Chapter 7

"And the boys took care of you?" Dad says over a video call, sitting in his office still wearing his suit, though he's loosened his collar. He only ever does that at the end of the day. In his late sixties, Dad's still one of the hardest-working CEOs in America.

"Uncle Sam has always been kind to me, Dad," I smirk.

Dad laughs gruffly. "Yeah, yeah. Me too."

"Have you told Molly yet?"

"No. I don't know how to." He runs a hand over his gray head of hair. "Maybe I'll let it be a surprise."

"Is that a good idea? It might be too much of a shock."

"She finally told me about her Anna for a reason, Aid."

"Anna. It's Ania, isn't it?"

"Molly wanted to call her Anna, but Konstantin, that piece of filth, said it wasn't Russian enough. If I could've gotten my hands on him when he was alive …"

"He did the world a favor."

"You're damn right. Are you good?"

The question catches me off guard. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem … different." He leans forward, steepling his fingers.

"Don't give me that look, dammit. I'm fine."

"No action with the Sokolovs?"

"It couldn't have gone any smoother."

"So I won't get any reports about bloodbaths at Bratva safe houses?"

"I don't hurt people unless they hurt me."

"Or people who don't deserve to be hurt."

I nod. "So stop asking me stupid questions."

Dad grins. "Who raised you to be so impolite, eh?"

"How's Henry?" I ask.

"Crying a lot. Smiling a lot. Loving a lot. How does it feel having a brother almost forty years younger than you?"

"Surreal, Dad."

"In a good way?"

I can hear the hope in Dad's voice. He wants everything to work out with Molly and this new family. "Of course. I can't wait to see him grow up."

I don't bother to mention how badly I miss Mom. After her death several years ago, Dad was ruined. I never thought he was going to move on. The sad truth is, the little kid in me wanted it that way: for Dad to grow old alone, to never love another woman. I see now how selfish that was. Anyway, I'm not a little kid anymore. Those sorts of thoughts are never helpful.

"Good, good," Dad says. "How is she doing?"

"I think …" I almost say, She has an eating disorder, but then I stop myself. It's not my place to share her personal details, especially since I haven't confirmed it. "She's scared. She's trying to act tough. You should tell Molly that she's here."

Dad gets that I-know-best look in his eye. As CEOs go, he's on the humbler side. Still, suppose any man makes billions through hard work, establishes security contracts with the military and other wealthy people, and has over fifty thousand employees in several locations. He's going to develop a certain level of confidence. At least, that's what he calls it.

"I'll make that decision," he says with a sense of finality.

I shrug. "Anything else?"

"Have I upset you?" Dad asks.

"Upset me?" I repeat, laughing. "Is that a joke?"

"We're all human."

"See you tomorrow, old man."

He grins. "Bye, son."

I turn my phone facedown and run my hand through my hair, looking at the shattered bowl on the floor. I've done my best to mop up the soup, but there are still fragments of the bowl. I was cleaning just before Dad called. I replay the moment she threw it, the terror in her eyes. I used my special-ops mind to search for weaknesses, and I immediately saw it.

I don't want to exploit her, use her to get info, or make her an informant. I want to help her. I help people all the time, but not in this way. Not when they know I'm the one who helped them.

I can't stop thinking about how little she's eaten. There's hardly anything on her already. She's beautiful and petite, but she shouldn't be starving herself. Dammit. I go to the cupboard, get a long-life snack bar packed with protein, fat, and sugar, and go to her room.

"What?" she grunts when I knock.

"I'm …" I almost can't say it, but I need to consider her health and well-being. No decent military man lets a prisoner perish on his watch, not that she's a prisoner. "I'm sorry about before. You're right. I shouldn't be pressuring you."

"Okay. Good."

"It's just, Ania, the human body has needs."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

She sounds close to the door, hovering right on the other side. I could open it and pull her into my arms, feel how delicate she is and how much she needs protection. I could hold her so gently. I'd try, at least. Try not to let the savage wake up in me, try not to slide my hand up her ballerina's leg toward her hot-as-fuck …

Quiet. I whisper it in my mind, like when silly thoughts about the past arise.

"No," I tell her, "but you haven't eaten in sixteen hours, and you don't have the fat reserves to be sustainable."

"So you're a kidnapper and now a doctor, brother?"

I grit my teeth and almost snap back at her. She's too good at pushing my buttons. I can typically switch off with no problem at all. But with her, she knows how to slither beneath the surface and make me wild. In a fucked-up way, it's almost a relief—feeling something for once.

"Ania—"

"Did you do a sales course or something where they told you to keep saying the person's name?"

I smirk. Damn, that was good. Constantly using somebody's name is a tactic I use, often without realizing it. "I'm leaving a snack bar on the floor. It's only two hundred and twenty calories. It won't make any difference to your size."

"I told you …" Her voice is shaking like I'm about to make her cry. "I'm stressed."

"Even so, you need this."

When she doesn't reply, I return to the living room and check the security cameras. The forest is quiet. Keeping the feed open, I take my rifle apart and start cleaning it. It's a habit that always brings me peace, except not now, apparently, because I can't stop thinking about that damn snack bar. I know I won't get any sleep tonight.

Staying awake for over twenty-four hours wasn't part of the plan, but this isn't exactly my first time doing it. I planned on sleeping but didn't expect to … what, care? I don't know. Hmm. Honestly, I don't have a clue and can't let myself have one. It's just too weird. She's just too young, and she's my sister. How many more goddamn reasons do I need?

After almost an hour, the floorboards creak. I stand slowly, unclipping the safety button on my pistol's holster. Then I see Ania standing in the doorway, a silhouette that has my heart pounding. My hand twitches as I think about gliding my hand up her side, over her gorgeous ballerina's legs.

Thankfully, she's decided to eat. She's munching on the cereal bar. "Real scary man, aren't you?" she says, her voice odd, almost drunk-sounding.

"I don't want to scare you," I tell her.

"But you are," she laughs softly, then takes another bite from the bar. "Real big man. Real big bad wolf."

Earlier, I was thinking about me being a wolf, but it sounds absurd when she says it.

"Thanks for eating."

"Thanks … for eating?" She giggles again. "I'm a person, aren't I?"

She drops the wrapper on the floor, then walks to me with dance-like movements. She moves so fluidly. It floods my head with images of her writhing atop me, dancing over my length, her body bouncing as I handle her like she weighs nothing.

Stopping a foot short of me, she tilts her head, pursing her lips. In the semidarkness, her eyes seem almost eerie. Intense. She's looking at me like she's been waiting her whole life to meet me. So, what? When she was a kid? Is that how long she's been waiting? She's too fucking young. That proves it; the fact that last year, what I'm thinking of doing would've been illegal.

"You're really handsome," she says innocently.

Is this her plan? Try to seduce me so she can get away? She has to know there's no way she's escaping. She can't outrun me. She doesn't know exactly where she is. She has to assume I've got security and contingency plans.

"Uh, thanks," I mutter. "Do you want something else to eat?"

"No, really handsome."

She closes the distance between us, pressing her body against mine. Oh, fuck. Something wakes in me. My dick goes from a semi to rock-hard in what must be world record time. My balls ache, filled with my seed. She reaches up, smoothing her hands up my arm.

"Is this a plan?" I say, my voice gruff. "A trick?"

"You're just so handsome …"

She lets out a moan that has precome leaking from my dick. I want to take her so badly, tear off her clothes, lay her down, fill her with my cock, pound her until she's begging for more and more.

She leans up further, toward my lips, laughing in that distant way, in that?—

Oh, hell. I take a step back.

She's sleepwalking!

Disappointment stabs me like a bayonet. I step back, fighting my desire, when she laughs and closes the distance again. Now that I've realized she's asleep, it seems so obvious. I've been around sleepwalking people before. One of my buddies used to get up, play cards, then go back to bed, all with no memory of it.

I don't say anything. I keep backing up, walking around a circle in the living room. Slowly, I lead her back to her bedroom. At least she ate. I won't be able to act on the fierceness pulsing in me. I won't be able to do all the dirty things flashing through my mind.

Backing up into her bedroom, I stand at the edge of the bed. She laughs and walks over to me. "Oh, so confident," she murmurs. "Just like that?"

She lies on the bed, looking up at me, biting her lip. My dick damn near explodes when she looks at me like that. Even though I know she won't remember this, the savage temptation remains.

"I have a fetish," I tell her. It's a lie. I haven't been with enough women to develop shit like that.

"Oh, really?" More laughter.

"Hmm. I like to watch women sleep. Pretend to be asleep for me, Ania."

"That makes you crazy, does it?"

"Yes. It does. Can you do that for me? Can you pretend to sleep?"

Biting her lip again—this is taking everything I have—she lies back and closes her eyes, putting a dramatic hand over her face. "I am so sleepy. I hope nobody disturbs me."

"I like it to be realistic," I grunt, my dick aching, a wild voice inside telling me to take her, take her hard. "Don't do any of that theatrical crap. Pretend you're really sleeping."

"Oh, okay."

I sit in the corner, waiting as she climbs under the covers, rolls onto her side, and starts to snore. The whole time, my mind is ticking overtime. Is this what she's always like when she sleepwalks? Any bastard could take advantage of her. Any bastard could hurt her. When she's like this, literally anybody could do anything to her. It fills me with so many murderous thoughts.

Soon, her snoring goes from a performance to actual, sleepy breathing. I stand quietly and leave her there, returning to the living room, fighting the instinct to climb into bed next to her. As I continue cleaning my rifle, I think about an impossible scenario.

I come home from a long day, my body sore, and check in on my kid. Maybe little Henry has put babies in my head. Then, I climb into bed next to my woman—my wife.

My sister.

"Quiet," I whisper to myself, shaking my head.