Chapter 14
CINDY
The compound feels different under lockdown. Every guard is more watchful. It feels like everyone is holding their breath. Guards patrol in pairs now. Before, the guards kept their guns out of sight.
Not now.
It’s very clear they are armed and ready to kill.
I don’t carry the gun Luka gave me. It seems pointless. And cumbersome. And I don’t feel confident enough to have it around Leo.
Leo is in the schoolroom, and I’m bored.
In fact, it feels like I’m going stir-crazy.
I’m sitting on the leather couch in Luka’s study. The man insists I stay close. It’s both flattering and annoying.
I don’t know when things changed between us. It’s like I legit slapped some sense into him. Ever since that time in the garage, he’s just been different. The man gave me a gun. What kind of captor gives his prisoner a gun?
I’m not a prisoner.
I’m here willingly, and we both know it.
"Your Mustang's timing is still off. I’m going to work on it. Where are the keys?”
He looks at me. Then he nods, understanding exactly what I need even if I can't articulate it myself.
The garage is my sanctuary, my church of chrome and steel, where the world makes sense in terms of compression ratios and torque specifications.
He opens his desk drawer and stands.
He’s not wearing his usual suit. It’s like he’s dressed for battle. That’s just a little terrifying. He’s wearing black cargo pants and a black t-shirt. He looks like he could be special forces.
“I’ll help,” he says.
I hope he doesn’t think we’re fucking against his car again. No way. Not with the level of security roaming around this place.
I pop the Mustang's hood and gesture for him to start it up. The sound is like music to my soul.
I close my eyes and listen.
Luka moves to stand beside me. His arm brushes against mine. I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones, but I swear I can smell him from a mile away. It’s a good smell. The kind of scent that triggers a rush of hormones.
Fuck.
Between the purring engine and his scent, I could practically orgasm right then.
I shake it off.
No sex in the garage.
"Hand me the timing light," I say without looking up.
A few seconds later, his fingers brush mine for just a second.
"You don't have to help," I tell him, but there's no conviction in the words.
"Maybe I want to."
For the next hour, we work in companionable silence. He hands me tools without being asked, holds parts steady while I make adjustments, and listens when I explain what I'm doing and why. There's something almost meditative about it.
I know it’s doing wonders for my mood.
"Try it now," I say finally, wiping grease from my hands with an old rag.
He slides into the driver's seat and turns the key. The engine catches immediately, settling into a smooth, powerful idle that sends vibrations through the concrete floor. The sound is perfect—no more rough spots, no hesitation, just pure mechanical harmony.
Hot damn.
That’s good.
I’m good.
He revs the engine once, listening to the way it responds, feeling the power transfer through the chassis. When he looks at me, there's something like wonder in his expression.
"I didn’t even realize it was missing,” he says after he cuts the engine.
I shrug. “You’re not supposed to. I am. I’m a mechanic.”
He looks me up and down. I’m in another pair of yoga pants and a tank.
I know what he’s thinking. I don’t look like the typical mechanic. If I were back in the Tremaine garage, Drew would be giving me shit for my outfit.
But I’m not there. I’m here. With Luka. I’m with Luka.
The energy in the room changes.
I see the second he feels it.
Yeah, yeah, we’re in the garage, and anyone could walk in on us at any second. But he’s like a piece of chocolate that needs to be devoured.
He grabs me, fiercely kissing me.
Who knew a smooth-running engine could be such an aphrodisiac? Or maybe it’s the memories in this garage. It seems like I end up naked in here a lot.
I jerk at the hem of his shirt, lifting it until he takes over and pulls it off.
I pause a moment to really take in the sight of him in the bright lighting. My fingers trace over the L, and then the M. “Leo,” I say.
“Yes. My heart.”
I nod and run my fingers lower. The Russian letters. “What does this say?”
“God forgives. I don’t.”
That seems appropriate.
My fingertips brush across his skin.
The scars map his body like a roadmap of violence. Some are thin and precise, others jagged and brutal. I can see his story written on his skin.
There's one in particular that catches my attention. It’s a thin, vicious line that curves around his ribs.
It's old and well-healed, but the way it cuts across his torso suggests it came close to something vital.
I trace it with one finger and then bend forward to brush my lips over the white line.
"Who did this?"
He goes perfectly still beneath my touch, every muscle in his body coiling like a spring. For a moment, I think he won't answer and that he'll retreat behind that wall of silence he uses to keep the world at bay.
"A man I didn't kill fast enough."
The honesty in those words is powerful. Not because of what they reveal about his capacity for violence—I've always known what he's capable of—but because they're the first completely truthful thing he's ever said to me.
No evasion, no deflection, no careful omission of details. Just raw, unvarnished truth.
"How old were you?" I ask.
"Seventeen."
Shit. I thought I had it bad. Seventeen years old and already fighting for his life. I trace the scar again, imagining him as he must have been then. Younger, less careful, and definitely less experienced in the art of staying alive.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. His childhood, maybe. Or the world that carved him into something so hard there's barely any softness left.
He catches my wrist, stilling my movement. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make me human."
The words are barely audible, but they carry the weight of a confession. Because that's what this is, isn't it? This moment of vulnerability, of letting me see his scars and hear his truth. It's him admitting that, beneath all the violence and control, there's still a man who can be hurt.
“You are human, Luka. You can pretend otherwise, but I see it.”
He shakes his head. “And you? You pretend all the time.”
He’s not wrong. I shrug. “Maybe.”
“How did you end up with them?”
I know he’s talking about the Tremaine family.
“Long story.”
“Tell me.”
I sigh, knowing I’m not getting laid. "My mom got sick when I was nine."
The words taste like ash. I've never told anyone the whole truth—not even Charles knows everything. But standing here in Luka's garage, my hands still stained with grease, his scars bare under my fingers, it feels like the only currency I have to trade. Truth for truth.
"Sick?"
"Breast cancer." I trace another scar on his ribs, needing something to do with my hands. "She was a single mom. My dad split when she found out she was pregnant. It was always just her and me against the world."
I pause, remembering. The way she'd sing while fixing her beat-up Camaro. How she'd let me hand her tools, teaching me that women could fix anything—cars, problems, broken hearts.
"She lived hard. Loved harder." My voice cracks.
"She was clean most of the time, but not always.
The first time I went into foster care, I was three.
Some neighbor reported her when she went on a bender.
But she fought to get me back. Ninety days of meetings, piss tests, and groveling to social workers.
When she picked me up, she swore it would never happen again. "
I don't tell him how I believed her. How a three-year-old's faith in her mother could move mountains. How that faith slowly eroded with each relapse, each promise broken, until all that was left was love without trust—the most painful combination imaginable.
And then when she got sick, she struggled to take care of me.
I told no one, but the school called it in.
For two years, I was in and out of foster care.
She knew Charles. I think they probably had a thing back in the day.
She gave me to him sometimes. But then she died, and I was in foster care for good. It didn’t work well.”
“What do you mean?”
I was not about to get into that trauma.
“It just didn’t work. At twelve, Charles finally did whatever was necessary to be my foster. He never adopted me. At one point, the state pulled me from his care. I was sixteen.”
I pause, because that whole experience was devastating.
Luka takes my hand. The touch is all the encouragement I need to go on.
“After another bad foster home, I went through the process of getting emancipated. I did. Charles gave me a job in the shop. And I just never left.”
His thumb brushes across the pulse point at my wrist. He doesn’t need to say anything. It’s a sad story. Boohoo.
Everyone has one.
I don’t want his sympathy. I’m not twelve. I’m not that scared, little girl left all alone in the world.
"Boss?" The voice cuts through the moment of silence.
One of his guards—Roman, I think—stands in the garage doorway.
Luka doesn't step away from me, doesn't try to create distance or pretend nothing was happening. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on mine as he responds to his subordinate.
"What is it?"
"New intel came in. You're gonna want to see this."
"Five minutes."
It's a dismissal, clear and final, but Roman doesn't move immediately. His gaze flickers between us, taking in our proximity and the way Luka's hand is still wrapped around my wrist. Then he nods once and disappears back into the house.
"Go," I tell Luka, pulling my hand free. "This is important."
"Cindy—"
"Go. I'll be here when you get back."
He hesitates, then pulls on his shirt and leaves the garage.
I've become a master of deception these past two weeks. When the morning nausea hits, I blame it on Mac needing an early walk. When certain smells make me gag—like the cologne one of the guards drowns himself in—I claim allergies. The constant exhaustion? "Still adjusting to the schedule here."
Luka watches me sometimes with this look, like he's cataloging changes he can't quite name. Yesterday, he caught me with my hand pressed to my stomach, and I had to play it off as cramps. The concern that flashed across his face almost broke my resolve to keep the secret.
But I can't tell him. Not yet. Not until I figure out what this means for us—if there even is an "us" or if I'm just the captive who's carrying his child.
The small snacks help. I've hidden crackers everywhere—nightstand, bathroom, even the garage. So far, it's working. But I know it's only a matter of time before someone notices I can't stand the smell of coffee anymore or that I'm suspiciously avoiding the wine at dinner.
Luka finds me in the kitchen about thirty minutes later.
"I want to learn," I say.
"Learn what?"
"How to shoot. Correctly, I mean. Not just hold the gun and hope for the best." I meet his eyes, letting him see the determination there. "If I'm staying, I won't be helpless. If by some horrific set of circumstances I’m the one that has to protect Leo, I want to know how."
He nods. "You sure?"
"Dead sure."
The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might almost be a smile. "Tomorrow. Early."
The next morning finds us in the compound's private range. Luka sets up targets and then checks the weapons.
“Ready?” He picks up the gun he gave to me.
"Stance first," he says, positioning himself behind me. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight forward, like you're leaning into a strong wind."
His hands settle on my hips, adjusting my position. But there's nothing clinical about the way his touch makes my skin burn, even through layers of clothing.
"Breathe," he murmurs, his voice low and rough near my ear. "In, out, hold. Fire on the exhale, right at that moment when your lungs are empty and everything's still."
I try to focus on his instructions, but it's impossible to ignore the way his body cages mine. The heat radiating from his chest against my back is making my panties wet. His hands move to my arms, adjusting my grip, making sure my sight picture is perfect.
“Now,” he orders.
I pull the trigger, my arms jerking up.
"Again," he says when I miss the center ring. "Don't anticipate the recoil. Just let it happen. Relax. You’re too stiff.”
I do as he says. Inhale… exhale.
This time, the bullet punches through the target's center.
I can't suppress the small sound of satisfaction that escapes me. Behind me, Luka makes a noise that might be approval, but when I glance back at him, there's something hungry in his eyes that has nothing to do with marksmanship.
"Better," he says.
That familiar low growl of desire brushes over my skin.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I might shoot your toe off,” I murmur.
He mutters in Russian.
We continue for another hour, and I'm proud when I can hit the paper target consistently, even if my grouping looks like I sneezed while shooting.
"Better," Luka says when I manage to put three shots within the same general zip code. "You're anticipating the recoil less."
By the time we finish, I can hit a man-sized target at ten yards—what Luka calls "practical distance." My shots aren't pretty, scattered across the torso rather than clustered at center mass, but they'd stop someone.
"Twenty-five yards will come with practice," he says, packing up the weapons. "Most defensive shootings happen within seven yards anyway. You did good for a first real session."
I flex my sore hands, feeling the unfamiliar strain in my forearms. "How long before I'm actually good?"
"Depends on how much you practice." He gives me a look that's almost approving. "But you've got steady hands and you don't flinch. That's more than most can say after their first hour."
"Not bad for a beginner," Luka says as we pack up the equipment.
"Thanks for teaching me."
"Thanks for wanting to learn."