Sophie Oak - Found in Bliss

And the final insult had been the fact that he’d been left alive for one reason and one reason alone. His family would pay for his return. His privilege, a thing he’d spent his whole life trying to deny, had been the only thing that spared him.

His stomach gnawed with hunger. His family wouldn’t even recognize him anymore. He’d become more animal than man. He survived day to day, but it no longer meant anything.

Still, his breath caught in his chest as he heard a tiny creak that let him know someone was moving in the room outside his cage. He shrank back, the hard feel of the wood behind his back a comfort.

What would they do this time? They’d beaten him. In the early days, he’d been somewhat useful. They’d forced him to play doctor. He’d stitched up their soldiers, some who couldn’t be more than nine or ten. He’d dug bullets out and performed surgeries that turned his gut when he thought about the horrific circumstances surrounding them. He’d put the boy soldiers back together and sent them out to kill some more.

Things had changed in the last few weeks. His hands shook too much. He was too weak. He was starving and losing his will to fight.

Was this the moment when they got rid of him?

“I’m in. No sign of the target.”

The voice was quiet, almost silent. Caleb had to strain to hear, but what he heard was English. Unaccented English.

“Two Tangoes down.”

Tangoes. Military, and not the ragtag group that had taken him. American military.

The door jiggled quietly, the lock holding. And then an amazing sound. A little snick that let Caleb know the man on the other side of the door would make a halfway decent thief.

“Dr. Caleb Sommerville?”

Burke. He’d gone by his mother’s maiden name for years, not wanting to trade on the Sommerville influence. Now it didn’t matter. He nodded his head. No one would have sent in a special ops team to save Caleb Burke. Caleb Sommerville was another story. His brother, the senator, could perform miracles. It was surprising that Eli would bother. He had to know that Caroline was dead. Caroline, who had been carrying Eli’s child.

“Is there anyone else?” The question was quiet coming out of the soldier’s mouth.

In the deep gloom, a single ray of moonlight cut into the small shack, illuminating his savior’s chiseled features. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a square-cut jaw marked the man who reached down to untie him. This was the way he spent most of his time now, bound in a box, only taken out a few times a day to eat and use the latrine.

“Only me. Everyone else is long dead.” His voice sounded raspy. His throat felt like he’d gargled sand. He’d given up talking long ago.

“Can you walk?”

He nodded and fought back a groan as the blood started circulating into his hands again.

“Excellent. My name is Lieutenant Meyer. I’ll be your rescuer today. This rescue of your person is brought to you by the United States Navy and SEAL Team 8. We hope you have a nice rescue, and please feel free to fill out the questionnaire at the end of the trip. Tips are welcome.”

Lieutenant Meyer had a strong sense of snark.

“Sorry, my CO says my sarcasm will get me killed one day. Let’s get you out of here while they’re too drunk to notice we’re leaving. And you can just call me Wolf.”

Lieutenant Wolf Meyer put a hand out and hauled him up. It was the first human contact he’d had in months that didn’t cause him to shrink back.

Twelve hours later, he was on a plane back to the States, the knowledge deep in his heart that he would never feel at home again. They could take him to the States, but he’d left his soul behind.

Moscow, Russia

Eight months ago

Alexei Markov stared at his partner, Ivan, his mind not quite processing the news.

“We leave for America tomorrow,” Ivan said. He slapped at the small table they sat at, nearly disrupting the vodka shots in front of them.

“America?” He said the word, tasting it on his tongue. It was bittersweet. Even all these years later, he could still remember his brother, Mikhail, talking about how their lives would be when they made it to America. Back then, Alexei had dreams of becoming a professional hockey player. Those dreams died when Dimitri Pushkin had his brother killed. A new dream had been born that day. A dark dream.

“Don’t you see? This means we’re moving up. If Pushkin trusts us to handle his American business, it won’t be long before we’re his right-hand men.” Ivan was grinning, though no amount of mirth could make the man look happy. Ivan looked like what he was—a stone-cold killer.

Is that what he would look like years from now, after he’d had his revenge? The longer he pursued this path, the more he questioned himself.

No. He was too close to his goal. He would not give it up because he had suddenly developed a conscience. Ivan was right. It was good that they had been selected to go to America. It meant he was one step closer to standing in a room with Pushkin and delivering his brother’s revenge.

“What are we supposed to do?” Pushkin had many business interests in the United States. He had dealings with mobsters, drug lords, politicians. All of the disgusting bottom-feeders.

Ivan snorted. “We have to pick up a painting and bring it back. We’re supposed to meet with someone in Dallas. How funny is that? We can go and be cowboys.”

Pick up a painting? That sounded far too simple. “Something sounds wrong.”

“You worry too much, Alexei. Nothing is wrong. The boss likes paintings. He’s always trying to impress people. I don’t understand it. I wouldn’t pay for a painting a child could do. Have you seen the man who puts paints on his pig’s feet? He has the pig run across the canvas and then sells it as art? Most of the pig’s work is better than the stuff the boss collects.”

Alexei had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Ivan wasn’t the most cultured of men. “Is this painting by someone famous?”

“How am I supposed to know? All that matters is that Pushkin wants the painting. We’re to get it and deliver it to him ourselves.” He slapped at the table again. “I’m telling you, Alexei. This is our time. We will meet with the man himself. A private interview. You’re good with people. I’ll handle the killing. You can handle Pushkin.”

Alexei leaned forward. So far he had managed to work his way up in the organization with fairly clean hands. He’d killed mobsters, of course. Many. Each one had been a killer in his own right. He worried that to move into the inner circle, he would have to take innocent blood. The thought brought bile to his throat. “Why would there be killing when all we have to do is pick up a painting?”

“There is always killing, my friend.” Ivan hoisted his glass. “Drink with me, Alexei. To America, where our dreams come true.”

His dreams had died long ago. The need for revenge was the only thing that pushed Alexei Markov forward now. He picked up his glass. Long ago, he and his brother had talked about the women they would marry in America. He’d been young, but he’d dreamed of a lovely American bride, with a sweet smile and soft, feminine ways. Silly dreams. He wouldn’t have that woman.

America wasn’t his home. He no longer had one.

The lights of the party seemed to flare and focus like a spotlight on the man in front of him. Like he needed anything to highlight the disaster happening right in front of his face. He felt his heart seize, a cardiac episode just waiting to happen. Acute myocardial infarction. Yep. That was what was happening. He was about to have a fucking heart attack, and he knew just who to blame.

“No.” He said the word. He said it a lot, but this time he really, really meant it. Caleb Burke watched as that big Russian stood over sweet Holly, his dark eyes promising all manner of comfort, and he just knew he wasn’t ready to let her go.

Of course, he also wasn’t ready to take her.

Fuck.

“No?” Alexei turned to him, seeming to notice for the first time that he wasn’t alone with Holly. The Russian had walked into the reception hall where Stefan Talbot and his new wife, Jennifer, were hosting their wedding party. He’d marched in like he owned the place and zeroed in on Holly.

Alexei looked the same as he had months before, but it was easy to tell he had changed. There was a relaxed set to his shoulders he hadn’t had the last time he was in Bliss. But then the last time Alexei Markov had been in Bliss, it had been as a member of the Russian mob.

“Get your hands off her.”

“My hands are entirely to myself.” And Alexei still had trouble with English.

“Caleb, what’s wrong?” Holly asked, her face turning to him. Wide green eyes stared up at him in confusion. She was so gorgeous. Every time she looked at him, he felt it straight in his gut. And his cock. Damn it. He had to turn away from her.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Caleb couldn’t take his eyes off the Russian. It was nothing less than the truth, though he had selfish reasons for pointing it out. “You’re supposed to be in witness protection.”

Alexei shrugged, his eyes going back to Holly as though her very presence was a magnet he couldn’t avoid. “I told you. The trials are over. All the men who worked with Pushkin have been put in the proper jails. I finish my testimony last week. I am here today. I am free man.”

Free? After everything he’d done? Alexei Markov had blown into town eight months before as a mobster. Just because he’d turned state’s witness and saved Jennifer Waters and Callie Hollister-Wright didn’t give him a free pass. He tried not to think about the fact that the Russian had saved Holly, too. He’d thrown his own body over hers, taking the bullet that would have ended her life. It didn’t erase the crimes he’d committed before. “You killed a bunch of people, and they just let you go free?”