20 Chapter 20

There was no denying it.

His obsession for his wife had grown. He should have known that tracking her every movement over a two-year time span would fuck with his brain. He was already programmed from birth to become a hunting, killing machine. Following her across the globe, ferreting her out of each new hideout had been infuriating, yes, but if he were to admit the truth, it had also been a rush. The exhilaration of the hunt.

He'd known all along it would have to end in her death. He'd been raised from birth with the certain knowledge that some things must simply be. The truth of his existence was one of those things that could not be discovered by an innocent. He was a ghost, working in the shadows. Yet he could not end her. It was the first, and only, thing in his life that he had been incapable of following through on. This knowledge did not bother him. Much. He no longer had superiors to answer to. Only himself. And he would somehow reconcile this lapse of judgment. Natasha must die. Yet, he could not kill her. He would have to live with the contradiction. And so would she. Though by the time he was done with her, she may well wish for the alternative.

He had never seen Natasha cry before this night. She'd always been so happy and full of life. If something made her sad then he fixed it. The sight of her tears bothered him in a way he found disturbing. And David usually killed things he found disturbing. Damn woman was fucking with his head.

He watched her sleep from the shadows next to the bed. Reaching over, he flicked the blanket away from her slumbering form, careless of waking her. She didn't even remotely stir, perhaps too tired from their earlier activities. The towel she had gone to bed wearing had loosened from around her small, rounded breasts, slipping low over the creamy swell. Her hand was curled in a loose fist by her shoulder, as though she had been clutching the fabric of the towel tightly to her breast until sleep finally claimed her. Her other hand was pressed against her silken cheek. A habit she'd always had, he remembered. It made her innocence glow like a beacon.

Anger simmered. A feeling he was not used to, except with his young wife. Somehow, she managed to melt the ice in his veins. Only her, only Natasha could bring out his baser instincts. Anger, jealousy, possessiveness. Emotions he despised.

He flicked a long, dark lock of hair from her face so he could see her treacherous visage. She flinched in her sleep, eyelashes fluttering against porcelain skin, but still she did not wake. She was not innocent. If she were innocent she would not have been able to run and hide as effectively. Had someone hidden her from him? Taken her in and helped her escape her husband as he stalked the globe searching for her, leaving no stone unturned? With her rare beauty and grace, it was easy to imagine her appealing to a man's primal protective instincts. What man wouldn't claim such a woman? There could be no other explanation. It was not possible for a woman of Natasha's inexperience to hide from a man used to hunting and murdering people, often persons with mafia links and far more experienced than this small, helpless creature at evading capture. She must have had help disappearing.

Fury ripped through David's chest, igniting his mind with images of his wife repaying such generosity with the only form of currency she would have available. She had fled the hotel in Versailles with only the clothes on her back. How had she survived? Where had she gone? Who had she gone to?

It was the last question that had him finally reaching for her, his mind filled with only the need to discover the answer. The need to punish and possess. The desire to wipe away the two empty years she had forced on them when she'd run away from him. It didn't matter that if he'd found her hiding in the shadows that night he would have, in all likelihood, turned his gun on her, thus separating them forever. It didn't matter that training from birth demanded cold logic in all instances. For once in his life, scalding fury spilled over. And he would have it no other way. He wanted his wife under his hands, to do with what he pleased.

She came instantly awake as he descended, two years of fear and fight or flight instinct kicking in. Too late. As she tried to rear up in the bed, her beautiful blue eyes wide with panic, he wrapped one hand around her neck and slammed her back against the pillows, covering her small curves with his unyielding body. The towel fell away to leave her naked and vulnerable against his much larger, clothed frame.

"David!" she whispered in confusion, struggling weakly against his tight hold, her lips moving frantically to shape his name.

He clenched his fingers still further, allowing her to feel the tensile strength within. Fear flashed across her lovely face, twisting her lips. His cock hardened between her thighs and he had to stop himself from rocking against her. He should have resented the desperate need to fuck she brought forth in him. He'd been raised a machine. Yet, she was the single anomaly in his life. The one toy that he'd wanted bad enough to risk distraction. He should hate her for drawing these reactions from his body without permission. Except he knew from the moment he saw her that his dancer would always do this to him. She had only grown more beautiful over time, blossoming with curves and confidence. Where once she had been ethereal, almost untouchable, now she was irresistible.

He needed to remember the anger. His reason for waking her. Fucking his wife could wait a few minutes, until he was satisfied with her answers. His dark eyes caressed her fearful features, taking in the soft cheeks, the sweep of her fluttering lashes, the terror clouding her jewel-like eyes. She shook beneath him, her fists coming up protectively for a second before he shoved them down and settled his heavier frame more securely against hers. He loved the new softness of her curves. He could feel the peaks of her tight little nipples rising up against him through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"I am going to ask you questions, Natasha," he said calmly, his voice dripping with ice. "It will be in your best interest to answer promptly and truthfully. Nod if you understand, my love."

Her breath caught for a moment and she watched his face with unbridled fear. After a moment, she jerked her head forward and then back in a quick nod, knocking her chin against his fingers where they flexed against the slim column of her throat. The fear - it was what he thought he wanted from her. Yet for some reason he felt unsatisfied. As though it wasn't enough or he wanted something else from her. Something he couldn't define.

He gave himself an internal shake and called up the soldier once more. It didn't matter what he thought he wanted. It was enough that he was allowing her to live. He needed answers and his wife needed to learn obedience. They would have to find a way to continue, together, if she were to survive by his side. He frowned and forced himself to move forward on the path he had started when he woke her. Forced himself to rekindle the anger.

His dark eyes met hers, penetrating her, daring her to lie. "Why did you follow me that night in Versailles?"

A tremor ran through her body, hard enough to shake even his heavy frame. She opened her mouth to answer him, but the hand around her throat prevented her from speaking. Her eyes pleaded for mercy. He had none to give, but he eased his grip enough that she could draw in a deep breath and give him the answer he sought.

"I thought you were with another woman. I-I couldn't stand the thought and decided to see for myself," she whispered the words quickly, dropping her gaze.

David was so startled he nearly dropped his hand from her throat. Another woman? The very idea was absurd. Before Natasha, women had been few and far between. They were nuisances and only served a single basic purpose when he was feeling so inclined. Usually after a kill, when his adrenaline was high. Once he'd acquired a wife, other women became no longer necessary. Yet, gazing down at his young wife, he could well imagine the lines along which her immature, sheltered brain would have thought. Her older, well-traveled husband often disappeared at odd times of day and night without explanation, expecting his young, obedient wife to simply wait for him. He should have realized, eventually, curiosity would have gotten the better of her. It was such a simple, ridiculous, cliché explanation that David almost wanted to kick his own ass for his stupidity.

He shook his head and gritted his teeth, glaring down at the woman that had ended their happiness on one idiotic move. "We made love twice that night, Natasha. How do you think it was possible for me to go from your insatiable bed straight into the arms of another woman?"

It took a few seconds, but understanding flared bright with a lovely blush to stain her cheeks. She stammered, "I-I wasn't thinking. Just th-that you kept leaving without telling me where you were going. I was jealous and I wanted to know where you were going."

He sighed deeply and shook his head. "Well you found out, didn't you?"

She nodded her head miserably, knocking her chin against his hand once more. Memory etched itself across her expressive features and he knew she was replaying the terrifying moment he had put a bullet in the brain of Peter Vronsky, a paid hit and the reason for their unexpected trip to France. The hit had started out like any other. He'd followed the mark through the chilly streets, following him from the local pub where Peter had imbibed his final drink and was heading back to his flat. David had turned the corner behind him into a narrow roadway with no traffic. He had been in a bad mood that night, annoyed at having to leave Natasha's luxurious arms to do the bidding of a faceless boss. Rather than making the hit a swift one, he'd allowed this victim to see it coming. He'd given Peter a chance to beg for his life, thus giving Natasha a chance to see the man plead pathetically before David had put a bullet in his heart and as he fell, another in his head.

David frowned, his dark eyes flickering over her anguished features as the memory terrorized her. "I never saw you," he murmured, his face darkening in confusion. "I see everything."

"You didn't look up," she whispered. "You crouched next to him. Ch-checking him f-for something. I don't know what. I just turned and ran after after you"

She couldn't finish and he didn't insist. He remembered now. He had been tasked with sending Vronsky's wallet to the person who'd ordered the job. A sort of prize, perhaps. Or maybe there was something in the wallet. David didn't particularly care. He'd completed the job, lifted the wallet and walked calmly away from his kill, never hearing the patter of a young dancer's feet as she fled into the night. If he had, then he might have caught her. Might never have lost those years.