience a strong urge to gouge them out. Instead of doing that, I say, “She’s fine.”

His exhalation is huge and relieved. He says a prayer of thanks to the Virgin Mary in Russian. Now I’d like to pour gasoline over this kid and light him on fire.

My ego decides it’s time to f**k with me and reminds me that Stavros isn’t a kid. He’s a man, full-grown. And, like Sloane, at least a decade younger than I am. He’s young, strong, good-looking, and madly in love with my captive.

Maybe her perfume is laced with oxytocin. It would explain a lot.

“What is it you love so much about her?”

“Everything.”

“Name one thing.”

He’s even more confused by my challenging tone. If I’m being honest, it’s confusing me, too.

“Is this some kind of game?”

“Indulge me.”