26. Rafi
26
RAFI
A t her insistence, and above my protestations, we’ve come back to the shelter so Tayana can pick up a few things and check the cameras, hoping we’ll find a clue – anything that can help us identify who attacked her place of work. She seems to think it was her uncle, but I’m still not convinced it was her uncle. Why now? Why here? Why even?
The only reason she can give me is the possibility that he found out what she was doing and this conflicted with his own interests. It seems a stretch at best, but I’m humoring her; the shelter is surrounded by our men flanking every corner of the property as we settle behind her desktop and she logs in to the cameras.
I glance over at her. Her eyes are scouring the screen, trying to narrow down the reel to the date and time in question. The angle of her jaw is tight, her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line.
Her hand tightens on the mouse, her knuckles whitening, her focus fixed on the screen. Her indifference feels rehearsed, but I let it slide for now. Instead, I follow her gaze, watching as the Russians go back and forth, as though searching for something.
“What are they even looking for?” she hisses, zooming in on a box being carried out by a soldier in fatigues. She pauses, and her lips part in surprise before she cocks her head and flicks the screen to the image of another soldier.
“Is there anything here you’ll miss?” I ask, trying to give her an answer.
“Everything in there is backed up to a secure server that’s impenetrable,” she says with a small, tight shrug. “Good luck to them if they think they’re going to find anything.”
“What are you looking at?” I ask, as she snaps from soldier to soldier, blowing up the images for a closer look. She keeps her eyes planted firmly on the cameras as she speaks.
“Definitely not Igor’s men,” she says finally.
“How can you tell?”
“These men are wearing a uniform. Custom fatigues. See?”
She points to what looks like a logo on the leg of one of the men’s pants, then the next. It appears they’re all wearing them. A star with the profile of a lion’s head on either side of it. I’ve never seen it before.
“That’s a little…unconventional,” I point out.
“This logo is very specific. Igor doesn’t like labels. Definitely not his men.”
“So who does it belong to, then?”
She shrugs her shoulders and I lean back, crossing my arms as I study her profile. “Tell me why you hate your uncle so much.”
Her posture stiffens slightly, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she keeps her gaze on the screen, carried away by her thoughts.
“He hurt me, Rafi,” she says after a beat, her tone clipped. “I’d rather not cut open old wounds, if you don’t mind.”
Her words are final, a line drawn in the sand. But her voice falters just slightly at the end, enough to reveal the weight she’s carrying.
Before I can push further, the shrill ring of a phone shatters the taut silence between us. Tayana stiffens, pulling the device from her pocket. The phone’s new, codified and secure—I made sure of that after the attack on her shelter.
“It’s my father,” she says, her eyes darting to the screen before flicking up to meet mine.
I nod toward the corner of the room. “Take it. I’ll wait here.”
She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the phone like it might combust. Then, without another word, she moves away, her steps deliberate and quiet as she answers the call.
I keep my eyes on the screen, but my mind is on Tayana. Her reluctance to speak about her uncle, the way her shoulders carry a weight that seems older than her years—it’s a puzzle I can’t help but want to solve.
From the corner of the room, her voice is low, her tone measured. “Yes, Papa. I’m safe.”
She paces as she speaks, her words soft but strained, like each one is carefully chosen to hide what’s really going on. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, the way her free hand curls into a fist and releases with each step.
There’s a vulnerability to Tayana in this moment, one she tries so hard to mask. And as much as I respect her need for privacy, I can’t shake the feeling that her past—her uncle, her father, all of it—is the key to understanding her.
When the call ends, she doesn’t return to her spot by the window right away. Instead, she leans against the wall, her head tilted back and her eyes closed, like she’s bracing herself for something.
“How’d it go?” I ask gently.
Her eyes flick open, and she exhales slowly. “It went.”
I nod, deciding to let it rest—for now. But the questions linger, hanging in the air between us like a vaporous cloud.
I approach her, tentative steps that close the space between us. I haven’t touched her since that day at the lookout, before everything went to shit, but my hands itch with the desire to be on her. She’s unmoving as her eyes follow me until I’m standing in front of her. So close, yet too far.
I want to touch her. My hands clench and unclench at my sides, burning with the desire to reach out and feel her. Taste her.
The tension between us crackles, a live wire strung too tight. Her eyes lock on mine, daring me, testing me, but her body stays motionless. She’s as still as a statue, but I can see the storm brewing behind her cool facade. Her lips part slightly, drawing my gaze down, and I’m hit with the memory of how they felt against mine, how they tasted.
She shifts her weight, one hip jutting out just enough to make my gaze drop for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her face. I can’t stand it anymore. The push and pull, the game we’re playing—it’s killing me. My hand moves before I can stop it, my fingers brushing against her arm. Her skin is warm, softer than I remember, and she doesn’t pull away.
Her breath hitches, just barely, but it’s enough to embolden me. My hand slides up her arm, across her shoulder, until my fingers are in her hair, tangling in the silky strands. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment before snapping back open, defiant and blazing.
The tension between us is suffocating, electric, and I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips as my other hand moves to her waist. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into me, her body betraying her.
Her lips part, but no words come out. Instead, she grabs the front of my shirt, pulling me to her with a force that sends my blood roaring in my ears. Her mouth crashes into mine, and all the tension, all the anger and desire and frustration, explodes between us.
The world narrows to just the two of us—her heat, her taste, the way her body moves against mine like she was made for me. I press my hips against her, and she moans, the sound going straight to my already hard cock.
I drop to my haunches, until I’m facing her crotch. I reach out and slide her panties slowly down her thighs, and she lifts her legs out of them. I lift the fabric to my nose and inhale deeply, her scent an intoxication that almost knocks me off my feet. I slip her panties into my pocket, my movements deliberate, never breaking eye contact. When I finally lift my head, her gaze meets mine—half-lidded, smoldering, and full of unspoken heat.
My hands palm her thighs as I move forward, pinning her to the wall. I inhale more of her scent, before I dart my tongue out and lap at her juices. I lift one of her legs, hooking it over my shoulder to open her up further, giving me full access to her pussy. She gasps as I devour her, alternating between long, slow strokes and rapid flicks of my tongue. Her body trembles, the wall behind her bearing the weight of her surrender.
Her moans grow louder, echoing in the confined space. I glance up, catching the way her head thrashes side to side, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to catch her breath. Her nails dig into my scalp, pulling me closer, as though she can’t get enough.
The taste of her, the way her body responds to me—it’s addictive. My fingers slip between her legs, joining my tongue as I slide two inside her, curling them into that zone that’s bound to tip her over the edge. Her hips buck, her cries spilling out unchecked as I work her closer and closer to the edge.
Her thighs quiver against my shoulders, and I feel the tension in her body snap. She shatters, crying out my name as she clenches around my fingers. I hold her through it, unrelenting, my mouth and hands drawing every last ounce of pleasure from her.
When she finally collapses against the wall, her breathing uneven, I rise to my feet. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her lips parted, her face flushed and glowing. Without breaking eye contact, I bring my fingers to my lips, tasting her once more, and her breath hitches.
“You’re insatiable,” I tell her, and my hand slides up her thigh again, teasing, already aching to pull her back under once again.