THE SOLDIER

Pavel crouches to place both guns on the floor then stands, holding both hands in the air. Again, not his first rodeo.

The police run to the door, guns drawn. “Get down on your knees,” one of them shouts.

I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but Pavel understands perfectly. He kneels, hands still carefully held in the air.This text is © NôvelDrama/.Org.

“It’s not him!” the clerk protests loudly, maybe even more upset than I am. “It was them,” he points at the guys on the ground.

“Yes, it was them,” I raise my voice in indignation.

Pavel’s not upset, though. He’s been through this before. Knows what to do. His face still wears the hardened mask. He definitely looks like he’s been on the wrong side of the law more than a few times.

“Nobody move,” the cop advises.

Pavel

“So you’re the hero.” The police officer who finally uncuffs me says it with total sarcasm. He’s run my ID. Sees my tats. Knows what I am.

“No.” I turn to face him and adjust my sleeves.

I saw this shitstorm coming the moment I got involved, but I had no choice. Now our evening is ruined.

Possibly more than our evening. Maybe this was what needed to happen to slam some sense into Kayla. Make her see I’m not the guy she wants as her boyfriend.

I see the way she looks at me now… like I’m a monster.

I should embrace it. Instead, the need to soothe her has me itchy and raw. I’ve been on police lock-down for more than forty minutes now as they got everybody’s story and figured out what was what, and I’ve had to watch my little flower leaning against the counter like her legs won’t hold her up.

I still want to kill the mudak who grabbed her. It would be a long, slow, bloody death.

“Where’d you learn those skills?” the cop asks, even though he must already know. If not from my ID, then from the tattoos on my knuckles.

“Russian military,” I say gruffly. It’s partly true. They began my training.

“Uh huh.”

I beckon to Kayla, only half-certain she’ll come. Whether she’s still my slave. “Am I free to go?”

“Yes.” I barely hear his answer because the relief that rips through me when she practically flies across the floor and into my arms makes the room spin.

I kiss the top of her head and rub her back. “Let’s go, blossom. Did you get your eyedrops?”

“My eye drops!” she exclaims and whips her head around to look toward the counter.

The clerk holds the bag up for her. He has mistakenly decided I’m the hero in this scenario.

I’m not. I’m the avenger. Only for Kayla.

We don’t speak as we walk back to the Four Seasons. When we’re in the elevator, Kayla peers up at me.

This is it. I brace myself for a serious question or comment. How many men have I killed? What other crimes have I committed? Because she’s seen with her own eyes that I’m not the good guy.

“If that guy hadn’t grabbed me, would you have still disarmed them?”

I have to tell her the truth because she needs to hear it. She needs to know what I am. I shake my head. “No, malysh.”

She blinks those baby blues at me. Gospodi, those eyes!

I try to explain. “I knew what a cluster that would be. How long it would take-it ruined our night. If we could have just walked out of there without being a part of it, wouldn’t you have preferred that?”

She hesitates a moment then nods. “Yes.”

The elevator doors open, and she steps out. I stand there a moment, digesting her unexpected agreement. But then, she’s always agreeable. And it nearly always shocks me.

She turns, waiting for me to come out. “What does malysh mean?”

“Baby.” I step out and touch her cheek.

She doesn’t pull away-a good sign.

There’s something different about Kayla, for sure. A steel beneath her softness that isn’t usually there. Half of me thinks we’re galloping swiftly to our end, but I can’t be sure.

Maybe she’s still digesting what happened.

Despite my idea that this is the moment that could-should-end it all, and that I should welcome that outcome, my desire to fix this-to scoop her into my arms and hold her like we’ve just finished a particularly intense scene sizzles and pops beneath my skin.

“Pavel?” There’s a little pop of her lips on the “P” that makes me think of how badly I want those lips open around my cock, and then my name comes out like a little puff of air. “Master?” she corrects.

“Da?” I loop an arm around behind her back and pull her up against my body.

Her lips tick up when I speak Russian, like she thinks it’s hot or something. “Can you… can we…”

I cock my head. I’m good at reading people, but I have no idea where she’s going. I can detect lies; I can’t read minds. “Say it,” I command in no more than a whisper.

She swallows like she’s nervous to ask me.

“What do you need, malysh?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

I don’t wait. I tuck my forearm under her hips to boost her up and carry her, straddling my waist toward our hotel room. I’m still trying to decipher why she hesitated to ask. “Did you mean just fuck you?”

She nips my earlobe. “Please, Master.”

I manage to extract and tap the keycard against the handle then kick the door open. “How do you want to get fucked?”

“Hard. Rough. Underneath you.”

I set her down and peel off her dress. She’s flushed, her hair tousled.

The ugliness of the convenience store seeps away. Maybe the night’s not so ruined.

“You want missionary sex.”

She checks my face, and when she sees I’m teasing, gets flirty, “Yes, but with a very rough missionary.”