Les paupières closes, les joues en flammes, des cernes bleutés sous les yeux, Min m'embrasse avec l'ivresse d'un étudiant qui dévore un livre rare.

Ma solitude ressemble à un rouleau de soie cramoisie enfermé au fond d'un coffre de bois

Les yeux fermés, je remuais les hanches au rythme du martèlement de la basse. La musique s'insinuait en moi, me stimulait, poussait mon corps à garder le tempo. Déhanchement à droite, pause... Je laissai descendre ma main avant de faire remonter deux doigts aguicheurs le long de ma cuisse luisante de sueur. Dos arqué, je me mis à onduler du bassin dans un mouvement dont la lenteur semblait défier le rythme effréné du morceau, puis je ramenai mes deux mains à plat sur mon ventre pour soulever le T-shirt qui collait à ma peau trempée.

- Moins vite, ordonna Jayne d'une voix grave, presque rauque.

Qu’arrivera-t-il quand toute cette passion se sera consumée ?
Il tapota sa cuillère sur la nappe de lin blanc sans me quitter du regard et me retourna la question :
Qu’arrivera-t-il si elle ne se consume pas ?

Jolanne suivit du regard la silhouette de Bussy qui se dissipait dans la nuit. Elle pensait qu’avec cet homme ce qui s’éloignait et paraissait se fondre dans les ténèbres, c’était son monde, sa culture, tout ce qu’elle avait quitté pour s’immerger dans une civilisation aussi lointaine que si elle appartenait à une autre planète. Elle était seule sur sa terrasse, sous les étoiles, étrangère à elle-même. Et en même temps, combien était forte son envie de vivre, de connaître d’autres joies, d’autres émotions…

Il entre dans mon appartement dès que la porte s’ouvre. Ni hésitation ni salutation, il se contente d’entrer.

Prise au dépourvu, je recule d’un pas, tout à coup l’entrée me semble si petite qu’elle en est oppressante. J’avais oublié à quel point il est grand, à quel point ses épaules sont larges. Je suis grande pour une femme, du moins suffisamment pour passer pour un mannequin si un contrat le demande, mais il me domine d’une tête. Avec le gros anorak qu’il porte, il prend presque toute la place dans l’entrée.

Toujours sans dire un mot il ferme la porte derrière lui et s’avance vers moi. Instinctivement, je recule, j’ai l’impression d’être une proie traquée.

― Bonsoir, Yulia, murmure-t-il en s’arrêtant quand nous arrivons dans la pièce principale. Son regard pâle fixe mon visage. Je ne m’attendais pas à vous voir comme ça.

J’avale ma salive, mon pouls s’accélère.

Même si Julian me déteste en ce moment, j’ai besoin de lui. J’ai trop besoin de lui pour pouvoir le laisser partir un jour.

Je me bats comme si c’était une question de vie et de mort, comme si celui qui me tient était mon pire ennemi et non pas l’amour de ma vie. Je me bats parce qu’il a la force d’affronter la rage qui est en moi. Parce qu’il a la force de m’en soulager.

Je te donnerai tout au monde, mon chat. Tout au monde, pourvu que tu sois à moi.

Elle ne réagit pas, mais continue a me regarder. Elle n'a pas besoin de dire quoi que ce soit. Nous nous comprenons parfaitement. Je sais que je tuerai quiconque la touchera, et elle le sait aussi.

"C’est le soir maintenant. Chaque minute qui passe accroît mon anxiété à la pensée de revoir mon ravisseur.

Le roman que je lis ne m’intéresse plus. Je l’ai posé et je tourne en rond dans la pièce.
Je porte les vêtements que Beth m’a donnés tout à l’heure. Ce n’est pas ce que j’aurais choisi de porter, mais c’est toujours mieux qu’un peignoir de bain. Un panty sexy en dentelle blanche et un soutien-gorge assorti, voilà mes sous-vêtements. Et une jolie robe d’été bleu qui se boutonne sur le devant. Étrangement, tout est exactement à ma taille. Est-ce qu’il m’a espionnée pendant un certain temps ? Et tout appris de moi, y compris la taille de mes vêtements ?

Cette pensée me rend malade.

J’essaie de ne pas penser à ce qui va arriver, mais c’est impossible. Je ne sais pas pourquoi je suis convaincue qu’il va venir me voir ce soir. Peut-être a-t-il tout un harem dissimulé dans cette île et rend-il visite à une femme différente chaque jour de la semaine comme le faisaient les sultans."

Prisoner. Captive.

With Lucas’s heavily muscled weight pinning me to the bed, I feel that reality more acutely than ever. My wrists are restrained above my head, and my body is invaded by a man who just showed me both heaven and hell. I can feel Lucas’s cock softening inside me, and my eyes burn with unshed tears as I lie there, my face turned away to avoid looking at him.
He took me, and once more, I let him. No, I didn’t just let him—I embraced him. Knowing how much my captor hates me, I kissed him of my own accord, giving in to dreams and fantasies that have no place in my life.
Giving in to my desire for a man who’s going to destroy me.
I don’t know why Lucas hasn’t done it yet, why I’m in his bed instead of strung up in some torture shed, broken and bleeding. This is not what I expected when Esguerra’s men brought me here yesterday and I realized that the man whose death I thought I caused was alive.
Alive and determined to punish me.
Lucas stirs on top of me, his heavy weight lifting slightly, and I feel the cool breeze from the air conditioning on my sweat-dampened skin. My inner muscles tighten as his cock slips out of me, and I become aware of a deep soreness between my legs.
My throat constricts, and the burn behind my eyelids intensifies.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I repeat the words like a mantra, focusing on keeping the tears under control. It’s harder than it should be, and I know it’s because of what just transpired between us.
Pain and pleasure. Fear and lust. I never knew the combination could be so devastating, never realized that I could soar right after being plunged into the abyss of my past.


I never imagined I could come mere moments after remembering Kirill.
Just thinking of my trainer’s name makes the knot in my throat expand, the dark memories threatening to well up again.
No, stop. Don’t think about that.
Lucas shifts again, lifting his head, and I exhale in relief as he releases my wrists and rolls off me. The prickling sensation behind my eyes recedes as I take in a full breath, filling my lungs with much-needed air.
Yes, that’s it. I just need some distance from him.
Gulping in another breath, I turn my head to see Lucas get up and remove the condom. Our eyes meet, and I catch a hint of confusion in the blue-gray coolness of his gaze. In the next moment, however, the emotion is gone, leaving his square-jawed face as hard and uncompromising as ever.
“Get up.” Lucas reaches for me and grabs my arm. “Let’s go.” He drags me off the bed.
I’m too shaky to resist, so I just stumble along as he marches me down the hallway.
A few moments later, he stops in front of the bathroom door. “Do you need a minute?” he asks, and I nod, grateful for the offer. I need more than a minute—I need an eternity to recover from this—but I will settle for a minute of privacy if that’s all I can get.
“Don’t try anything,” he says as I close the door, and I take his warning to heart, doing nothing more than using the toilet and washing my hands as quickly as I can. Even if I could find something to fight him with, I don’t have the strength right now. I’m drained, both physically and emotionally, my body aching nearly as much as my soul. It was too much, all of it: the brief connection I thought we had, the way he suddenly became cold and cruel, the memories combined with the devastating pleasure.
The fact that Lucas took me even though he has that other girl, the dark-haired one who spied on me from the window.
My throat closes up again, and I have to choke back a sob. I don’t know why this thought, of all things, is so painful. I have no claim on my captor. At best, I’m his toy, his possession. He’ll play with me until he gets bored, and then he’ll break me.
He’ll kill me without a second thought.
You’re mine, he said as he was fucking me, and for a brief moment, I thought he meant it. I thought he felt as drawn to me as I am to him.
Clearly, I was wrong

A thin film of moisture veils my vision, and I blink to clear it from my eyes. The face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror is gaunt and starkly pale. Two months in the Russian prison took their toll on my appearance. I don’t even know why Lucas wants me right now. His girlfriend is infinitely prettier, with her warm complexion and vibrant features.
A hard knock startles me.
“Your minute’s up.” Lucas’s voice is harsh, and I know I can’t delay facing him any longer. Taking a breath to calm myself, I open the door.
He’s standing at the entrance, waiting for me. I expect him to lead me back, but he steps into the bathroom instead.
“Get in,” he says, pushing me toward the shower. “We’re going to wash up.”
We? He’s coming in with me? My insides clench, heat spreading over my skin at the image, but I obey. I don’t have a choice, but even if I did, the memory of my showerless weeks at the Moscow prison is still horribly fresh in my mind.
If my captor wants me to take five showers a day, I’ll gladly do so.
The shower stall is big enough to accommodate both of us, the glass enclosure clean and modern. In general, everything about Lucas’s house is clean and modern, completely different from the tiny Soviet-era apartment in Moscow where I used to reside.
“Your bathroom is nice,” I say inanely when he turns on the water. I don’t know why I choose this topic of all things, but I need to distract myself somehow. We’re in the shower, naked together, and even though we just had sex, I can’t stop staring at him. His sharply defined muscles bunch with every movement, and his heavy sac hangs between his legs, where his semi-hard cock is glistening with traces of his seed. He’s not the only man I’ve seen naked, but he’s by far the most magnificent.
“You like the bathroom?” Lucas turns to face me, letting the water spray hit his broad back, and I realize I’m not the only one aware of the sexual charge in the air. It’s there in the heavy-lidded gaze that travels over my body before returning to my face, in the way his big hands curl, as if to stop themselves from reaching for me.

Là où le peuple partait pour la guerre, demeuraient des sentiers amers…

Le Kourkouréou refroidi s’ensabla, une mousse vert foncé et orange poussa sur les blocs erratiques découverts avec les bancs de sable. Un tendre petit saule nu rougit aux gelées précoces, mais les peupliers conservaient encore d’épaisses feuilles jaunes.

Le vent apportait de là-bas la senteur des pommes, les miels chauds du maïs en fleur comme un lait qu'on vient de traire, et le souffle tiède des fumiers séchés.
Longuement, s'oubliant lui-même, Danïiar chanta. Se tenant coite, la nuit d'août l'écoutait, charmée. Et jusqu'aux chevaux qui avaient voilà déjà longtemps pris un pas mesuré, comme s'ils avaient craint d'interrompre ce prodige.

Seulement, le bonheur, il dure chez qui conserve son honneur et sa conscience. Souviens-t’en ! Respecte-toi !

Et la nuit était une splendeur. Qui ne connaît les nuits d’août avec leurs étoiles lointaines à la fois, et proches, extraordinairement brillantes ! Chaque petite étoile est en vue. En voilà une, comme engivrée sur ses bords, qui n’est que scintillation de petits rayons glacés, du ciel sombre elle regarde notre terre avec un naïf étonnement.

" Alors? Contente des prestations fournies à bord?"

" Najah, Vous exprimez avec votre sabre la quintessence..."

" Bienvenue en république populaire de Chine, Najah CRUZ!..."

" Najah, Habille-toi! Le grand jour est arrivé. Ton bienfaiteur veut te rencontrer!"

" Ils lui ont collée 20 ans de taule... Enfoirés de Russkofs!!"

" Est-ce un compliment ou une mise en garde, Monsieur PALPATINE?"

" De leader à maman... Coyote rapporte les colis à la nursery! Je répète..."

"007... Faut oser utiliser un code pareil !!"

The two men in front of me embody danger. They exude it. One blond, one dark—they should’ve been polar opposites, but they’re similar somehow. They give off the same vibe.
The vibe that makes me go cold inside.
“I have a delicate matter I’d like to discuss with you,” says Arkady Buschekov, the Russian official beside me. His faded, colorless gaze is trained on the dark-haired man’s face. Buschekov says it in Russian, and I immediately repeat his words in English. My translation is smooth, my accent undetectable. I’m a good interpreter, even if that’s not my real job.

“Go on,” the dark-haired man says. Julian Esguerra is his name, and he’s a big-time arms dealer. I know that from the folder I studied this morning. He’s the important one here today, the one they want me to get close to. It shouldn’t be a hardship. He’s a strikingly handsome man, his eyes blue and piercing in his darkly tanned face. If it weren’t for that chill-inducing vibe, I’d be genuinely attracted to him. As it is, I’ll be faking it, but he won’t know.
They never know.
“I’m sure you are aware of the difficulties in our region,” Buschekov says. “We would like you to assist us in resolving this matter.”

I translate his words, doing my best to conceal my growing excitement. Obenko was right. There is something brewing between Esguerra and the Russians. Obenko suspected as much when he heard the arms dealer was visiting Moscow.
“Assist you how?” Esguerra asks. He looks only vaguely interested.
As I translate his words for Buschekov, I sneak a glance at the other man at the table—the one with blond hair cut in a short, almost military style.

Lucas Kent, Esguerra’s right-hand man.
I’ve been trying not to look at him. He unnerves me even more than his boss. Thankfully, he’s not my target, so I don’t need to feign interest in him. For some reason, though, my eyes keep being drawn to his hard features. With his tall, powerfully muscled body, square jaw, and fierce gaze, Kent reminds me of a bogatyr—a noble warrior of Russian folk tales.
He catches me looking at him, and his pale eyes flash as they lock on my face. I quickly look away, suppressing a shudder. Those eyes make me think of the slivers of ice outside, blue-gray and freezing cold.
Thank God he’s not the one I need to seduce. It will be much, much easier to fake it with his boss.
“There are certain parts of Ukraine that need our help,” Buschekov says. “But, world opinion being what it is right now, it would be problematic if we went in and actually gave that help.”
I swiftly translate what he said, my attention once more on the information I’m supposed to retrieve. This is important; this is the primary reason I’m here today. Seducing Esguerra is secondary, though likely still unavoidable.
“So you would like me to do it instead,” Esguerra says, and Buschekov nods as I translate.

“Yes,” Buschekov says. “We would like a sizable shipment of weapons and other supplies to reach the freedom fighters in Donetsk. It cannot be traced back to us. In return, you would be paid your usual fee and granted safe passage to Tajikistan.”
When I convey the words to him, Esguerra smiles coldly. “Is that all?”
“We would also prefer it if you avoided any dealings with Ukraine at this time,” Buschekov says. “Two chairs and one ass and all that.”
I do my best to translate the last part, though it doesn’t sound nearly as punchy in English. I also commit every single word to memory, so I can convey it to Obenko later today. This is exactly what my boss was hoping I’d hear. Or rather, what he feared I’d hear.
“I’m afraid I will require additional compensation for that,” Esguerra says. “As you know, I don’t usually take sides in these types of conflicts.”
“Yes, so we’ve heard.” Buschekov brings a piece of selyodka—salted fish—to his mouth and chews it slowly, looking at the arms dealer. “Perhaps you might reconsider that position in our case. The Soviet Union may be gone, but our influence in this region is still quite substantial.”
“Yes, I’m aware. Why do you think I’m here right now?”

Esguerra’s smile is reminiscent of a shark’s. “But neutrality is an expensive commodity to give up. I’m sure you understand.”
Buschekov’s gaze turns colder. “I do. I’m authorized to offer you twenty percent more than the usual payment for your cooperation in this matter.”
“Twenty percent? When you’re cutting my potential profits in half?” Esguerra laughs softly. “I don’t think so.”
After I translate, Buschekov pours himself some vodka and swirls it around the glass. “Twenty percent more and the captured Al-Quadar terrorist remitted into your custody,” he says after a few moments. “This is our final offer.”
I translate his words and sneak another glance at the blond-haired man, inexplicably curious to see his reaction. Lucas Kent hasn’t said a word this whole time, but I can sense him watching everything, absorbing everything.
I can sense him watching me.
Does he suspect anything, or is he simply attracted? Either way, it worries me. Men like that are dangerous, and I have a feeling this one may be more dangerous than most.
“We have a deal then,” Esguerra says, and I realize that this is it. What Obenko was afraid of is coming to pass. The Russians are going to get the weapons to the so-called freedom fighters, and the clusterfuck in Ukraine will reach epic proportions.
Oh, well. That’s Obenko’s problem, not mine. All I need to do is smile, look pretty, and translate—which I do for the rest of the meal.