My Iron Knight Page 5

  “It’s okay,” Dash grunted, tugging the makeshift bandage tight. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  “Cassidy?”

  Dash lifted his head and met a pair of ice-blue eyes that were shining in the moonlight.

  “What are you…?” His voice was a harsh croak. But the effort of speaking appeared to be too much, because his eyes slid shut again. Dash got one arm under Vasiliev’s shoulders, the other under his knees and hoisted him. Dash swore. He was an incredible weight, despite his slightness. He hefted him higher in his arms, making him moan in pain, then staggered deeper into the trees.

  Vasiliev’s head lolled on his shoulder as Dash wrestled through the underbrush. His arms and shoulders screamed with the strain while his brain clamored at him to take Vasiliev to the bluffs and dump him into the sea while he had the chance.

  But he turned the other way, heading deeper into the woods.

  He knew the way blindfolded, but it still felt miles longer than it was. Finally, a dim shape appeared in the trees ahead. As he got closer, the shadows and moonlight shifted to reveal the small, square shape of the one-roomed wooden cabin. He laid his burden carefully on the ground and fumbled a key on a chain around his neck out from under his sticky, stained shirt. His arms and hands were shaking but, finally, he got the key in the door and opened it.

  He wrestled the limp form of Vasiliev into the cabin and laid him on the dusty bunk in the corner. He shut and locked the door before making sure all the shutters were fastened. Then he muttered a prayer and turned the switch on the grime-encrusted hurricane lantern from the sideboard.

  The thing flickered and went out. Dash cursed, hit it, and the dusty space flooded with a warm, orange light. He hunted through the web-shrouded cupboard until he found a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the ancient medical kit.

  He returned to the bunk with the cleanest rags he could find and a bowl of water from the juddering sink in the corner. He brought the lantern closer and examined Vasiliev. His head lay at an awkward angle, and his hair was matted with dirt and blood. Dash soaked a rag in the water and began to wipe the blood from his face. The Russian twitched and muttered, then Dash cut away what remained of Vasiliev’s biker jacket with scissors from the kit. He swallowed, his throat tight, as more of Vasiliev’s pale, bruised skin was exposed. The shirt was bloody and ripped, but, upon inspection, Dash found nothing worse than scrapes, so he turned his attention to the cut in Vasiliev’s head.

  It was deep and had bled a lot, but Dash was relieved that he couldn’t see bone. A gentle examination of the area revealed no sharp parts that would mean a fracture. He wiped the wound with a rag soaked in the whiskey, pressed a gauze to it and taped it into place.

  Vasiliev still didn’t move.

  Dash steeled himself then moved the lantern to cast its light over Vasiliev’s legs. The makeshift bandage around his thigh was soaked with blood. Dash untied it, telling himself that the fact the blood was dark was a good thing. The cut was deep, but the bleeding appeared to have slowed. Still, he’d stood over Harley enough times as he’d patched up gunshot wounds to know it would need stitching…and fast.

  He gritted his teeth and cut away the tattered remnants of his leather riding pants. Vasiliev’s legs were raw with bruises and rashed with road burn where the leather hadn’t been enough. Dash stomped on the spike of guilt, took a deep swallow from the whiskey bottle and set about sterilizing a needle with his Zippo.

  Vasiliev didn’t move until the needle penetrated his skin.

  He jerked, blinked blearily, growled some Russian and tried to pull away. Dash grabbed his wrist to still him.

  “Don’t move,” he grated. “You’ll just make it worse.”

  It seemed to take Vasiliev a long time to focus. Then he blinked, scowled and put his hand to his head, closing his eyes and moaning.

  “Yeah, that’ll hurt,” Dash muttered, holding out the bottle. “Drink.”

  “What…what are you doing?”

  “Your leg needs stitching. Drink.”

  Vasiliev took the bottle in a shaking hand and swallowed the liquor. Dash pushed the needle in again. Vasiliev hissed between his teeth. Dash pulled the thread tight. Vasiliev cried out, clutching his leg and the bottle in a white-knuckled grip.

  “Keep still,” Dash barked.

  Vasiliev, breathing heavily, covered his eyes with his arm. Dash took a deep breath to try to steady his hands and continued.

  Finally, it was done. He sloshed whiskey over the wound to cleanse it and was relieved that it had, at least, stopped bleeding.

  He bound it then moved to the sink to wash the blood from his hands.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  Dash dried his hands and stared hard at the wall. “You’ll need a hospital,” he said. “You probably have concussion. And that wound is bad. But I’m not letting you out of here until you give me some answers.”

  Vasiliev heaved himself against the wall, hissing as the injured leg dragged over the bunk. He glared at Dash from under the tangled matt of his hair.

  “I will not tell you anything,” he said. “Your effort,” he said, gesturing at the bandage on his leg, “is wasted. You might as well have shot me.”

  “You need a hospital,” Dash repeated, dragging a chair next to the bunk and sitting. “Painkillers. Antibiotics. Give me some answers, and I will take you there.”

  Vasiliev scowled.

  “Is Damaro really paying you enough to die for her?”

  Vasiliev gritted his teeth then looked around the cabin. “Where are we?”

  “An answer for an answer. We took the trucks. We saw the tattoos.” Vasiliev clenched his jaw, looked away. “So, what is it?” Dash pressed. “Prostitution?”

  “Sometimes,” he muttered. “Sometimes labor—cleaning, manufacturing.” He shrugged. “Young people last longer.”

  “How can you be part of something like that?” Dash said, unable to control the emotion that deepened his voice.

  “And you are such a moral individual, is that it?”

  “I don’t deal in people,” Dash said, clenching his fist. “No one human ever would.”

  Something shifted in Vasiliev’s eyes—something that brightened them, just for a second. Guilt? Or derision? He looked away before Dash could decide.

  “Why just you, huh?” he demanded. “Why just send you to guard the trucks?”

  “I’m good at my job.”

  “If you’re so good, how come I’m still sucking air?” Dash leaned close. “Sure, the first time, that was a warning. But tonight?” He looked closely at the other man but could read nothing in the cold, hard gaze. “You could have dropped half a dozen of my guys before they made it anywhere near those trucks. Instead, you just ventilated the drivers. Why?”

  “She will kill you all for this, you know,” Vasiliev said. “You had your chance. Now it is all over for your town.”

  “What is she building on Ocean Bluffs?”

  “She is not building anything…not yet.”

  Dash pulled out of his phone, dismissed the missed calls from Zara and found the satellite image. Vasiliev took the phone, frowning at the picture.

  “This is…not right. It is too big…” He blinked, looking up, startled, like he hadn’t meant to speak out loud. He thrust the phone back. “An answer for an answer. You gave your word. Where are we?”

  Dash tucked the phone back in his jacket. “Somewhere safe.”

  “Somewhere dirty.” Vasiliev grimaced as he looked around again.

  “No one will find us here, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Dash said, folding his arms. “No one comes out here—not anymore.”

  “You have to let me go.”

  “Your bike’s a wreck. We’re miles from town, and you can’t walk.”

  Vasiliev muttered under this breath, attempting to pull away from Dash, but he grabbed his wrist and held him still.

  “You need me to take you back. But until I get what I need, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “And what is it you need from me, Cassidy?”

  Dash didn’t miss the glint in his shadowed eyes, but he willed his reaction not to show. “She’s using downtown for now, but she’s building something secure to keep them in, right?” he said, anger burning through everything else. “A fucking warehouse to store all these kids until she auctions them off to the highest bidder?”

  “I don’t know,” Vasiliev muttered between clenched teeth. “It is not my job to know these things.”

  “Just to make sure they happen?”

  Vasiliev wrenched his wrist free. “I do my job, just like you do.”

  “Protecting Salvation isn’t my job. It’s my life.”

  Vasiliev blinked at his vehemence. The unguarded look made him look young, vulnerable. Then he frowned and the impression was gone. “It will cost you your life.”

  Dash examined him. “You were shocked it was so big. You didn’t know she was planning to work on that kind of scale, did you?”

  “I told you… It’s not my job to care about such things.”

  An unwelcome thought crept into Dash’s mind, like a thorn catching in the skin. He glanced at Vasiliev’s hands, balled into fists on the threadbare sheets. Dash reached out and took a gentle hold of the right one. Vasiliev appeared so startled that he didn’t pull away. Dash turned the hand over. His skin was unmarked. Vasiliev gave him a baleful look and showed him his other wrist. No tattoo.

  “I am not a sex worker, Cassidy.”

  “Then why…?” Dash heard himself asking, still staring at the hand that lay limp in his grip. “Why did you do it?”

  “What? Suck you off?”

  Dash glared. Vasiliev pulled his hand back.

  “You Americans. No deep thinking. No nuance.”

  “Tell me why you did it.”

  He hesitated then his gaze slipped away. “Damaro has the power to go through Salvation like a tsunami—but that takes time, blood, and would…attract attention. She pays me to pave the way…to make things easier. I thought I was making it easier for you, too.”

  “I don’t do business that way. Anyone would tell you that.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t enjoy it?”

  Dash seized his wrist again. Vasiliev’s face shifted into not quite a wince. His free hand tightened on his leg. Dash forgot what he was going to say. Instead, he heard his voice from far away saying, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “No more than you’ve done already, you mean?”

  Not breaking eye contact or his grip on Vasiliev’s wrist, Dash shouldered his free arm out of his jacket, exposing the bandaging.

  “You did this to me. Now I guess we’re even.”

  “Is all we owe each other flesh wounds?”

  “You tell me.”

  A breathless silence fell between them. Slowly, hesitantly, Vasiliev lifted his free hand. As delicate as a butterfly landing, he brushed his fingers up Dash’s tattooed skin, over the bandage and down again.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much as your leg, I’m guessing.” Vasiliev looked down at his thigh with a grim expression. “Drink. It’ll help.”

  Vasiliev drank, grimaced and lowered the bottle again. “No vodka?”

  “No vodka,” Dash said, took the bottle and emptied it in one swallow. It burned in his gut and made his skin feel hot.

  “So,” Vasiliev murmured, looking away. “I confirmed your suspicions. Can I go now?”

  Dash chewed on the uncomfortable thoughts for another long moment. “In the morning. You’ll need to rest before you can hold on to the back of my bike.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “You think you can ride now?”

  Vasiliev tried moving his leg and went pale with pain. He muttered something in Russian that Dash was willing to bet was not polite.

  “No one’s ever run me down before,” he said in a low voice. “How did you?”

  “I’ve been riding these roads my whole life,” Dash murmured. “The road treats you better when you care about where it leads.”

  When Vasiliev spoke again his voice was hoarse. “You took my clothes off.”

  “I cut them off,” Dash snapped, rising to search the cupboard for more booze, “to stitch you up.”

  “Is that right?” Vasiliev gasped. Dash turned. He was trying to get to his feet. Dash hurried back to him and steadied him with a hand under his elbow.

  “You should lie down.”

  “Ah, so that’s how you want me. On my back?”

  “Fuck,” Dash snapped. “Is that all you think about?”

  A ghost of Vasiliev’s former smile twisted his mouth. “You’re saying you haven’t thought about it?”

  “That doesn’t—”

  “Admit it, Cassidy,” he murmured, leaning into Dash’s hold. “Whatever you want to think about your morals, you thought about me. About today. About what we did.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Did you touch yourself?” he whispered, his gaze hot. “Did you masturbate, thinking about me on my knees? Or bent over your bike? I’m guessing you like to top, yes?”

  Dash shoved him away. He hit the bunk and sat heavily, clutching his head.

  “What happened to you to make you this way?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Vasiliev said through clenched teeth. He lowered his hands. His breathing was heavy again, but Dash guessed this time it wasn’t from pain.

  “I would never have touched you, not in a million years, if I didn’t think you wanted it, too.”

  “Please. You wanted me from the minute you saw me,” Vasiliev muttered, “however I felt about it. Do not lie, Cassidy. I know what it looks like when someone wants me.”

  “I like my partners willing.”

  “Oh, I’m willing.” Vasiliev smiled with more heat. “I take it you’ve seen yourself in a mirror, Mr. President?”

  “You’re concussed,” Dash said, shaking his head and retrieving the unopened bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. “You’re talking shit.”

  Vasiliev sat against the wall, sighing and closing his eyes. “If that’s what you want to believe, I guess I can’t change your mind.”

  Dash slammed the bottle on the table, put his hands on the bunk and thrust his face into Vasiliev’s. The Russian snapped his eyes open. He still smelled of leather, but now he also smelled of clean sweat and blood. The combination made Dash’s own blood surge and his gut burn.

  “You were hard,” he said, his voice guttural, “after you sucked me off. You wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

  “Did I ever say I didn’t?”

  “Why?” Dash growled. “If this really is just a way into my head, into my business, why make it that damn good?”

  “I told you. I’m good at my job.”

  Dash narrowed his eyes, staring hard into the other’s face. “I don’t believe you. This is more than just business. Admit it.”

  Vasiliev’s breathing was shallow, his lips wet. Dash was suddenly desperate to taste them, to feel them against him, to hear them make a noise that came right from the unguarded center of himself.

  Vasiliev studied his face then, as if guessing his thoughts, drew a deep breath, his pupils dilating and glanced at Dash’s mouth. The sight washed Dash’s reason away like a sandcastle before a rising tide.

  Chapter Four

  Dash lowered his lips to Vasiliev’s jaw, breathing deep the smell of his skin. The other man held himself rigid, but whether it was from desire or fear, Dash couldn’t tell.

  “I told you,” he murmured against the smooth, warm skin of his neck, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “This…won’t work,” Vasiliev said, though his voice was high and tight. “You’re still my enemy.”

  “I’m not asking you to flip,” Dash said, pulling the collar of Vasiliev’s T-shirt aside and running his tongue along his collarbone. He tasted like sun-warmed road dust and male sweat. Vasiliev shivered. Dash pulled back just far enough to see into his face. His cheeks had reddened. His breathing had deepened. His eyes were shining…but not with fear. Dash smiled. “Two can play at this game,” he muttered and got to his knees.

  “Cassidy,” Vasiliev said, attempting to shuffle away, but Dash put a hand on his good leg to stop him.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he repeated in a low voice. His blood was pooling in his groin, but he fought to keep his touch light, his hold gentle. He watched the Russian’s face intently as he ran his hand up his good thigh to his underwear.

  “This…this won’t work,” Vasiliev muttered. “I’m the one who’s supposed to—” His words cut off in a gasp as Dash slid his hand into his boxers. He was hard. Even though Dash had seen evidence of his arousal building under the thin cotton, the affirmation that he was right about everything made the blood pump harder in his cock and his neck. He grasped Vasiliev’s member firmly, his mouth filling with saliva.

  Vasiliev made a choked noise and dropped his head against the wall. Dash shifted closer, kneeling between the Russians legs and slowly, gently, began to work the stiff flesh. Vasiliev sighed and gasped, fisting the sheet and tilting his head back, exposing the smooth arch of his neck.

  “Tell me,” Dash murmured, leaning close to mouth that irresistible neck. “You must tell me if you need me to stop.”

  “Don’t,” Vasiliev murmured breathlessly, threading his fingers through Dash’s tangled hair. “Don’t stop.”

  Dash growled deep in his chest and increased his pace on Vasiliev’s cock while fumbling desperately at his own fly.

  “Cassidy,” Vasiliev grated, arching into his hold and tightening his grip in his hair. Dash met his movements with his hand, grasping his own cock hard.

  “Tell me when,” Dash breathed against his jaw, licking and biting his ear, rolls of pleasure seething through his flesh as he fisted his own cock harder. “Tell me when you’re gonna come.”