Angel’s Cage

Chapter 3

3

Chloe

Heart beating unevenly, I watch the door close behind Nikolai’s tall, broad-shouldered figure. My forehead still tingles where his lips touched my skin, even as my mind replays the raw, agony-filled screams of the man he tortured.

How can a ruthless killer act so caring and tender?

Is any of that real, or is it just a mask he wears to hide the psychopath within?

I’m not actually hungry—the anesthesia has made me somewhat nauseated—but I need a few minutes alone. Everything happened so fast I haven’t had a chance to formulate my questions, much less attempt to come up with any answers. One moment, one of my mom’s killers was straddling me, lust gleaming in his flat, dark eyes, and the next, his partner’s brains were all over the forest floor and Nikolai was slicing open my attacker and threatening to remove his intestines.

Swallowing a surge of nausea, I push aside the recollection. As brutal as Nikolai’s interrogation methods were, they did yield some results, and with the worst of the shock wearing off and my mind clearing from the haze of anesthesia, I can finally think about the implications of what I’ve learned.

They were there to kill you both, Nikolai had told me in the car before asking if the name Tom Bransford means anything to me.

Which it does.

Because it’s been all over the news lately.

With an unsteady hand, I lift the remote and power on the TV, tuning in to a news channel.

Sure enough, they’re covering the primary debates, which Bransford appears to be winning, putting him ahead in all the polls.

My insides roil as I study his image on the screen. If Nikolai is telling me the truth, this is the man responsible for my mom’s murder.

Youthful and trim at fifty-five years of age, the California senator oozes charm and charisma. His thick, golden-blond hair is barely touched with gray, his eyes are a brilliant blue, and his smile is bright enough to light a warehouse.

No wonder they’re comparing him to JFK; he could be the dead president’s even more handsome brother.

I search for signs of evil on his evenly featured face and find none. But then again, why would I? However good-looking Bransford is, he can’t hold a candle to Nikolai’s darkly magnetic appeal, and I know what he’s capable of. I’m not the only one dazzled by Nikolai, either. Even woozy from anesthesia, I couldn’t miss the covetous looks the nurses surreptitiously cast toward him.

I’ve never been out in public with my employer, but I imagine panties drop left and right when he walks down the street.

A bizarre pang of jealousy strikes me at the thought, and I realize I’m getting distracted from the key question.

Why?

Why would a leading presidential candidate want to kill me and my mom?

It makes no sense. None whatsoever. Mom couldn’t have been further removed from politics if she’d lived in the sss jungle, and God knows I don’t follow the stuff. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I didn’t even vote in the last election, being too busy with starting college and all. Nor have I ever met Bransford in any capacity; I have a good memory for faces, and his is more memorable than most.

Maybe Mom had encountered him somehow? At the restaurant she’d worked at, perhaps?

It’s possible, theoretically. The upscale hotel the restaurant is attached to is frequented by all sorts of VIPs. Maybe Bransford had stayed there during a visit to Boston, and Mom witnessed him doing something he shouldn’t have.

But then why would he want to kill me as well? Unless… was he afraid Mom had told me whatever it was she knew about him?

Holy crap. Maybe she hid some kind of evidence at her apartment, and he thinks I know where it is.

Excited, I sit up, only to fall back onto the mound of pillows with a groan. The anesthesia is definitely wearing off because that movement hurt. A lot. It felt like hot knives plunging into my arm, and the rest of my body isn’t doing much better.

It’s as if I’ve been knocked off my feet by an actual truck, instead of an assassin the size of one.

Before I can catch my breath and refocus, the door opens and Nikolai walks in, holding a tray of covered dishes.

My heart launches into a sprint, and what little breath I did recover evacuates my lungs.

Without the veil of shock dulling my senses and the distraction of the medical staff bustling around me, his effect on me is devastatingly, terrifyingly potent. I’ve never known a man who could make my body react by merely walking into a room. And it’s not just his looks; it’s everything about him, from the raw animal intensity in his striking amber-green gaze to the aura of power he wears as comfortably as one of his custom-made suits.

Right now, he’s dressed more casually in a pair of dark jeans and a light-blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He must’ve changed and showered while I was under, I realize; not only are his clothes different from what he’d worn in the car, but the smear on his cheekbone is gone and his raven’s wing hair is slicked back wetly, exposing the sharp symmetry of his striking features.

Greedily, my eyes trace over his face, from the thick black slashes of his eyebrows to the full, sensuous shape of his mouth. For once, it’s not curved in that dark, cynical way of his; instead, the smile on his lips is warm, tinged with unsettling tenderness.

“I had Pavel warm up some leftovers and prepare a selection of different snacks,” he says, crossing the room toward me as I reflexively power off the TV. His deep, rough-silk voice is like a caress to my ears, so much more pleasant than the newscaster’s strident tones. Placing the tray on my nightstand, he takes a seat next to me and begins uncovering the dishes one by one. “I figured you might be dealing with some nausea, so I have some plain toast here as well.”

Wow. Could he be any more considerate? If I hadn’t seen him kill and torture with my own eyes, I would’ve never believed him capable of such cruelty—even with that dark, dangerous vibe I kept getting from him.

“Thank you,” I murmur, trying not to think of his hands wielding a blade that sliced open a man as he extends the tray toward me, letting me pick what I want. There’s everything from cut-up fruit to stuffed blintzes to cold cuts and various cheeses, but I am still nauseated, especially with the gruesome images refusing to leave my mind, so I just grab the plain toast and a handful of grapes.

He watches me eat with an approving half-smile, and I try not to think about how warm that smile makes me feel—and not just in a s****l way. It’s an illusion, this feeling of safety and comfort he gives me, a leftover from when I thought he was a good man who just had trouble connecting with his young son.

I was beginning to fall for that man.

No. I’m lying to myself. I did fall for him, so much so that even with Alina’s terrifying revelations ringing in my ears, I had turned my car around and was heading back here when the assassins ambushed me.

His own sister told me he was a monster, and I didn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe her.

I still don’t.

“Where’s Slava? How is he?” I ask, choosing the most innocuous topic I can think of. There are so many things we need to discuss, from Bransford’s motivations to whether or not I’m a prisoner here, but I’m not ready to go there yet.

That last question, in particular, is too disturbing to contemplate at the moment.

“He’s just returned from a walk with Lyudmila,” Nikolai replies. “Alina had her take him away before our arrival.”

“Ah, good.” I was worried the child might’ve seen us from his window. “What will you tell him about… you know?” I wave at my sling with my left hand.

“We’ll just say you fell on a branch.” His jaw tightens. “I’d rather he didn’t know you left him.”

“I didn’t—” I stop, because I did. I was coming back, but Nikolai doesn’t know that. Nor am I planning to tell him.

I don’t want him to know how easily he’d fooled me, how even now, a part of me refuses to believe that he’s a killer as ruthless as the men who’d murdered my mom.

His tiger eyes narrow with speculative interest. “You didn’t what?”

“Nothing.” The word comes out unconvincingly fast. I scramble to cover it up. “I just meant, I didn’t leave him.”

It’s as if a thundercloud passes over Nikolai’s face, blocking out all light and warmth. His gaze turns shuttered, his magnificent features taking on a statue-like hardness. “Right. You left me. Because of what Alina told you.”

I swallow hard. I’m not sure I’m ready to go there either, but it looks like I have no choice. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my arm, I push up to a more upright position. “Did she lie?” My voice wavers slightly. “Did she make it all up?”

He stares at me, the silence stretching into painfully long seconds. “No,” he finally says. “She didn’t.”

Something inside me withers. Up until this moment, I’d still held out hope that his sister was wrong, that despite what I saw him do to the two assassins, he’s not guilty of the horrific crime of p*******e. But there’s no room for doubt now.

By his own admission, the man in front of me killed his father.

“What happened? Why—” My voice cracks. “Why did you do it?”

He doesn’t respond for another long, nerve-racking moment. His face is that of a stranger, dark and closed-off. “Because he deserved it.” His words fall like a hammer, heavy and brutal. “Because he was a Molotov. Like me.”

I dampen my dry lips. “I don’t understand.” My heart pounds against my ribcage, each beat echoing in my ears. A part of me wants to shut this down and run away screaming, while another, infinitely more foolish part longs to curve my palm over the harsh, uncompromising line of his jaw, offering comfort with my touch.

Because hidden underneath that hard, emotionless façade is pain.

There has to be.

He opens his mouth to reply when someone knocks on the door. The sound is quiet, tentative, but it kills the moment as surely as a gunshot.

Springing to his feet, Nikolai strides over to the door to open it.

“Konstantin is on the phone,” Alina says from the doorway. “His team has found something.”