Page 59 of Twisted Fate

KONSTANTIN

A muscle in her jaw ticks, but she nods, watching me warily.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asks softly. “Why not take me back to your father?”

The question hangs between us, and I don't have an answer I'm willing to give—not to her, not even to myself.

"Shower," I repeat instead, my voice firm. "We'll talk after."

She holds my gaze for another moment, then turns and walks toward the bathroom, scooping up the duffel bag on the way, her shoulders straight, her head high. Even now, even as my prisoner, there’s a strength and grace in her that’s intoxicating.

I hear her footsteps going down the hall, and then the sound of the bathroom door closing behind her, the lock clicking into place. It won't keep me out if I want in, and she knows it. But I’m not surprised that she wants the illusion of privacy.

There’s no window large enough in the bathroom for her to escape out of.

Still, I stalk down the hall, pacing, waiting for the sound of the water to shut off, to make sure that she doesn’t try to escape out of another room.

All of the windows are locked, and they’re difficult to break, but I wouldn’t put anything past Valentina.

Valentina . I’m still not entirely sure that she’s telling me the whole truth about her name, but after she’s given it a second time, I’m more inclined to think that it might really be her name. The one she goes by, at least.

I pace back to the living room, feeling exhaustion starting to creep in as the adrenaline that’s been carrying me finally starts to ebb away.

I try not to think about her slender body naked in the shower, soap gliding down her skin, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders.

I try to ignore the way the image makes my cock start to swell, my body still hungry for her despite everything she’s done.

My wife. My prisoner.

Valentina Kane.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and pace down the hall and back again.

The bathroom door opens after nearly thirty minutes, releasing a cloud of steam into the main room. I turn to look, and my breath catches in my throat despite myself when I see her.

She’s wearing a pair of jeans that I grabbed for her, a loose-cut pair with the ankles rolled up, and an overlarge T-shirt.

If it’s meant to make her seem disarming, it’s not working—clothes aren’t enough to make me think that she’s not dangerous.

And if it’s meant to make her seem unsexy, that’s not working either.

I know everything that’s under those clothes.

Her wet hair is slicked back from her face, emphasizing her large eyes and high cheekbones, and she still looks as beautiful as she always does.

There’s nothing about her that could change that.

Desire throbs through me, and I clear my throat, taking a step back.

"Feel better?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

She gives a small nod, hesitating at the threshold of the bathroom door. I can see the calculation in her eyes, the assessment of the space, of me, of her options. Always thinking, always planning.

I gesture down the hall. “Back to the living room. Take a seat.” My tone brooks no argument, but I wonder if she’ll try anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me. She’s been remarkably compliant so far, which feels like a trap.

Or maybe she just knows she’s lost. Somehow, that thought makes my chest feel hollow.

She walks ahead of me into the living room, sinking back into the same armchair gracefully, perched on the edge as if preparing to move at a moment’s notice. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything that’s left unsaid.

"Tell me everything," I finally say, standing across from her, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace. A stupid thing to have in a house in Florida. "Start with your real name."

Her chin tilts up, a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "I already told you. Valentina Kane."

“So you’re sticking to that.” I pause. “Is your father Nicholas Kane?”

She hesitates, as if I’ve posed a question she doesn’t quite know how to answer. Finally, she lets out a slow breath, drumming her fingers on her knees. “He’s not my father,” she says finally.

“But you are associated with him?”

She nods.

"As what? His personal assassin?" The bitterness in my voice is unmistakable. I’ve been lied to. Tricked. I feel like something was stolen from me, but it’s something that never really existed.

Her eyes meet mine, and strangely, I think I see a hint of that same bitterness reflected there. "Yes."

The admission feels like a blow to the chest, more painful than I’d expected. The pieces were all there, but having her slot them together so neatly, so simply… I swallow hard, shifting tactics for a moment.

“How many?”

There’s a flicker of surprise in her gaze; she hadn’t expected the change in questioning. “How many…?”

“How many people have you killed?” I clarify.

She shrugs. “I don’t keep count.”

“Most assassins do.”

She snorts, the most personality I’ve seen from her since she woke up. “Serial killers keep count of their kill lists, Konstantin. Military snipers, maybe, so they can feel confident about how long something is, at least. I don’t bother.”

I study her face, looking for signs of remorse, of regret. I can see a tiredness in her eyes as she speaks, but no shame. This is who she is, and she’s not ashamed of it.

"And I was just another job," I say flatly. "Another name on your list. One that you’d forget, apparently, since you don’t keep track." Somehow, that feels even more insulting.

Her mouth twitches, and for the first time, I think I see a hint of regret in her face. There’s a long moment of silence before she answers. “At first,” she says finally.

"At first," I repeat. The words taste like ash in my mouth. "And then?"

She looks away, and I see her throat move. “You know the rest.”

My jaw tightens. “No, I don’t. Tell me, Valentina. When did I stop being just a job ?” I see her flinch when I say her name, and again at the sarcasm in my voice at the end.

“I don’t know. I—” She breaks off, and I can’t help thinking that she sounds like she’s being honest. But how can I believe her?

"Was any of it real?" I demand, leaning forward. "Any moment, any word, any touch—was any of it not part of your mission?"

Her gaze flashes, a spark of that fiery defiance that makes my own body respond every time. “What does it matter, now?”

My chest tightens. She’s holding something back, something that would lower her defenses, make her vulnerable. But I want to see her soft underbelly. I want her vulnerable to me.

“Telling me the truth will make things easier on you.”

“Will it?” Her chin lifts. “I should have made my call by now. Kane will know I failed. He’s going to come looking for me.”

“And you don’t want him to find you. Not alive, and having failed him.” It’s not a question, and I see the flicker of fear that haunts her gaze for a moment. Not long, but she’s not the only one who can read people. “I doubt he’s the forgiving type.”

“And you are?” she shoots back. I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“Which monster do you want to appeal to, Valentina? The one who hired you, or the one who married you?”

Her teeth scrape at her lower lip. I decide to change tactics, for the moment.

"Why didn't you do it?" I tilt my head slightly. "You had plenty of opportunities. Before the wedding. At the resort. Why tonight? Why not before?"

She presses her lips together, and I see her fingers curl against the upholstery of the chair, see her gaze briefly dart around the room, as if she’s sizing up any possibility of escape.

“You made it hard to get to you,” she admits.

“I planned to do it in bed, after…” She breaks off.

“But you wouldn’t fuck me. And then, when I started trying to think of other ways, other assassins kept getting in the way.

It felt like a bad joke, honestly. That night with the waiter… ”

I don’t say anything. I remain still, as if I’m trying not to spook her. She’s talking now, and I want to hear what she has to say.

“I was going to poison you,” she says finally. “But I saw the waiter coming toward us, and I realized he had a gun. I was going to do it on that overnight in the savannah, and the guide tried to kill you. And then…”

She draws in a slow breath. “Then you finally came to my room. I was going to do it after, but you left. And when you came back, there was Elia. You had more security after that. And I?—”

She breaks off again. Her throat works, and I can see she’s fighting herself, fighting what to say.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Konstantin?” she asks abruptly, anger flashing in her eyes.

“For me to say I wanted more? That you fucked me, and I couldn’t get enough of you?

That I was relieved when Kane called me and told me to go back to Miami with you, to hold off on the hit?

And that then…” She stops, her cheeks flushed, the pulse in her throat visibly fluttering.

My chest aches, a hollow feeling in the center of it.

“Is that the truth?” I ask quietly, and she holds my gaze before giving the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

I should feel some sense of satisfaction. Triumph, even, that this woman’s goal to kill me was waylaid by how well I fucked her. That I made her want me badly enough to question her mission. But all I feel is that hollowness, an emptiness opening up inside of me like a cavern.

"Tell me everything," I say finally, my voice lacking some of the harshness it had before. "From the beginning. I want to know why Kane sent you to kill me."

She presses her lips together before letting out a long, slow breath. “The contract was Kane’s,” she says finally.

I look at her impatiently. “I know that. Kane is a broker. I want to know why someone asked him to?—”