Forever Mine

by Anna Zaires

  I hate that I won’t see her all day long, that I won’t be able to touch her or talk to her until evening. It’s even harder than last week because we got to spend this Sunday together—and I now know what paradise feels like.

  It’s what we had back in Japan, only without the bitter animosity—without Sara resenting me for stealing her away from her career and everyone she loves.

  It takes all my strength to remain seated and calm as she kisses my cheek and whispers, “Love you. See you soon,” before jumping out of the car.

  I watch her slim figure disappear into her office building, and then I message the crew to give them their Sara-watching instructions for the day.

  If I can’t be with her, at least I’ll know where she is and what she’s doing.

  At least I’ll be sure she’s safe.

  I spend the morning transferring the funds for the closing this Thursday and organizing the upcoming move. I plan to have us in the new house by next week, which means there’s a lot of work to be done. Though the place was just redone and won’t require major renovation, I have to install proper security measures.

  Suburbia or not, our house will be a fortress, and no one—least of all Agent Ryson—will be able to accost Sara at home again.

  It’s mid-afternoon and I’m washing vegetables for dinner when my phone vibrates on the countertop. Pressing on the screen with one semi-dry finger, I skim Sara’s text.

  So sorry. Just got a call from the clinic. They’re completely overrun, and they’re begging me to come in tonight. It’ll be only until ten or so. Again, I’m so sorry.

  The zucchini I was washing snaps in half, and I shove the phone away with my elbow to avoid subjecting it to the same fate.

  I should’ve fucking known. “If no emergencies come up” is code for “an emergency is bound to come up.” It was that way before Japan, and even though Sara’s current job is less focused on the obstetrics side of OB-GYN, her mindset hasn’t changed.

  Work still comes first for her, even volunteer work at the clinic.

  It takes me a solid twenty minutes to calm down and start thinking rationally. Sara’s career is one of the reasons I went through all that trouble with Novak and Esguerra, why I agreed to give up my revenge on Henderson. Being a doctor—helping patients—is important to her; she needs her career as much as she needs to be near her family and friends. I knew this when I stole her away, but it didn’t matter to me at the time.

  All that mattered was keeping her.

  Now that I have her and she’s happy, I can’t regress to that way of thinking, can’t forget what it was like when I was the source of her misery, when every time she looked at me, I saw torment in her eyes.

  It’s different now. Whatever her remaining reservations, she’s finally admitted that she loves—loves me enough to have my child.

  A daughter or a son… like Pasha.

  For a moment, it hurts to breathe again, but then the pain passes, leaving a bittersweet ache in its wake. I’ve been able to think of Pasha like this more and more in recent months, without the rage poisoning the memories. And I know it’s all due to her.

  My little songbird whom I so badly want to cage again.

  Taking a deep breath, I slowly let it out and focus on the calming task of making dinner.

  If Sara can’t come home tonight, I’ll just have to come to her.

  6

  Sara

  * * *

  I expect one of Peter’s crew to take me to the clinic, but Peter is waiting for me by the curb instead.

  I grin, some of my tiredness fading as his eyes skim over my body before settling hungrily on my face.

  “Hi.” I walk straight into his embrace and inhale deeply as his strong arms close around me, pressing me tightly against his chest. He smells warm, clean, and distinctly male—a familiar Peter scent I now associate with comfort.

  He holds me for a few long moments, then pulls back to gaze down at me. “How was your day, my love?” he asks softly, brushing my hair off my face.

  I beam up at him. “Crazy busy, but all better now.” I’m ridiculously overjoyed that he came to bring me to the clinic himself.

  He grins back at me. “Miss me, did you?”

  “I did,” I admit as he opens the car door and helps me in. “I really did.”

  His answering smile makes me want to melt into the seat. “And I missed you, ptichka.”

  “I’m sorry I have to do this,” I say as we pull away from the curb. The car smells of something deliciously spicy, and my stomach rumbles as I say, “I was really looking forward to having a nice dinner at home.”

  Peter glances at me. “I brought you dinner. It’s on the back seat.”

  “You did?” I turn around in my seat and spot the source of the delicious smell—another lunch box. “Wow, thank you. You didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it.” Stretching, I grab the box and put it on my lap.

  I was going to buy some pretzels from a vending machine at the clinic, but this is infinitely better.

  “Why do you have to do this?” Peter asks, stopping at a red light. His tone is casual, but I’m not fooled.

  He was looking forward to our dinner as well.

  “I really am sorry,” I say, and mean it. When Lydia, the receptionist at the clinic, called me at lunchtime, I came very close to refusing her pleas—but in the end, the knowledge that a few dozen women will miss out on cancer screening and essential prenatal care if I don’t show up won out. “They’re short of volunteers today, and I couldn’t leave them in the lurch.”

  He gives me a sidelong look. “Couldn’t you?”

  I pause in the middle of opening the lunchbox. “No,” I say evenly. “I couldn’t.”

  Here it is, what I was afraid of all along. I suspected it was only a matter of time before my long hours would start bothering Peter, and it seems that I was right to worry.

  Tensing, I prepare to hear an ultimatum, but Peter just presses the gas, accelerating smoothly.

  “Eat, my love,” he says in the same casual tone. “You don’t have a lot of time.”

  I follow his suggestion and dig into the food—a vegetable medley with couscous and roasted chicken. The seasoning reminds me of the lamb kebab Peter made for us back in Japan, and I inhale everything in a matter of minutes.

  “Thank you,” I say, wiping my mouth with a paper towel he so thoughtfully packed along with the utensils. “That was delicious.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turns onto the street where the clinic is and parks right in front of the building. “Come, I’ll walk you in.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to—” I stop because he’s already walking around the car.

  Opening the door for me, he helps me out and shepherds me to the building, as though I might wander off if he doesn’t keep a hand on the small of my back.

  I expect him to stop when we reach the door, but he comes inside with me.

  Confused, I stop and look up at him. “What are you doing?”

  “There you are!” Lydia hurries toward me, her broad face relieved. “Thank God. I thought you weren’t going to— Oh, hi.” She blushes, staring at Peter with what I can only interpret as a full-blown crush.

  “Peter was just—” I start, but he smiles and steps forward.

  “Peter Garin. We met at our wedding,” he says, extending his hand.

  The receptionist’s eyes go wide, and she clasps his hand, giving it a vigorous shake. “Lydia,” she says breathlessly. “Congrats again. It was a beautiful event.”

  “Thank you.” He grins at her, and I can almost sense her swooning on the inside. “You know, Sara just told me you’re short on volunteers today. I’m no doctor, obviously, but maybe there’s something I can do to help out around here tonight? Maybe you have some files that need sorting, or something that needs fixing? We only have one car for now, and I’d rather not drive back and forth to pick up Sara.”

  “Oh, of course.” Lydia’s excitement level visibly q
uadruples. “Please, there’s so much work. And did you say you’re handy? Do you by any chance also know something about computers? Because there’s this stubborn software program…”

  She leads him away, chattering, and I stare in disbelief as my assassin husband disappears around the corner without so much as a look back.

  7

  Peter

  * * *

  I help Lydia with her software issue, fix a leaking faucet, and hang up a few decorations in the waiting area while two dozen women—many of them visibly pregnant—watch me in fascination.

  As the only doctor there tonight, Sara has a never-ending stream of patients, so I don’t bother her. It’s enough to know that she’s just a couple of rooms away, and I can reach her in a minute if I need to.

  Once all the basic tasks are done, I get to work assembling an ultrasound machine that a local hospital donated. I’ve never worked with medical equipment before, but I’ve always been good at putting together things—weapons, explosives, communication devices—so it’s not long before I figure out what goes where and how to test it to make sure it’s working.

  “Oh, my God, you’re a lifesaver, just like your wife,” Lydia exclaims when I show it to her. “We’ve been waiting for a technician to stop by for months, and oh, this is going to be so helpful! Sara is with her last patient now. Do you think you might have time to fix up this one cabinet, too? It’s been drooping and—”

  “No problem.” I follow her to one of the exam rooms and add a few screws to make sure the cabinet in question doesn’t fall on anyone’s head.

  “You are so good at this,” the receptionist gushes when I’m finished. “Did you ever work in construction, by any chance? You seem so practiced with that drill and all…”

  “I worked on some construction projects as a teen,” I say without elaborating. This woman doesn’t need to know that the “projects” were forced labor in a youth version of a Siberian gulag.

  “Oh, I thought so.” She beams at me. “Let me check if Sara is done.”

  “Please.” I smile back at her. “I’d like to take my wife home.”

  The receptionist hurries away, and I roll my head from side to side, releasing the stiffness in my neck. It’s only been a few days, but I’m getting restless, eager to move and do something physical. After I made dinner, I went for a long run in the park and stopped by a boxing gym to work off some steam, but I need more.

  I need a challenge of some kind.

  For the first time, I seriously consider what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Thanks to the Esguerra-Novak double gig, I have enough money for me, Sara, and a dozen kids/grandkids—particularly if we don’t get into the habit of buying private planes, specialized weapons, or other expensive props. I don’t have to work to support us, and I didn’t make any plans beyond getting Sara and tying her to me—partially because I’ve always enjoyed the downtime between jobs.

  Now I’m starting to realize that it was because I knew the time off was temporary, that another challenging, adrenaline-filled mission was in my future. Now there’s nothing—just a series of calm, peaceful days stretching out into infinity.

  Days where all I’m going to be doing is thinking about Sara and waiting for her to come home.

  “Peter?” Sara pokes her head into the room, and a big smile lights her face when she lays her eyes on me. “I’m ready to go home if you are.”

  “Let’s go,” I say, and shelve the problem for another day.

  I’ll think about what to do with my time later.

  For now, I’ve got my ptichka, and she’s all I need.

  8

  Sara

  * * *

  The next two days fly by in a blur of work. On Tuesday, I stay late in the hospital for a delivery, and Wednesday is another shift at the clinic, where I’m once again the only doctor seeing all the patients.

  It’s exhausting, but I don’t mind because Peter finds a way to be near me both evenings—on Tuesday, by catching up on some emails at the Snacktime Café by the hospital, so I can pop out to see him when my patient is between contractions, and on Wednesday, by volunteering at the clinic alongside me again.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask him as we’re driving to the clinic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very glad you are—and Lydia is over the moon, for sure. But is this really what you want?”

  He glances at me, his eyes gleaming silver. “What I want is you, in my bed twenty-four-seven. Or falling short of that, handcuffed to me at all times. But since I know how much your career means to you, I’ll settle for the next best thing.”

  I stare at him, unsure how to react. With any other man, I’d be convinced that it’s a joke, but with Peter, that’s not a safe assumption to make. Especially since I understand how he’s feeling.

  I also miss him fiercely when we’re apart.

  We arrive at the clinic a minute later, and I go to prepare for a flood of patients while Lydia grabs Peter to move some furniture. From seven until ten, I see women for issues minor and major, and then a familiar name pops up on my chart.

  Monica Jackson.

  My chest tightens painfully. The eighteen-year-old girl came in last week after a second brutal assault by her stepfather, who got out of prison on a technicality instead of serving out his seven-year sentence for raping her when she was seventeen. I’d helped her then, giving her some money to lessen her alcoholic mother’s financial dependence on the bastard, but there was nothing I could do this time. Monica was terrified that her stepfather would sue for custody of her baby brother and win—or that the child would end up in the foster system.

  Her hopeless situation had shaken me so badly I’d cried for a solid hour.

  Taking a deep breath, I put on my calmest face and stand up as the girl enters the room. “Monica. How are you?”

  “Hi, Dr. Cobakis.” Her small face is so radiant I almost don’t recognize her. Even the half-healed bruises still visible on her skin don’t detract from her glow. “I’m ready to get my IUD.”

  I blink at her enthusiasm. “Wonderful. I assume you’re feeling better?”

  She nods, hopping up on the exam table. “Yes, much better. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  She grins. “He can’t bother me anymore. Like, ever. Last week, he was going to work at night, and he got mugged in an alley. They slit his throat, can you believe that?”

  “They… what?” I sink back into my chair as my legs fold under me.

  Her grin fades, and she gives me a penitent look. “I’m sorry. That sounded horribly uncaring, didn’t it?”

  “Um, no. I mean…” I shake my head in a futile effort to clear it. “Did you say someone slit his throat?”

  “Yeah, the muggers or mugger. The police don’t know how many there were. His wallet was taken, though, so they were definitely after his money.”

  “I see.” I sound choked, but I can’t help it. The memory of the two methheads Peter had killed to protect me surfaces so vividly in my mind that for a second, I can again smell the coppery stench of death and see the puppet-like way they crumpled, with the dark pools of blood spreading out from under their prone bodies…

  So much blood that their throats must’ve been slit.

  “Dr. Cobakis? Are you okay?”

  The girl sounds worried—I must’ve gone pale.

  With effort, I pull myself together and smile reassuringly. “Yes, sorry. Just some bad associations, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. And please understand: I’m not saying I’m happy he’s dead. It’s just that—”

  “You’re glad he’s out of your life. I get it.” I stand up again and, as calmly as I can, hand Monica a plastic-wrapped paper gown. “Please go ahead and change. I’ll be right with you.”

  Leaving the girl to it, I step out, my legs unsteady and my lungs fighting for breath.

  Because last week, after I learned about Monica’s second assault
, I didn’t just cry.

  I also confided in Peter.

  I told him exactly what happened.

  If this is not a macabre coincidence, then Agent Ryson was right.

  I’m as much of a monster as Peter.

  I killed Monica’s stepfather by pointing at him the deadliest weapon I know.

  My new husband.

  9

  Sara

  * * *

  I still can’t breathe by the time I get into the car with Peter, the weight of Monica’s revelations sitting like an iceberg on my chest.

  “What’s wrong, ptichka?” he asks as we start driving. “Are you okay?”

  I want to laugh hysterically. Am I? Should I be?

  Is there a wellness barometer for when you’ve inadvertently commissioned a hit?

  “Sara?” Peter prompts, glancing at me, and though his tone is mildly curious, there’s a glimmer of dark knowledge in his gaze.

  He must’ve noticed Monica at the clinic.

  Whatever hopes I’d harbored about this being a horrible coincidence evaporate, leaving behind a deepening horror.

  Peter committed this murder for me.

  His victim’s blood is on my hands.

  There’s no point in asking, but I can’t help it. I have to hear the words out loud. “Did you do it?”

  I expect him to stall or deny it, but he answers without hesitation, his gaze trained on the road ahead. “Yes.”

  Yes.

  There it is. No misunderstanding, no confusion.

  He killed a man for me.

  Slit his throat, just like he’d done with those methheads.

  “Would you rather I left the girl in his clutches?” His voice is calm and steady as he glances at me again. “I did it so you wouldn’t worry—and so that your patient could have a normal life.”