He felt almost numb, rooted in place, but at the same time, he was aware he was breathless, sweating and aroused. Something twinged like a cramp and he surged forward.
His hand moved to the volume control, to turn it up or off, he wasn't sure which, but before he could touch it, he cracked his knee soundly against the chair.
Taras bit off a curse, then several, grunting savagely. He leveled a vicious kick at the chair with his jackboot, and it shot into the station with a crash.
He gritted his teeth.
Taras sucked in a breath, turning toward the door. If anyone was passing by, they would have heard that and most likely would investigate, but the seconds passed and nothing happened.
His knee and foot twinged. He shifted, putting weight on that leg, but there was no sharp and splintering pain.
Isaev could suck his dick, as far as Taras was concerned. He wondered what Ilarion thought he was doing, when he knew full well the room was being recorded, but then it occurred to Taras that of course Ilarion knew that, and it was Taras who was thinking about it wrong.
Taras frowned, slowly.
He was thinking about it like a criminal would.
Not like a MENT. Like he could get caught and punished, like he had to watch what he did. He'd slipped into the audio room like a burglar intent on a little B&E, but MENTs didn't have to do that. Not that he should be careless. Not that he should flaunt it. But there were privileges that he had that criminals didn't, not only as a MENT but as the right hand of an Isaev, just like there were privileges Isaevs had that no one else did.
What did it matter, what Ilarion did to a suspect in custody? What could anyone do, even if they had the tape to prove it?
A sudden spate of muffled noises came from the speakers, and his breath caught.
"Well, shit," he muttered.
He paused, glancing at the door one last time, but it remained silent.
Taras grabbed the chair and pulled it back, so he could sit down. He figured he might as well be comfortable.
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He felt almost numb, rooted in place, but at the same time, he was aware he was breathless, sweating and aroused. Something twinged like a cramp and he surged forward.
His hand moved to the volume control, to turn it up or off, he wasn't sure which, but before he could touch it, he cracked his knee soundly against the chair.
Taras bit off a curse, then several, grunting savagely. He leveled a vicious kick at the chair with his jackboot, and it shot into the station with a crash.
He gritted his teeth.
Taras sucked in a breath, turning toward the door. If anyone was passing by, they would have heard that and most likely would investigate, but the seconds passed and nothing happened.
His knee and foot twinged. He shifted, putting weight on that leg, but there was no sharp and splintering pain.
Isaev could suck his dick, as far as Taras was concerned. He wondered what Ilarion thought he was doing, when he knew full well the room was being recorded, but then it occurred to Taras that of course Ilarion knew that, and it was Taras who was thinking about it wrong.
Taras frowned, slowly.
He was thinking about it like a criminal would.
Not like a MENT. Like he could get caught and punished, like he had to watch what he did. He'd slipped into the audio room like a burglar intent on a little B&E, but MENTs didn't have to do that. Not that he should be careless. Not that he should flaunt it. But there were privileges that he had that criminals didn't, not only as a MENT but as the right hand of an Isaev, just like there were privileges Isaevs had that no one else did.
What did it matter, what Ilarion did to a suspect in custody? What could anyone do, even if they had the tape to prove it?
A sudden spate of muffled noises came from the speakers, and his breath caught.
"Well, shit," he muttered.
He paused, glancing at the door one last time, but it remained silent.
Taras grabbed the chair and pulled it back, so he could sit down. He figured he might as well be comfortable.