Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
His jaw tightened as Sable set foot on the deck. He was in his office onboard, one hip braced against the desk. Damn her for looking so small and vulnerable when he knew the opposite was true.
Against the vastness of his yacht, anyone would look small, he reassured himself.
But not so familiar.
Was that any surprise? They used to move like twin cogs in the same machine, seamless, balanced, unstoppable.
Seven years of believing her dead had ground that connection to dust. All he felt now was resentment. If she failed to convince him this mission was worth his attention, she could sort out her own fucking mess—
“Sir?”
“A moment, please.”
The steward retreated. The quiet click of the door left him to contemplate a past he’d spent years burying.
Sable moved as if she owned the ship. Head high, shoulders loose, her gaze scanning the corners the way they used to scan rooftops together.
Every line of her body was a memory he’d tried to burn out of his blood.
Shifting position to ease the sudden pressure on the placket of his jeans, he let out a short, harsh laugh. Remembering how good they’d been in bed, or on a mission, was a pointless exercise. Seven years of iron control had taught him not to feel a damn thing.
Oh, yeah? Thirty seconds of Sable Alexandrovna on his deck had him hard enough to hammer steel.
Part of him admired her grit in coming to confront him—
Fuck, no.
Fuck, yes. She was a formidable adversary, lover, ghost. One glimpse of her in tight jeans and that goddamn baseball cap turned him into a weapon with the safety off.
He resented the hell out of the way she made him feel, his skin prickling as if she were already touching him.
Resented how his hands remembered the exact weight of her hips and how his mouth knew the taste of her throat when she came undone.
Resented that his body didn’t give a damn that she’d put him through a living funeral—
A discreet knock on the door jolted him back to the present.
“Sir?”
He drew a breath and forced his shoulders to relax. “Send her in.”
His erection throbbed in brutal agreement.
No one knew better than he that emotion was a liability. Being dumped in a shop doorway as a child might have something to do with that. Foster homes only cemented his belief that nothing lasted and no one could be trusted. Sable had proved it when she disappeared without a word.
He’d trusted only two women. The first was Mara, a young girl a couple of years older than him who had shielded him in one of the worst hellholes he’d ever encountered.
Starvation and beatings had been the least of it.
Fending off the sickening attention from both “mother” and “father” in that foster home had kept him pretty busy too.
Sable also had a rough history, most of which she kept back, he suspected, but that early pain was the glue that brought them together.
Whatever her past, Sable had managed to find the bright side of life.
She made him feel things he’d never experienced: fun, laughter, and light in the dark place they both inhabited.
That made her betrayal doubly inexcusable.
Enough reminiscing. It was time to interrogate the disruptor-in-chief.
* * *
The Seraphim was breathtaking. Her first impression was luxury taken to the nth degree, but the tingle down her spine suggested this was misleading. It was Elijah’s vessel, after all.
Light poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing pale oak, brushed steel, and low, sculptural furniture in muted grays and creams. Gorgeous.
And this was just the entrance. Low sofas dressed in linen and cashmere were in the best possible taste.
A faint scent of cedar and the ocean pervaded the air.
Everything was high-end, classy, and understated.
On closer inspection, she spotted hidden seams and invisible hinges—
“Ms. Alexandrovna”
“My apologies.” There was just enough time to assess a series of panels too perfectly aligned to be mere decoration. She’d have given anything to know what lay beneath. Best guess? They concealed the vessel’s true nature.
Best guess? Reinforced compartments housing tactical equipment. The Seraphim might be a sanctuary on the surface: calming, elegant, and exquisitely refined, but beneath the pale wood and quiet beauty throbbed the hull-deep hum of a battleship.
“The Grand Salon.”
Her escort had paused to make the announcement.
No wonder he felt he had to comment. The space was incredible.
Turning slowly, she took in the soft cream kidskin seating, black marble surfaces, and the abundance of crystal goblets, safely stored in secure glass cabinets above the bar.
The Grand Salon was designed to impress.
It was easy to picture heads of state, oligarchs, and other mysterious clients with deep pockets and deeper problems standing exactly where she stood now.
She’d still bet her life that the Seraphim’s deadliest fangs remained hidden.
The escort cleared his throat.
Taking the hint, she followed him to a lower deck, where luxury gave way to silence. The layout was sparser and more practical. The only sound was the faint hum of the engines. No crew was visible, yet the prickling awareness of surveillance suggested she was being watched.
Cameras everywhere, she reminded herself. And, somewhere close by, a control room where her every move would be monitored.
Elijah’s army was probably cleaning rifles, studying maps and satellite images, or running drills behind armored doors. Brushing her hand across the wall’s smooth, cool surface, she could only guess at the number of sensors and bulletproof tech beneath.
Elijah left nothing to chance.
The Seraphim was an iceberg, glittering and showy above the waterline, but with a lethal killer instinct beneath.
Determination surged through her as she pictured the captives in their cells.
How different life was for them. Chains chafing their skin as they endured stench and terror, with no guarantee of a better future.
She would remain on Elijah’s yacht until she had his firm commitment to undertake the mission.
He’d have to set aside whatever he thought of her. Too many innocent lives were at stake.
They entered another, more populated part of the ship where tough-looking individuals in black tactical gear ignored them.
The closer she came to Elijah, the more apparent the Seraphim’s true purpose became.
His floating fortress was a perfect representation of one man’s indomitable will.
Complex and highly intelligent, who else could rise from squalor to create such a formidable force?
And then, to help as many people as possible, present the Seraphim, his most powerful weapon, as a spoiled billionaire’s playground.
Elijah was a master of deception, she remembered, pulse rising as she thought back to a mission when anyone but he might have sought shelter, safe in the knowledge that the danger had passed.
Not Elijah.
His first instinct was to set aside the fact that only minutes before, they’d been under fire, to twist his fist in her hair. Yanking her close, he turned her to face away from him. Removing whatever clothes were necessary to achieve his aim, he thrust deep with slow, deliberate strokes.
The filth that had poured from her mouth on that occasion…
Better not think of it now.
Thunderclaps had masked her cries of pleasure as his forefinger circled her clit with cruel precision.
Tightening his grip, he had insisted, “Not until I tell you.” Then he held her on the brink for what felt like forever.
When he finally growled, “Come now,” she had needed no encouragement.
Clenching around him, bucking like a bronco, she had both given and taken some of the best sex ever.
But once again, when it was over, she realized that he’d remained ice-cold throughout.
“Ms. Alexandrovna”
“Yep—” Hurrying through the door her companion had opened, she tried to stay focused, but with Elijah on her mind that was a struggle.
One she eventually lost.
Pristina: Kosovo’s largest city. Naked on the bed in their small apartment, with her wrists lashed to the headboard.
A single black candle cast a flickering shadow across Elijah’s face as he spread her wide.
His tongue was relentless as he held her open while she writhed and pleaded for release.
When he finally rose over her, his eyes were stern, demanding complete cooperation.
Braced, he entered her slowly and deliberately, making sure she felt every inch of him along the way. “Watch me,” he’d ordered, voice arctic.
He took her over the edge with deep, satisfying strokes. “Hold your legs wide,” he instructed at one point. “Concentrate—that place is your world.”
He knew how much she loved watching. How often had it been like that—no prep, no mercy, no emotion?
Could raw, animal possession ever be enough?
No.
Why had she tolerated such a cold, unfeeling man?
Because their roots were the same?
Yes.
They had been planted in the same barren patch. And she liked sex. She liked sex with Elijah. Her problem was that she loved him and doubted he could ever feel the same. He was the missing piece in a jigsaw unlikely ever to be completed.
That last night in Malta, while she was still recovering from amazing sex, he pulled out and set her down like discarded gear, then turned away to strip his weapons.
“Nearly there—”
“What? Oh, sorry…” The wake-up call from her escort was another reminder that memories of Elijah were dangerously distracting and that being here had nothing to do with reconciling with a man as cold as he was deadly.
It was purely business.
Anna’s wide-eyed terror flashed into her mind, along with silent processions of lost souls on their journey to hell.
No one else had the manpower and know-how to free them.
Guilt twisted inside her at the thought of being distracted on a personal level when she needed Elijah for very different reasons now.
“Sable—”
She should have been prepared for this. Hearing his voice sucked the air from her lungs. Spinning around, she lifted her chin to face him. A sinister sight, as dark and rough as his voice, danger wrapped Elijah in lethal stillness.
“Welcome to the Seraphim.”
“Elijah.” She sounded so matter-of-fact. Well done, me! He was everything she remembered from the cathedral and more: broad-shouldered, cold-eyed, with no softness in his posture or manner.
Recovering quickly, she gestured around, “This is impressive. It’s good of you to agree to this meeting.”
“It’s a fucking miracle,” he snarled.
“Since I’m dead?”
Ignoring her, he led the way down a stark, unadorned corridor.
The business end of the vessel was exactly as she had suspected: functional and fortified.
He opened a door to a large, high-tech office where monitors glowed and the air hummed with intent.
“May I?” she asked, tipping her chin toward the screens.
“Go ahead.”
She moved past him. Too close. His scent curled around her, warm and clean, hitting her senses like a punch.
“Since you’re here, you might as well make yourself comfortable.”
Every tiny hair on the back of her neck stood on end as he came to stand behind the chair she chose. Arms folded, remote, he was a living testament to everything she’d lost.
“Okay?” he demanded brusquely when she shivered involuntarily.
“I’m fine.” She made the mistake of meeting his gaze.
He read her instantly. His stony expression was the best reminder yet not to drift into sentiment.
Whatever they’d shared was ash. Straightening her spine, she plunged in.
“If the situation I’ve uncovered weren’t dire, I wouldn’t bother you with it. ”
“You’d have stayed dead?”
The scorn in his words cut deep.
Worse, they were true.