Stolen Jewel by Alexis Abbott

Stefan

Most of the time, I have very little issue sticking to my guns. Often, quite literally. The life the Bratva have carved out for me is not a gentle one. I have been trained for years to restrain myself when needed, and to unleash my full rage and force when the situation calls for it. I can look into the face of a battered, beaten man with no hesitation, no regrets even as the blood drips down his fearful features. I can interrogate him until he’s weeping for mercy at my feet and still have the capacity within myself to hurt him further if the situation calls for it. To pick at his armor and break him down slowly, shattering his willpower piece by painful piece. Bone by broken bone. I have wrung information out of human life, turned a seasoned career criminal into a hapless pile of bones and wasted potential.

To pick up a weapon and wield it without a shred of fear comes naturally to me. When I point a gun at an unlucky target, the weapon might as well just be an extension of my arm. It is just a metal limb with which to dispense death and atrocities. A part of me almost as integral as my calm, steady heart. There isn’t much these days that can rattle me. Not betrayal, not physical pain, not even the desolate loneliness of working for the Bratva. For an organization meant to be built around the idea of brotherhood, there is a lot of time spent alone, a lot of hours second-guessing and mistrusting the very men who would be my ‘brothers.’

It is a cold, callous way to live. I’ve stared into the wild eyes of dangerous, unhinged criminals, both within and outside of the brotherhood. I rarely feel even a flicker of fear for my own life. I can swagger into any situation, no matter how grim the circumstances, do my filthy work, and walk back out the same man I went in. A lot of the time, I feel as much disdain for the men assigned to work beside me as I do for the lowlife scum we are commanded to punish. I have learned again and again that no one, not even those closest to me, can be trusted. Every new person is a potential threat, so I have to sleep with one eye open all the time. That kind of constant vigilance can be exhausting. But it’s the only way I know how to live, and so I have made a home for myself among the bloodshed. I get as comfortable in the muck as I can get, but never too comfortable as to become complacent. It’s imperative that I keep on my toes. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when it inevitably does, I have to be ready for it. Guns a-blazing, no turning back. The blood on my hands is just part of the job, the lifestyle.

I may not have chosen this path, and in another life perhaps I would happily turn away from the obligations put upon me by Brusilov and every other boss I’ve worked under all these years. But in this reality, I have no choice but to accept whatever bloody fate assigned to me. Working for a man like Brusilov is not like any other job. I can’t quit. I can’t take time off. I certainly cannot turn down a mission once it’s given to me. To do so would be a breach of the unspoken contract that binds me to this dark underworld, and the Bratva are not kind to traitors. My boss holds not only my payment hostage, but my existence. There is no other option. I carry out my orders dutifully, leaving a trail of destruction in my wake.

So I should have known this assignment was going to be a departure from most of the work I normally do. I expected it to be a somewhat foreign territory for me, a different kind of mission at least on the surface. After all, I have spent my life and career hunting down slimy men, not kidnapping beautiful young women. For a long time, I have regarded women, children, other innocents as off-limits, the one area I refused to touch. The one category of human being I absolutely cannot degrade the way the Bratva asks me to. I evaded this kind of mission by excelling at all other kinds. My tactic has been to make myself indispensable, a master of my trade, in the hopes that it would be enough. But I should have known there would be consequences eventually.

The bosses know about my perspective on harming women. Even without my outright saying so, the ever-present eyes and ears of the brotherhood have collected enough tidbits of information to put it together: I have a weak spot. Victor Brusilov knows that, and it’s probably the main reason why he forced this particular mission upon me. If the bratva discovers a chink in your armor, they will poke it with a hot iron. They will draw it out and torture you, immersing you in the very thing you fear or despise most, until finally you are conditioned into obedience. Men like me don’t get the luxury of moral superiority. I don’t get to say no when my heart tells me something is wrong. If I don’t follow orders, if I don’t subjugate my target into oblivion, then it’s my neck on the chopping block instead. Hunt or be hunted. I’ve learned to accept that. I silence the storm in my heart and move on to the next target, rarely looking back over my shoulder. After all, there is no un-taking of a life. Hesitation is often the split-second difference between killing my enemy and my enemy killing me.

As horrific as it sounds, that is the world I’ve grown comfortable in.

Still, nothing could have prepared me for this. For Jewel.

In the nearly complete darkness of the bedroom in the safehouse, I have been watching the young woman sleep. Or at least, I thought she’s been sleeping. I assumed her soft sighs, the faint rustle of sheets, were signs of her tossing and turning in bed. I imagine the kinds of frightening dreams she must be having. I know perhaps better than anyone how the stress of reality presses its claws into the realm of dreams. You can never escape your own fear, not even when you’re unconscious. But Jewel is not asleep. She isn’t dreaming some fitful nightmare.

She’s touching herself. When I first noticed it, I was too shocked to respond. I never could have seen this coming. I’ve dealt with my victims sobbing, begging, wasting away under lock and key. I have learned to drown out the suffering, to ignore the pleas for mercy.

But never, in all my years of duty, have I had to contend with my victim’s sexual appetite. Never before have I watched a target slowly, seductively caress her own body with her free hand while the other hangs locked and bruised in a handcuff for which only I have the key. The implications of it all consume me as I sit in the darkness. My own body responds in kind, even when I try to quash the feelings. Lust bubbles up inside me. Desire makes everything hazy. Jewel makes my steady heart beat faster in a way nothing has before. Why is it that I can look death in the eye without a hint of palpitation, but a woman touching herself under the sheets is powerful enough to affect me?

Surely, she thinks I’ve been sleeping. But how does she not sense my eyes on her in the darkness? It occurs to me that maybe she does feel me watching her. That concept is even more enticing. That she would be so brazen as to do it in front of me. There’s an erotic edge to our silent stare. Who will move first?

I do.

When the temptation prickles up within me, I have no choice but to walk away. I stand up, no doubt startling the hell out of Jewel. I hear her breath catch and hold, like she’s too stunned to breathe. I’m sure she thinks I am about to punish her. Hurt her in some way.

But instead, I simply turn and walk out of the room. I close and lock the bedroom door behind me. It takes all my willpower to walk away from her, especially when every cell in my body is screaming to get closer. But I have to maintain our boundaries. I can’t let this gorgeous, clever, stubborn woman get under my skin. Besides, if masturbating brings her comfort in this darkest hour of her life, I can’t deny her that. She needs the release. I am happy to leave her to it, let her have this small but powerful thing.

I stroll across the dark, quiet house. I take a coat from the rack and shrug it over my shoulders. It’s getting colder outside every day, and at this hour of night, it’s downright chilly. I step outside into the brisk night air. My breath forms in puffs in front of my face as I take my cell phone from my pocket and quickly dial a familiar number. While I’m out here, I might as well ask for a status update. I lift the phone to my ear and listen for the rings. One, two, and a click.

“Privet,” says the gruff voice on the end of the line.

“Oleg,” I greet him. “My apologies for the late hour.”

“I don’t sleep anyway, Stefan. You know that,” he grunts.

“Good. Then perhaps you will have the information I need,” I begin. “Has there been any word on the Freddie Albany case?”

“The ICE agent and his unfortunate daughter?” Oleg chuckles cruelly. “No.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. “You don’t know if we have made contact with Freddie yet?” I push him.

“Not that I know of,” he answers. “But Victor keeps us in the dark about these things sometimes. You just have to be patient, tovarishch. Wait for further instruction, as they say. The Bratva works at its own pace, and our sworn duty is to follow orders.”

“Of course. I am certainly not abandoning my mission for impatience,” I reply. “I just want to be kept in the loop.”

“Da, da. I am sure the bosses will pass down information as soon as it becomes relevant to you,” Oleg asserts.

I roll my eyes. It’s the kind of typical, canned response I should’ve expected from him. Oleg is another pawn, like me. Just a bloody-knuckled scrapper who handles dirty work for the brotherhood. But unlike me, he has an unwavering allegiance for our bosses. He’s a good soldier, perfect by Bratva standards: recklessly brave and obedient to a fault.

“What is your hurry? Is the woman giving you trouble? Vozmozhno you should show her a little discipline, if you know what I mean,” he laughs derisively.

His vulgar cackle makes the heat rise in my face, anger burning in my chest. Normally, this brusque way of speaking wouldn’t faze me. I work with rough men, and they speak roughly too. But it’s somehow different when he’s talking about Jewel. I feel protective of her, even possessive in a way. She’s not some hardened criminal, she’s a law student who got plucked out of her normal life and dumped into a safehouse with the likes of me. She may be my prisoner, but as long as she’s in my custody, I have a responsibility to keep her safe.

“You still there, Stefan?” Oleg prompts me.

“Yes. Thank you, Oleg. That’s all I needed to know,” I answer.

Before he can say anything else that might incense me further, I hang up. I tuck the phone in my pocket and gaze out toward the tree line, deep in thought. All of my calls for updates have been fruitless. Nobody seems to have the information I seek. And for an organization of cruel men who work quickly in the shadows, it’s taking an awfully long time to establish contact with the very man at the center of this mission: Freddie Albany. Jewel’s father. She’s just leverage in this game. Freddie is the true target. With Jewel in my possession, I can see no good reason why the mission must drag on. I’ve made my move, and every moment longer we spend here at the safehouse brings us closer to danger. A speedy job is a job well done.

So why the delay? If Freddie Albany is such a major mark, why wait any longer to make our next move? Something feels amiss to me. I don’t like surprises. I don’t like suspense. I want to know what’s happening and when it’s going down so I can be prepared.

I walk back into the safehouse with a growing suspicion that something isn’t right. I stroll through the dark house, back to the hallway where I can see the bedroom door. I pause there, staring at the door and wondering what exactly I will find on the other side. Is she still in there with her dainty hand shoved between her thighs? Is she moaning and writhing in pleasure on the bed where I have slept so many times? I think about her beautiful body, the way it looked in the dim light of the basement. I imagine my own hands, much bigger and rougher than hers, caressing her soft curves. I can almost feel her smooth, milky skin under my calloused fingertips. I picture her full, perky breasts rising and falling with each indecent moan. I see her dark hair spilled out on the pillow, and her pearly teeth biting down on her plush bottom lip to keep from crying out with pleasure.

My cock stiffens at the thought of what I could do to her. It has been a long time since I last enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman, and I’m starting to think there are none on this planet who could compare to Jewel. As much as I resist, there’s no denying how my body feels about her. All my pent-up frustration needs an outlet. A release of my own. Being so close to a woman like Jewel only makes my desire more potent. Every hour I spend with her makes me despise this mission even more, because it’s becoming impossible to think of her the way I think of most targets. I can’t demonize her. I can’t degrade her. I don’t want to. Even if she is a spoiled, high-maintenance brat, she’s not a bad person. I appreciate her courage and intelligence, her stubborn way of standing up to me when so many others fall to their knees.

Quite frankly, she doesn’t belong in this world. I want to put her back where she belongs, back in her own life. That way, I can clean my hands of this mission, set her free, and hopefully walk away with a chunk of change from her father, the ICE agent.

I give Jewel a little longer to finish and fall asleep before I silently step back into the bedroom. I’m relieved to find her passed out, her eyes closed and her breaths regular. I resume my place on the couch and wait for dawn.

* * *

The next morning, I rise before the sun to start working out. While Jewel is still asleep, I seize the opportunity to run a few long laps around the property, keeping close to the tree line. I go back inside, cook up two high-protein omelets for breakfast, and bring them to the bedroom. As soon as I walk in and the aroma of freshly made food wafts over to Jewel, her green eyes flutter open. She yawns as she watches me approach with the plate. This time, she doesn’t shrink away from me.

“Good morning,” she says, stretching her legs and her one free arm. “What’s this?”

“An omelet. Enjoy,” I answer simply.

“You know, this whole breakfast-in-bed situation would be a lot more enjoyable if I could use both my arms,” she points out.

Still, she reaches for the plate and starts eating, to my satisfaction. Good. The last thing I need is for her to lose strength. Judging by the glacial pace so far, we might be here a while.

I sit on the couch to eat my own omelet. Having both arms at my disposal makes it a quick meal for me. Jewel is still picking at her food as I drop to the floor to continue my workout. She watches me do countless reps of push-ups while she eats.

“Breakfast and a show,” she jokes. “Lucky me.”

I move on to lifting weights as she sets down her empty plate. I glance over to see her squinting at me thoughtfully, her pretty lips pursed in a pout.

“What’s wrong?” I ask between reps.

She shrugs. “It’s just not fair, you know. Why do you get to work out and I have to sit in this bed letting my body waste away?” she asks.

“Dramatic,” I mutter.

Jewel scoffs. “I’m serious! Back home, I have a whole routine. I do yoga and pilates and stuff to stay in shape and keep myself sane. My body feels awful after sitting around tied to a bed for so long,” she points out.

“You’re a prisoner,” I remind her. “That’s how it works.”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Well, even prisoners get exercise time.”

“Does this look like a federal prison to you?” I grunt as I lift the weights over my head.

“No, it looks like somebody’s rundown bed and breakfast,” she says.

I have to stifle a laugh. She’s not wrong.

“Well, you got your bed and you got your breakfast,” I remark. “Check.”

“And what am I supposed to do with these calories, huh?” she says, taking another bite of omelet. “Just twiddle my thumbs?”

“Last night you seemed to find a way to burn some calories,” I mention.

She freezes up, clearly stunned that I would bring it up. Her face flushes a bright, adorable pink. Jewel looks away and bites her lip. The poor girl. I decide to cut her some slack.

“If it will help you sleep better at night, then fine. You can have your little workout. But you’re going to do it right here in this room, under my supervision,” I tell her.

She looks downright surprised when I set down my weights and walk over to release her handcuff. I grab her arm and fit the key in the lock. It falls open with a clanking sound, and she starts rubbing her sore wrist.

“Thank you,” Jewel says. She sounds as surprised to be saying it as I feel hearing it.

“Don’t mention it. Now get to work before I change my mind,” I command.

She hesitantly slides off the bed, still clad in only the oversized shirt and boxers. Her long, slender legs are exposed as she walks to the center of the room. She wiggles down to the floor and stretches out like a cat. I take my place on the couch and pick up a book on wildlife foraging I found in one of the random closets here in the safehouse. I do my best to get lost in the pages of mushroom identification and poison ivy treatment tips, but the content of this book simply can’t compete with the show right in front of me.

Jewel’s perfect body is splayed out on the floor. She does several leg lifts, arching her back as she stretches out. She twists from side to side. I watch her get down on her knees out of the corner of my eye. She kneels with her arms flat down on the floor and her taut, juicy ass sticking up in the air. The boxers ride up to show an enticing amount of bare thigh. I’m almost salivating watching this beautiful girl work out the kinks in her body. It’s impossible to ignore her. I try to keep my eyes on the page, but my gaze constantly wanders back to Jewel, twisting and contorting her flexible frame just a few feet away. She’s almost close enough to touch, and God knows I want to. But I resist.

She sits up and stretches her long legs in front of her. She leans over to touch her toes. I hear her clear her throat-- once, then again. I look up from my book.

“What?” I prompt her.

“I was just wondering...how does this all work?” Jewel asks.

I frown at her. “What are you asking?”

She bites her lip. “How many of you are there? Is it just you running this operation or do you answer to someone else?” she pries.

“Why do you want to know?” I retort.

She shrugs. “I don’t know, just making conversation.”

“Well, talk about something else,” I answer sharply.

Jewel rolls her eyes. “I mean, it’s hard to think about anything besides, you know, being a captive and stuff. It’s kind of the pressing issue here.”

“You don’t need to know. I’ll take care of all that,” I answer.

She doesn’t back down. “I’m just saying something feels off. Not that I have a lot of experience being kidnapped for ransom or whatever, but my dad isn’t a hard man to find. He’s a public servant,” she says.

I snort. “‘Public servant’ is quite a euphemism for what your father is.”

Jewel looks away. I’ve hit a sore spot.

In a small voice, she says, “I guess I just don’t understand what’s taking so long. If Dad knows I’m here… why hasn’t he acted yet?”

I bristle, getting uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Especially because I don’t exactly know the answer myself. Jewel keeps going.

“I’m trying to figure out, you know, how long I have to be here. What’s going to happen next? What if my father doesn’t-- doesn’t come through?” she asks.

She sounds broken. Like she’s already considered the answer to her question, and she doesn’t like it. The tension in the room grows more and more palpable. I don’t know what to tell her, or if I should even tell her anything. She’s not in on the plot, after all. She’s a pawn.

Before I have to reply, the tension is cut through with a sharp ringing from my pocket. I hastily whip out my phone to check the screen. My stomach turns when I see Brusilov’s number.

“I have to take this,” I growl.

I leap to my feet and rush out of the room, closing the bedroom door behind me. I walk down the hallway several feet and answer the call.

“Stefan,” Brusilov growls.

“I’m listening, boss,” I answer.

“I expect you still have the girl under lock and key,” he says.

“Of course. She’s secure. I’m awaiting orders,” I report.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear,” Brusilov says. “It’s time to move to a new tactic.”

“I’m ready to work,” I affirm.

“Your next order is to eliminate the prisoner.”

Everything goes quiet except for the thump of my heart. Surely, I heard him wrong.

“Sir, did you say ‘eliminate’?” I ask for clarification.

“Da, Stefan. Kill the girl. I don’t care how you do it, but don’t leave a big mess. The safehouse must remain a neutral location in case of discovery,” he says, like he hasn’t dropped a bomb on me.

“What about Freddie? What about the money?” I press.

“It isn’t your job to ask questions, mal’chik. You do as I tell you. And I am telling you to kill the captive. It’s a simple command, Stefan. You’ve done it before,” Brusilov says.

“Not like this. Not with a woman,” I hiss.

“There is a first time for everything,” he chuckles darkly. “Do as you’re told.”

Click.

I hear the dial tone. I stare at my phone for a moment, totally numb. I can hear my own blood rushing in my ears. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. This is the one command I did not prepare for. The one thing I did not want to do. I should have known the bosses wouldn’t let me off so easily. I don’t know how to bring myself to do it. How can I go from letting her do pilates on the floor to suddenly killing her? How can I put my feelings aside and do my job, when every piece of me is screaming to let her live? To protect her, not hurt her.

I heave a sigh and walk back to the bedroom, still lost in my own dark thoughts. I push open the door, expecting to see her still stretching. But to my surprise, she isn’t there. I look at the bed-- it’s empty.

“No,” I murmur.

My eyes flit up to the window, and my heart sinks. It wasn’t locked.

The pane is pushed up, just large enough for a slim, petite body to squeeze through. Fresh air wafts through the open window.

She’s gone.