13 Chapter 14

Natasha stiffened. He circled around so he could see her face, but she refused to lift her chin and give him her eyes. She trained her gaze on the floor in a subservient pose. He knew better. He could tell from the stiffness of her spine, the compression of those lovely full lips and the confused resentment radiating from every fiber of her being that his wife was in no way submitting to his position of authority over her.

He leaned slightly, allowing his finger to trail across her bare shoulders, catching slightly on the rougher fabric of her leotard. "I think we both know, Natasha. But I want to hear you say the words." His voice was thick, filled with lust and danger.

She flinched, jerking her body away from his questing fingers. Her shoulder twitched, lifting a little in defiance. "Stop it, just stop touching me," she growled, anger and desperation lacing her tones. She jerked her chin away, keeping her face averted from him, still pretending submission when they both knew better.

He squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself from grabbing her roughly as he longed to do. He needed answers and if he laid hands upon her, he would kiss her again. And this time he wouldn't stop. He would do so much more. He took a calming breath through his nose and released it, removing his hand from her shoulder. He circled in front of her and dropped into a crouch, tilting her chin up with his finger. She glared daggers at him, giving lie to her meek little pose.

"But you like it, my love," he drawled, reminding her of the first time he'd forced her to enjoy his touch. She flinched and her breaths became shallow as his words hit home.

"Now," he said, his face so close to hers that their breaths mingled, "you will tell me why you ran away from me or I will kill all of the people you have befriended in this quaint little city, starting with your friend Regan Taylor who works with you and lives at 910 Attenby Crescent. Then I will continue down the line through your other co-workers. You will notice I do not mention your friend Jordan Kent? This is because his life was forfeit the moment his hand touched what was mine. No amount of pleading on your part will change his outcome."

Her mouth opened in a soundless protest, horror etching her lovely features as realization cracked any rebellion she wished to show him. He touched her bottom lip, lightly scraping his thumb along the tender skin that he'd ravaged. The blood was beginning to congeal. He touched the blood between his thumb and his forefinger and rubbed it, right in front of her face, showing her exactly how helpless she was. He listened with pleasure to the way her breath quickened as he outright threatened her friends while subtly threatening her very life. Yeah, he was a sick bastard. He was raised at the knees of cold-hearted murderers, taught emotions by the hands of men with death in their eyes and empty space where a conscience should be.

"Talk, now," he said coldly, allowing her to see the flat death in his gaze, "or your friends die."

Her eyelids dropped suddenly, shutting him out, as if in protest. But she began speaking, her voice a soft whisper, her words a rush of sweet sound to ears starved for the dancing chords of his woman's voice. "I left because I was scared. I s-saw you kill someone, David. Oh god! I thought I was next!"

He watched her face, remembering back to the kill he'd made two years ago.

"So, you got scared and decided to run away from me?" he asked.

"Yes!" she said desperately.

"Where did you run to, dancer?" he asked, using his old nickname for her, absently running his thumb across her jaw as he tried to picture what she must have seen the day that she'd followed him.

"Vienna at first" she admitted with no hesitation now. She seemed to understand that he would get the information anyway, probably already knew, and this was the easiest way. "I took the train from Barcelona. Then I went to London. Then Houston. Then Calgary. Some places in between. Always cities. Places where I could get lost easier."

He continued to play with her, rubbing his thumb across her jaw, down her neck and back up. It could have been soothing, except they both knew better. His hands played across the pulse point that controlled her very life, like a master assessing her worth. "And how did you get to these places? You left your passport behind and no woman using your name traveled by the usual methods."

She seemed to be having some trouble catching her breaths. Each one was a little more labored than the last as she struggled to hang on to the thread of the conversation while not falling apart completely beneath the terrifying, dominating specter of her brutal, deadly husband as he hovered over her, demanding answers. David could almost feel sorry for his tiny wife as she lost her defiance under the shadow of his encroaching darkness. She had somehow, someplace taken care of herself for two years. Built herself up to a level of independence, even learning to defend herself. And in the space of a few minutes, her deadly, masterful Russian husband crushed any illusion of defiance she might have had in her pretty little skull.

"I knew you would trace me," she whispered, catching him by surprise.

He arched an eyebrow and, unable to help himself, ran his thumb once more over her soft cheek. "Did you now?"

She nodded and gave him everything. There didn't seem to be any point in holding back now. "I worked off the grid, in hotels, as a maid, other jobs. I made enough money to buy a passport and a ticket to the states. Once there, I did the same thing until I could make my way to Canada. I-I thought I could lose you up here."

David brought his face down to hers, his eyes glacial now. "You knew I was following?"

"Yes," she confirmed, eyes carefully averted. "I always knew when you were getting closer. I never once saw you, but somehow, I knew you were always one step behind me. I knew I would have to run away again."

"Until here, until Canada," he growled, a frown creasing his brow.

She nodded quickly, sending the wisps of her hair dancing around her head. Against his will, his eyes followed the movement. "I decided to try and build a life here. I didn't think you would find me. I was hoping, maybe, you would finally give up."

As if compelled to make her understand his possession, his need of her, David bent over and bit her hard on the shoulder, marking her with his teeth. He stopped just short of drawing blood. "Never," he snarled against her flesh as she cried out and jerked against him. "I will never stop looking for you and I will never stop making you pay for running from me."

He saw her eyes flicker to his shoulder holster, the guns glinting in the dim lighting of the gym. He wondered what she thought. Was she planning a rebellion, an escape attempt? It would fail, obviously. But a part of him relished the thought of her trying. Pitting her meagre skills against him. He wanted to subdue his wife. Subjugate her. It was clear the past few years, running from city to city, had taught her new skills. Had taught his Natasha new facets of herself, like how to survive while running for her life. She was still quiet and reserved, but the tiny spark that had always existed within her, buried deep, had flared brighter with each new identity she'd been forced to create. With each hard, new reality, she had learned to rely on herself. She had become tougher, more independent. And an independent woman didn't kneel at a man's feet.

Though well hidden under layers of reserve and ice, David could feel the heat of her anger, her rebellion. Fuck, if it didn't turn him on like nothing else ever had. His wife was proving even more irresistible than the first time he'd set eyes on her as she flew across the stage, captivating audiences of thousands at the Bolshoi.

David swiftly unholstered one of his guns and placed the muzzle against the side of her head. She flinched a little at the brutal feel of metal against her soft skin, but she didn't even blink. Ah, his brave, beautiful girl. He didn't think he'd ever wanted her more. What a fucking pity he needed information more than he needed to bury his cock in that silken pussy he only had the shadow of a memory of.

He pressed his lips against her ear and said in clear, crisp Russian, "Tell me who hid you for two years, Natasha. I know you didn't do it by yourself. Tell me who you were fucking and I promise I will only kill him."

He desperately wanted her shock. Wanted to hear her gasp in denial and jerk away from him, disgust at his accusation bright in her gorgeous eyes. She did none of those things. Instead, she hid her face from him, turning her chin away. His heart turned to ice in that moment, the bloody, raw tendrils of rage clawing at him, guiding him in his actions.

He slipped his fingers around her throat and squeezed, his gaze and his thoughts dispassionate as her fingers flew to his, wrapping around his hand, pulling, desperate to breath. He knew there would be bruises. Knew that she was truly terrified for her life. He didn't care. He needed her fear. He closed his eyes, refusing to meet hers. He pressed the muzzle of the gun harder against her temple and kissed her lips hard while he pressed his thumb against her larynx, cutting off her precious air supply.

His lips tilted in a chilling smile as he felt the desperate wetness of her first tear touch his lip. The first crack. His cock twitched in anticipation while his brain screamed in triumph. Make her pay, make her cry and beg for every breath. Make her crawl to you and plead for her very life. She will know the pain of a long, endless life at your hands. Show her the horror that could be her future if she doesn't relent. Break her now and live in peace later.