Forever Mine

by Anna Zaires

  I swallow thickly and look away, staring blindly out the window. What do I say to that?

  How could you?

  Thank you?

  I force myself to look back at his profile. “I thought…” My throat closes and I have to start again. “I thought you were going to be law-abiding. Isn’t that one of the conditions of your deal with the authorities?”

  He nods, keeping his eyes on the road. “It is—and I am law-abiding. I consider what I did as aiding the law—as in, the law that’s supposed to be protecting girls like Monica from men like her stepfather.”

  I look away again, my eyes burning as the cold weight on my chest grows.

  He doesn’t even see what he did as wrong. And why would he? This is what he is, what he does.

  Killing is as normal to him as delivering a baby is to me.

  “Sara.” His deep voice reaches me, and I realized we’re already parked. I must’ve zoned out for the rest of the ride.

  Steeling myself, I turn toward him.

  He reaches over to clasp my hand. “Ptichka…” His voice is soft, his big hand warm as it engulfs my ice-cold fingers. “Why did you tell me about this if you didn’t want my help? Did you really expect me to watch you cry over that ublyudok and do nothing?”

  I flinch. I can’t help it.

  This, right here, is the crux of the matter, why Monica’s revelations are so crushing.

  Because deep inside, I didn’t expect him to meekly stand by. On some level, I knew what he would do—even before he promised that my patient “will be fine.”

  I knew and I pretended that I didn’t.

  Because secretly, I wanted this to happen.

  I pointed Peter at the problem, and he provided a solution.

  Just like that.

  “Sara…” He lifts his hand to cradle my cheek, his gaze dark yet warm in the dimly lit interior of the car. “Don’t do this, ptichka. Don’t beat yourself up. He deserved it; you know he did. Do you honestly believe Monica’s the only girl he’s ever hurt? Your legal system had a chance to fix the situation, to lock him up for good—and they let him go. You did the world a favor by telling me about him.”

  I close my eyes, wanting to lean into his palm, to let his deep, soothing voice chase away the horror and the guilt icing me from within.

  Not only do I love a killer now, but I’ve become one myself.

  “Don’t do this, my love. He’s not worth it.” His breath warms my face, and then his lips brush against mine in a gentle, coaxing kiss.

  A shudder ripples through me in response, a flash of heat igniting underneath the chill encasing me, and all of a sudden, gentleness is not enough.

  I don’t want to be soothed—I want to be fucked into oblivion.

  Opening my eyes, I sink my fingers into his hair, gripping his head, and angle my face to deepen the kiss. My tongue pushes into his mouth, and my nails dig into his skull as I press against him, ignoring the stick shift thingie between our seats. His breath catches, his hands sliding into my hair to grip it tightly in response, and a low growl rumbles deep in his chest as he responds with his own aggression, his teeth cutting into my lower lip as he kisses me back, harder and deeper, pressing me back toward my seat.

  Yes, that’s it. My head spins, the heat inside me intensifying to a conflagration. He tastes like violence and male hunger, like punishment and love all mixed together. I can’t think under his sensual assault, and I don’t want to.

  I want this.

  I want him.

  Somehow, the seat behind my back reclines, and then Peter is on top of me, the car shaking as he tears at my clothes, one hand delving under my blouse while the other reaches for the zipper of my pants. His callused palm is burning hot and rough as it slides across my bare stomach, and my eyes pop open long enough for me to see the car windows fogging up. It’s nearly enough to turn me lucid, to make me recall where we are, but then his hand moves lower, his kiss turning even more aggressive, and the maelstrom of need sweeps me away again.

  I don’t know when or how he gets my pants and underwear down, or at what point I tear off the button on his jeans. All I know is that he’s suddenly inside me, so hard and thick it hurts. I cry out, panting as he starts fucking me in earnest, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down—and I don’t want him to. We go at it like animals, with no restraint or finesse, and when I come, clinging to him and screaming, he’s right there with me, in the madness that is our connection.

  In the darkness that is our love.

  10

  Peter

  * * *

  I’m almost certain some neighbors saw what happened in our car in the parking lot—and I know my crew definitely did—but I don’t give a fuck as I lead a shaky Sara to the elevator. She’s as disheveled as I’ve ever seen her, her blouse buttoned crookedly and her hair a hot mess around her flushed face. I’m sure I look similar, and I can’t help grinning as we pass by a preppy couple pushing a stroller in the lobby. They give us a scandalized look, and Sara turns away, her cheeks flaming impossibly brighter.

  It’s so cute. My poor ptichka is embarrassed by our little bout of semi-public sex—though she’s the one who initiated it.

  “Don’t worry. We’re moving later this week,” I remind her as we enter the elevator, and she presses her forehead against the mirror, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she bangs a little fist on the glass.

  “I can’t believe we did that. I just… Oh, God, I’ll never live this down.”

  She sounds so mortified that I want to hug her. So I do exactly that, ignoring her attempts to push me away as I hold her pressed tightly against my chest. After a moment, she relaxes, and I stroke her tangled hair until the elevator reaches our floor.

  Then I bend down and lift her into my arms to carry her to the apartment.

  She doesn’t object, just hides her face against my neck as we pass by another neighbor in the hallway. The guy—a boy barely out of his teens, really—grins and gives me a thumbs up as he walks by.

  If only the kid knew the whole story.

  When we get to the door, I set Sara on her feet to get the keys, and she runs into the apartment as soon as I open it. I’m still taking off my shoes when I hear the shower come on, and by the time I join Sara there, she’s already stepping out of the tub, still adorably flushed and embarrassed-looking.

  I’m glad to see her like this.

  It sure beats the way she looked in the car after she learned about Monica’s stepfather’s demise.

  “Do you think anyone actually saw us?” she asks anxiously, wrapping a towel around herself, and I bite back another grin as I start to undress.

  “What do you think, ptichka?”

  “Well, it’s late, and the parking lot is kind of dark, and—oh, shut up!” She slaps me on the arm as I drop my shirt in the laundry basket and start laughing, unable to help myself.

  If nobody in this whole apartment complex saw the parked car rocking like a ship in a hurricane, I’ll eat my own foot.

  She groans, hiding her face in her hands, but then she looks up, suddenly pale. “You don’t think we’ll get arrested, do you? For public indecency or something like that?”

  I stop laughing. “No, my love.” I can see the fear and guilt on her face, and I know it’s not due to our parking lot shenanigans.

  She remembered what preceded it, and she’s worried about the fallout.

  “Sara…” I take her hands in both of mine. Her palms are cold again, despite the steam from the hot shower still filling the small bathroom. “Ptichka, nothing is going to happen to either one of us. There’s nothing tying me to that man’s death—nor anyone really investigating it. I know—I had the hackers check. As far as everyone is concerned, an ex-con got mugged in a bad neighborhood, that’s all. No cop is going to waste his time digging further—but even if they did, they wouldn’t uncover anything. I’m good at what I do… or did.”

  “I know you are. And that’s…” Her slender throat works. �
��That’s terrifying.”

  “Why?” I ask gently, rubbing my thumbs across her palms. “I told you, that part of my life is in the past. We’re looking forward to the future, remember? And now your patient can do the same. She’s free to live her life without fear. Isn’t that what you wanted for her?”

  “Of course it is.” She pulls her hands away and wraps her arms around herself, looking so forlorn that I almost regret doing this for her.

  Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d come up with some other way to take care of Monica’s problem—or at least disposed of the body.

  Then again, I wanted Sara’s patient to know that her assailant no longer poses a threat. An unexplained disappearance wouldn’t have accomplished that. The poor girl would’ve always been looking over her shoulder, fearing the asshole’s return.

  This is for the best, I’m sure of that. Now I just need to convince Sara.

  “Ptichka—”

  “Peter—” she begins simultaneously, so I stop, letting her speak.

  She takes a breath and slowly lets it out. “Peter, if we’re… to do this for real—if we’re to build a normal life together—I need you to promise me something.”

  “What is it, my love?” I ask, though I can guess.

  “I need you to promise me you’ll never do this again.” Her hazel eyes are intent on my face. “I need to know that if someone happens to upset me, he won’t end up in an alley with his throat slit. That if our children have a difficult teacher at school, or are bullied by a classmate, or if someone flips us a bird as we drive by, that murder is not on the table as a solution.”

  I blink slowly. “I see.”

  “Can you promise me that?” she presses, clutching the edges of her towel. “I need to know that people around me are safe—that by being with you, I’m not condemning anyone to death.”

  It’s my turn to take a deep, calming breath. “My love… I can’t promise not to protect you. If someone is trying to hurt you or our childr—”

  “We go to the authorities, like everyone else.” Her chin lifts stubbornly. “That’s what the police are for. And in any case, I’m not talking about a clear-cut case of self-defense. Obviously, if we’re walking down the street and someone pulls a gun on us, it’s a different matter—though disarming or simply wounding that person should still be the preferred solution. I’m talking about murder as a way to deal with people who are not posing a mortal threat. You see the difference, don’t you?”

  I don’t, not really. I have no intention of killing random jerks who honk at us or whatever it is Sara is imagining here, but I’m not about to stand by and let some asshole make her cry like her heart is breaking.

  She’s looking at me expectantly, though, and I know she won’t let this drop. “All right,” I say after a moment of deliberation. “If that’s what you want, I promise I won’t kill anyone who doesn’t pose a threat to us or anyone we care about.”

  “And you won’t torture or beat up or hurt them in any way, right?”

  I sigh. “Fine. No physical harm, I promise.” There are still a number of levers I can pull if it comes down to it—bribery, blackmail, financial pressure—so I feel comfortable making this promise. Besides, what constitutes “a threat” is open to interpretation as far as I’m concerned.

  If some fucking bully assaults our kid in school, he—or his parents—will not walk away unscathed.

  Sara doesn’t look satisfied with my very specific promise, so I reach for her towel and pull it off at the same time as I unzip my jeans.

  “Wait—” she starts, but I’m already herding her back into the shower, where I make sure that whatever hypothetical future assholes I might need to deal with are far, far from her mind.

  11

  Peter

  * * *

  The next morning, Sara is quiet and a little distant, undoubtedly still dwelling on my solution to her patient’s problem. That’s not likely to lead anywhere good, so I seek to distract her by bringing up her new hobby: singing with the band.

  “When is your next performance?” I ask over breakfast. “I’ve seen the videos of you on stage, but I’d love to see it in person.”

  She looks up from her omelet, blinking as if just refocusing on me. “Oh, I actually meant to tell you. Our guitarist, Phil, texted me late last night. He’s secured a gig for us tomorrow night, but only if everyone can make it on short notice. Do you think we can move the dinner with my parents to Saturday?”

  My first impulse is to say no. I’ve been counting on having her to myself after the dinner—an event that would likely take two or three hours, max. This performance gig would eat our entire Friday night, and then we’d still have to get together with her parents over the weekend—which is also when we’re going to be settling into our new place.

  Then again, I’ve been dying to see my little songbird on stage, singing her heart out. And this is important to her—so it’s important to me.

  “Of course,” I say calmly and get up to start cleaning up. “We can do dinner with your parents on Saturday. Or better yet, invite them over for a Saturday brunch.”

  I’ve always known that living this life means I’d have to share Sara’s time and attention, and I can’t let my obsession with her ruin this for us.

  I can handle this.

  It’s just something I need to get used to.

  I finish cleaning up while Sara gets dressed, and then I drive her to work.

  “Don’t forget: the closing is at six today,” I tell her as we pull up in front of her office. “I’ll pick you up at 5:30, okay?”

  She nods, still not quite meeting my gaze as she reaches for the door handle.

  “Sara.” I catch her wrist as she opens the door. “Look at me.”

  She reluctantly obeys, and I reach over with my other hand, tucking an errant strand of glossy chestnut hair behind her ear. “Say it, ptichka. I want to hear the words.”

  She stares at me, and I feel the rapid pulse in the slender wrist I’m holding. She’s fighting herself again, fighting her feelings for me, and I won’t stand for it.

  “Say it,” I demand, my grip tightening, and I see the exact moment she gives up the fight.

  Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply, then opens them. “I love you.” Her voice is quiet but steady as she looks into my eyes. “I love you, Peter… no matter what.”

  Something deep within me—a knot of tension I didn’t even know was there—relaxes, and I bring her hand up to my lips, kissing the soft skin on each knuckle. “I love you too. I’ll see you at 5:30, okay?”

  “Okay,” she murmurs, and I force myself to let her go.

  To let her fly free, if only until tonight.

  12

  Sara

  * * *

  True to his word, Peter picks me up at 5:30 sharp, and we drive to the title company’s office to sign papers.

  “You put the house in my name?” I give Peter a startled look when I see space for only my signature on the documents.

  He nods, his lips curving in a smile. “It’s for the best, ptichka. Just in case.”

  A chill wraps around my spine. “Just in case” could refer to any number of things, but when your husband used to be hunted by law enforcement agencies worldwide and still has ties to the criminal underworld, the words take on a particularly sinister meaning.

  I want to probe deeper, but the title agent—a pretty, polished woman in her thirties—is watching us with undisguised curiosity, so I just sign at every X and try not to think about the terrifying possibilities.

  Like, say, a SWAT team breaking down our door in the middle of the night because they’ve uncovered Peter’s role in Monica’s stepfather’s murder.

  “All done,” the woman says brightly when I hand her the last of the papers. “Congratulations on your new home.”

  “Thank you.” I stand up and shake her hand. “We’re very excited.”

  Peter shakes her hand next, and I can’t help but notice the way
she looks at him—like a cat eyeing a saucer of cream. He seems oblivious to her interest, but I still feel an ugly stirring of jealousy.

  Maybe I should tell Peter that she upset me?

  I quash the dark joke as soon as it pops up in my mind, but it’s too late. I’m back to thinking about everything and feeling sick. All day long, I’ve been trying to convince myself that what happened was a one-off and that Peter will keep his promise not to hurt anyone else, but every time I come close to believing it, I remember what he threatened to do at our wedding if I stood him up.

  Murder—or the threat of it—will always be a part of his arsenal, and nobody around me is truly safe.

  Not when I’m walking around with the equivalent of a live grenade.

  Peter escorts me out, and we drive home, where the table is already set with candles and a bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket of ice while delicious smells waft from the oven.

  “To our new home,” he toasts after pouring us each a glass, and I knock back the fizzy drink, trying not to think about puppet-like bodies in dark alleys and the live grenade who’s always at my side.

  13

  Peter

  * * *

  The movers aren’t due until noon, so after I drop Sara off at work on Friday, I go for a long run with a weighted backpack to imitate the training I used to do with my guys. I need the hard exercise to work off some of the restlessness I’ve been feeling—and to take my mind off how much I miss my workaholic wife.

  Ending my run in a quiet, nearly empty park, I strip off my sweat-soaked T-shirt and start on a set of calisthenics, using the eighty-pound backpack to add difficulty to basic one-arm pushups and pullups on a nearby tree.

  I’m almost finished when I see a teenage boy running toward me, his T-shirt flapping around his skinny body. For one heart-stopping moment, he looks exactly like my friend Andrey, the one who gave me all of my tattoos at Camp Larko.