Page 34 of Lethal Torture
A glass box with a chair inside and screens on either side.
I pull back on the oars with a burst of power I didn’t know I had, urging the scull even faster.
Zinaida spreading her legs like it’s business as usual, eyes as dead as a winter lake.
The air explodes from my lungs in an audible rush, the scull creaking under the pressure of my stroke.
Her glistening, swollen folds pulsating onscreen in my peripheral vision.
The blades slice out of the water, and I come forward in the seat, trying to master the sudden, fierce surge of lust.
Zinaida Melikov’s fingers curling inward on her palm like a fan closing as she loses control.
One oar catches so hard I almost upturn the goddamn scull.
That was it. Those folding fingers were her tell.
That was the moment I saw her.
The boat spins and tips. I recover my balance and start stroking again, but the flow is broken. I ease oar just after Westminster Bridge and pull my knees up, resting my elbows on them, breathing hard. My body is as wired as if I were geared up for a mission.
Except I’ve never gone to war with a hard-on so relentless it’s painful.
Truth is, I’ve barely fucking slept for seeing Zinaida with her legs spread, staring at me like I don’t exist.
Not only because it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Because, in that tiny curl of her fingers, I saw her mask slip.
It was barely a split second, the briefest loss of control. Zinaida recovered herself so fast it might never have happened.
I’m willing to bet most men wouldn’t have noticed.
But then, I’m not most men. I’m trained to see what other men don’t.
And in that moment, I saw past the dead eyes. Past the performance, the mask, the game.
I caught a glimpse of the woman who lives behind the masquerade.
And now I can’t stop thinking about her.
The air around me shifts and I freeze, my entire body alert with the second sense that has saved me a hundred times or more in the field. My eyes scan the water, but nothing moves.
Even so, there’s something. A flicker just out of sight. A ripple on the still air.
Zinaida.
I can feel her, as surely as if she were standing right in front of me. But the morning is still and silent, the docks empty.
Jesus, Luke.I shake my head.She’s got you jumping at fucking shadows.
I turn the scull around and start homeward at a quieter pace, trying to shake off the strange feeling.
Once a week at a minimum I push myself to do the entire round trip at speed, but this morning I want some time to think.
I have questions.
Like, for example, what exactly was Zinaida’s little performance all about last night?
