Claim Me

Chapter 25

25Yulia

Lucas 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.

The 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.