Read Online Claim Me by Anna Zaires - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Zaires
Tags: Adult
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hate her for it.
Does she think about me at all, or is she too busy with the man she loves? I picture her lying in his arms, drowsy and replete after sex, and my fury edges into agony, tightening my chest until I can’t breathe. I’d take a dozen broken ribs, suffer a hundred burns to avoid this sensation.
I’d do anything to have her back with me.
I love you. I’m yours.
Motherfucker.
I turn on the bedside lamp and sit up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. Getting up, I walk to my library and grab a random book.
It’s only when I return to my bed that I realize the book I took was the last one I saw Yulia reading.
The tightness in my chest returns.
I have to get her back.
I simply have to.
17
Y ulia
“ I have a new assignment for you,” Obenko says, walking into the kitchen of the safe house apartment.
Startled, I look up from my plate of cream-of-wheat kasha. “An assignment?”
Over the past week, my boss has been busy erasing all traces of UUR’s existence from the net and reassigning key agents to lower-profile operations whenever possible. He’s also been studiously ignoring me—which is why I’m surprised to see him here this morning.
Obenko takes a seat across from me at the table. “It’s in Istanbul,” he says. “As you know, the situation with Turkey and Russia is beginning to heat up, and we need someone on the ground.”
I consume another spoonful of kasha to give myself time to think. “What do you want me to do in Istanbul?” I ask after I swallow. I have no appetite—I haven’t had one all week—but I force myself to eat to keep up appearances.
I don’t want Obenko to know how listless I feel and speculate about the cause of my malaise.
“Your assignment is to get close to a key Turkish official. To do that, you’ll matriculate at Istanbul University as part of a graduate student exchange program with the United States. We have already prepared your documents.” Obenko slides a thick folder toward me. “Your name is Mary Becker, and you’re from Washington D.C. You’re working on your Master’s in Political Science at the University of Maryland, and though your undergraduate degree is in Economics, you minored in Near Eastern Studies—hence your interest in a study abroad program in Turkey.”
The kasha I’ve eaten turns into a rock in my stomach. “So it’s another long-term play.”
“Yes.” Obenko gives me a hard look. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” I do my best to sound nonchalant. “But what about my brother? You said you’d get me the pictures.”
Obenko’s mouth thins. “They’re in that folder as well. Take a look and let me know if you have any questions.”
He gets up and walks out of the kitchen to make a call, and I flip open the folder, my hands shaking. I’m trying not to think about what this assignment will entail, but I can’t help it. My throat is cinched tight, and my insides churn with nausea.
Not now, Yulia. Just focus on Misha.
Ignoring the papers in the file, I find the photos clipped to the back of the folder. They’re of my brother—I recognize the color of his hair and the tilt of his head. The pictures were clearly taken in a rush; the photographer captured him mostly from the side and the back, with only one photo showing his face. In that picture, Misha is frowning, his youthful face looking unusually mature. Is he upset because his family had to relocate, or is something else behind his tense expression?
I study the pictures for several minutes, my heart aching, and then I force myself to set them aside so I can look at my assignment.
Ahmet Demir, a member of Turkish Parliament, is forty-seven years old and known to have a weakness for blond American women. Objectively speaking, he’s not a bad-looking man—a little balding, a little chubby, but with symmetrical features and a charismatic smile. Looking at his photo shouldn’t make me want to throw up, but that’s precisely how I feel at
Does she think about me at all, or is she too busy with the man she loves? I picture her lying in his arms, drowsy and replete after sex, and my fury edges into agony, tightening my chest until I can’t breathe. I’d take a dozen broken ribs, suffer a hundred burns to avoid this sensation.
I’d do anything to have her back with me.
I love you. I’m yours.
Motherfucker.
I turn on the bedside lamp and sit up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. Getting up, I walk to my library and grab a random book.
It’s only when I return to my bed that I realize the book I took was the last one I saw Yulia reading.
The tightness in my chest returns.
I have to get her back.
I simply have to.
17
Y ulia
“ I have a new assignment for you,” Obenko says, walking into the kitchen of the safe house apartment.
Startled, I look up from my plate of cream-of-wheat kasha. “An assignment?”
Over the past week, my boss has been busy erasing all traces of UUR’s existence from the net and reassigning key agents to lower-profile operations whenever possible. He’s also been studiously ignoring me—which is why I’m surprised to see him here this morning.
Obenko takes a seat across from me at the table. “It’s in Istanbul,” he says. “As you know, the situation with Turkey and Russia is beginning to heat up, and we need someone on the ground.”
I consume another spoonful of kasha to give myself time to think. “What do you want me to do in Istanbul?” I ask after I swallow. I have no appetite—I haven’t had one all week—but I force myself to eat to keep up appearances.
I don’t want Obenko to know how listless I feel and speculate about the cause of my malaise.
“Your assignment is to get close to a key Turkish official. To do that, you’ll matriculate at Istanbul University as part of a graduate student exchange program with the United States. We have already prepared your documents.” Obenko slides a thick folder toward me. “Your name is Mary Becker, and you’re from Washington D.C. You’re working on your Master’s in Political Science at the University of Maryland, and though your undergraduate degree is in Economics, you minored in Near Eastern Studies—hence your interest in a study abroad program in Turkey.”
The kasha I’ve eaten turns into a rock in my stomach. “So it’s another long-term play.”
“Yes.” Obenko gives me a hard look. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” I do my best to sound nonchalant. “But what about my brother? You said you’d get me the pictures.”
Obenko’s mouth thins. “They’re in that folder as well. Take a look and let me know if you have any questions.”
He gets up and walks out of the kitchen to make a call, and I flip open the folder, my hands shaking. I’m trying not to think about what this assignment will entail, but I can’t help it. My throat is cinched tight, and my insides churn with nausea.
Not now, Yulia. Just focus on Misha.
Ignoring the papers in the file, I find the photos clipped to the back of the folder. They’re of my brother—I recognize the color of his hair and the tilt of his head. The pictures were clearly taken in a rush; the photographer captured him mostly from the side and the back, with only one photo showing his face. In that picture, Misha is frowning, his youthful face looking unusually mature. Is he upset because his family had to relocate, or is something else behind his tense expression?
I study the pictures for several minutes, my heart aching, and then I force myself to set them aside so I can look at my assignment.
Ahmet Demir, a member of Turkish Parliament, is forty-seven years old and known to have a weakness for blond American women. Objectively speaking, he’s not a bad-looking man—a little balding, a little chubby, but with symmetrical features and a charismatic smile. Looking at his photo shouldn’t make me want to throw up, but that’s precisely how I feel at
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