He would not ask the others. Gretchen and Saya were too fragile right now and to ask them to revisit their past was abhorrent to him. There was also the fact that Bone was his. He owed her and their reckoning was coming.
He inhaled deeply and the phantom taste of apricots slid down his throat. That’s what her flavor reminded him of…sugared apricots. Sweet. Addictive. They had been a treat in his youth. Dmitry cursed and slammed his snifter down.
Dmitry did his damndest to push aside his recollections of how her skin smelled and how her breath tasted. He also fought the pull of his past, pushing it as far down in his soul as he could. He concentrated instead on the women dancing around him, bodies synced to some Russian techno-pop blasphemy. They were shells, their emaciated bodies starved for more than food, and nothing like the killer who moved him in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge. The scent of unwashed flesh replaced the sweetness of his memories and he was brought back to his present situation.
Ah, yes. His main reason for being here—Boris Yesipov. The Russian hooked the women on drugs, fed them to his men, and then laughed as they were chewed up and spit out. Bright blue, red, and yellow lights washed them in a garish glow, ripping away their humanity, and leaving skin-clothed skeletons.
One of Yesipov’s women ran her hand down Dmitry’s arm, attempting seduction, her gaze hard with the knowledge that if she failed, she’d be giving up her life. Dmitry was here on Trident business and Boris Yesipov didn’t tolerate failure. It was her job tonight, her one and only job, to seduce Dmitry. If she didn’t see that through, tire him out for the visit Anatoly would pay him later, she would be executed.
Perhaps it would be merciful given her present circumstance. It mattered not. If Yesipov thought Dmitry an easy mark, he had no idea who he was dealing with and it was a mistake that would cost him dearly.
Dmitry tossed back a shot of vodka, relishing the burn and tapping the table for another. His homeland had the very best vodka. It was the only thing he missed about the country he’d been raised in.
He allowed the smile that slashed his face just as he allowed her touch. There was a game to be played here, but all the while his eyes followed the woman striding confidently to the stage. Her hair was hidden tonight by a pitch-black cap of hair. The ends swung around her golden skin, skimming those fragile, rounded shoulders. The choppy black strands were a sacrilege. He much preferred the long, curling sunlit brown tresses natural to her.
Her gaze landed on him, skirted sideways as her lips curved sensually. The lights dimmed and for a second he wondered if he was hallucinating. Maybe it wasn’t her—but, yes, it was. He should never have doubted. No one else affected Dmitry quite so. The eyes that haunted his dreams were simply veiled in electric blue contacts.
Her smile seemed designed to let him know their game was on. Regardless, the shock of her presence danced over his skin, raising the hair at his nape. He downed another shot and shrugged to himself. He was done playing with her.
He’d been so close two weeks ago—so close to tranquilizing her and getting her back to Virginia. She’d eluded him once again there along the edge of the ocean in San Sebastian, Spain. The women of First Team were crafty. Bone the most elusive of them all.
Maybe tonight was his chance. Perhaps he could kill Boris and capture her. Maybe fortune would shine on him. There were many possibilities to the outcome he was so invested in.
The woman beside him lowered her touch to his crotch. His distaste was immediate, her fingers like grasping bones but still he allowed it. Boris watched closely, smiling.
Eat, drink, and be merry, he’d told Dmitry earlier. And in Dmitry’s heart the need for retribution burned. It had taken everything in him to not slice the man’s carotid, leaving the bastard to bleed out.
The only thing reining him in? Caution. He wouldn’t give his hand up so easily. He might be here on Trident business but always there was the prospect he’d catch up to Bone. Gretchen and Saya were concerned for their sister. She’d killed Minton but her rage, the horribly deep well of it, hadn’t been appeased. They were worried she was spinning out of control and being unable to reach Blade, the only one who’d ever been able to truly get through to Bone, they’d requested Dmitry track her.
He’d learned little about her from her sisters, but what he managed to glean from their stingy information was that they considered Bone the strongest of them all. Not simply in form, but in how completely she’d succumbed to what Joseph had trained her to be.
Ubiytsa. Killer.
Her sisters’ fear had held a scent, and it was the stale aroma of self-limiting awareness. Dmitry had read more in what they hadn’t said than what they had. If Bone shattered, the others would follow suit and Joseph would win.