by Anna Zaires
The illusion dissolves as the runner gets closer, but I still can’t look away.
The kid is sprinting like the hounds of hell are chasing him, his eyes wild and his arms pumping desperately at his sides. A few seconds later, I see why.
Four older, bigger boys—young men, really—are running after him, yelling out insults as they go.
It’s none of my fucking business, but I can’t help it.
As soon as the Andrey lookalike sprints past me, I unclip my backpack from around my waist and toss it casually on the ground. Then, just as his pursuers are about to barrel past me, I step into their path, extending my arms on both sides.
They screech to a halt, just barely avoiding crashing into me.
“What the fuck, man?” the biggest one snarls. “Move!”
He tries to shove me aside—a major mistake on his part. My well-honed instincts kick in, and a moment later, the guy is sprawled on his ass, groaning, as his three comrades back away, hands raised defensively.
“Scram,” I tell them, and they do, pausing only long enough to grab their fallen friend and drag him away.
I bend down to retrieve my backpack when I spot movement out of the corner of my eye.
It’s the kid I just helped, his skinny chest heaving as he stares at me. “How did you do that?” There’s awe and envy in his voice.
“Do what?” Picking up my backpack, I stuff my discarded T-shirt into it.
“Get him taken down like that.”
I shrug, putting on the backpack and securing the straps around my waist. “Just some basic self-defense training.”
“No, dude.” The kid’s blue eyes are huge—and eerily like Andrey’s. “That was something else. Were you in the Army? And are you doing a workout with that?” He points at my backpack.
“Something like that, and yes.” I turn to leave, but the boy is not done with me.
“Can you teach me? How to fight, I mean?”
I pretend not to hear and start jogging.
He’s not deterred. Catching up to me, he jogs at my side. “Can you teach me, mister? Please?”
I pick up my pace. “I’m not in the business of training kids.”
“I will pay you.” He’s breathless from the run but somehow manages to keep up with me. “Here.” He sticks his hand into his pocket and returns with a pair of twenties. “They were going to take it anyway, so you might as well have it.”
I’m about to refuse when an idea comes to me. Stopping next to a bench, I eye the kid speculatively. “You want to learn? Really?”
“Yes.” He all but bounces in excitement. “I want to know how to defend myself. I mean, I took a little karate when I was younger, but it didn’t really—”
“How old are you?” I interrupt.
“Sixteen. Well, almost. My birthday is next month.”
“And who were those guys chasing you?”
The boy flushes. “My older brother’s friends. They’re all pledging to a fraternity, and it’s some kind of a ritual for them. You know, grab money from a nerd.”
I almost roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Am I really considering this?
“Please, mister.” The kid shifts from foot to foot. “My dad always says I need to stand up for myself, but I never know how. And the way you just got them… I would kill to be able to do that.”
The kid has no idea what he’s saying, but for some reason—maybe because I’m still thinking of Andrey and how he always got picked on at our hellish camp before the sadistic guard boiled him alive—I extend my hand and say, “Give me your cell.”
The kid eagerly pulls out his phone and hands it to me. I program in my number and give it back to him.
“Call me this weekend, and we’ll set up a time. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Aiden, sir. Aiden Walt.” He hesitates, then decides to be brave. “And you are?”
“Peter Garin,” I say and resume running, leaving the teen standing by the bench.
14
Sara
* * *
As has been his habit all week, Peter picks me up after work, only instead of us going home or to the clinic, we drive to the bar where my band is performing tonight.
“Thank you so much for this,” I say between bites of the chicken pasta he brought for me to eat in the car. “Seriously, this is delicious.”
“You’re welcome, ptichka.” His silver gaze is warm as he glances at me before turning his attention back to the road. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I can’t believe you had time to cook today. Weren’t the movers supposed to come?”
He grins. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? They came—and tonight we’re going to sleep at the new place.”
“What?” I almost choke on my pasta. “Are you serious?”
He nods. “I hired four guys, and they packed and moved everything in record time. I’ve already unpacked all the necessities, including everything for the kitchen and the bedroom, so it’s just a matter of dealing with a few more boxes over the weekend. And buying some new things, of course—but I figured we could do that together.”
“You are amazing,” I say, and I mean it. His relentless, obsessive drive—that nearly superhuman ability to overcome insurmountable odds in pursuit of his goal—used to terrify me, but now that I’m no longer fighting to escape him, I see it for the asset that it is.
The same formidable force of will that Peter used to make me fall in love with him despite everything is now smoothing all the minor bumps in our peaceful suburban life—a life that’s possible only because Peter performed a virtual miracle and got himself off the Most Wanted lists.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think him a wizard, bending fate and reality to his will.
“So, I’ve decided to open a training studio,” he says casually as I resume eating. “I’ll start scoping out a place next week.”
I pause mid-bite, staring at him in disbelief. “Really?”
“Yeah, I met this kid in the park today, and he begged me for some fighting lessons. So that gave me the idea, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. I’m thinking self-defense classes for women and teens, boot camp programs for hardcore athletes, weapons training for bodyguards, and so on. I have some experience with training others, having done it with my guys when I was first putting together the team, so it might be fun.”
“That is an excellent idea.” I can’t hide the excitement in my voice. “That will be such a perfect thing for you to do.”
He shoots me a wry glance. “Better than assassinations?”
I laugh because he’s read my mind. “Yes, much better.” I’ve been worried about what he’d do here, whether he’d miss his adrenaline-filled former profession, and this settles my mind quite a bit.
With the training studio to occupy his days and provide a new challenge, my assassin husband might actually adjust to our calm, civilian life.
Feeling lighter than I have since Monica’s visit, I finish my pasta, and we pull up to the bar where we’re performing tonight.
The light feeling evaporates as soon as we step inside. The bar is huge, loud, and crowded, with most of the patrons already drunk, and I can feel Peter’s growing tension as we make our way to the backstage area, where the other band members are getting ready.
“Hey, there they are, the newlyweds! So glad you could make it.” Phil pulls me into a big hug, and my husband’s face turns to stone, his hand starting to curl into a fist.
Shit. I’ve forgotten about Peter’s extreme possessiveness.
I push my bandmate away and swiftly grab Peter’s arm. The steely muscle flexes under my fingers, and I know I was right to worry.
My grenade was about to explode.
“Where are Simon and Rory?” I ask, rubbing my hands over Peter’s bicep, like I’m just enjoying touching all that lethal muscle—which I would be, if I weren’t so concerned for Phil. “Are they ready to go?”
“They’re changing over there.�
�� Phil jerks his head to the right. “You should go change, too. We’ve got your outfit prepped. And don’t worry, I’ll give him back to you when you’re done.” He grins at Peter, who still looks like he wants to hammer nails into him. Slowly.
“Okay. I’ll be quick.” I give Peter’s bicep a warning squeeze and reluctantly head into the changing area.
Our guitarist better be unharmed when I return.
15
Peter
* * *
“So,” Phil says, his good-natured expression evaporating as soon as Sara is out of sight. “Jealous bastard, aren’t you?”
I stare at him, unblinking. “You have no idea.”
If he ever hugs Sara again, it’ll be the last thing he does. This place already has me on edge—with all the drunks crowded together out there, it’s the perfect place for some assassin to strike—and the mere thought of this beer-bellied asshole’s paws on Sara has my fingers itching to squeeze his chubby neck.
He stares back at me, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, man, you should see the look on your face. I never knew that whole killer stare was a real thing.”
I force myself to blink, lessening said “killer stare” as he continues, happily oblivious to how true his observation was. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to poach on your territory. We’ve all just known Sara for a while, and she’s like a sister to us. Well, not really, because we’re not related and she is smoking hot, but you know what I mean. And honestly, we didn’t even know she was into men. Not saying we thought she was batting for the other team—just not into dating, being a widow and all. Though I guess she was secretly dating you and…” He shakes his head. “Damn, I can’t believe we didn’t know.”
“Yes, well, now you do.” I should probably be more gracious, given his transparent attempt at male bonding, but I’m still barely restraining myself from choking him over that hug—and all the other times he’s undoubtedly hit on my “smoking hot” wife.
She wasn’t my wife at the time, but she was mine.
Fortunately, Sara reappears before my patience is tested further. She’s wearing a white halter-top dress that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe in the famous skirt-blowing scene. On another woman, it might’ve looked simply flirty, but on Sara, with her dancer’s posture, it’s as elegant as it is sexy.
“Thought it was appropriate,” Phil says as I stare at her, my mouth watering with the urge to nibble on the soft skin exposed by the dress’s open neckline. “You know, since she’s a new bride and all.”
I tear my eyes away from her delicate collarbones. “What?”
“The white dress,” the guitarist says, grinning. “I chose it. Like a continuation of your wedding and all.”
“Ah.” I turn back to watch Sara as she stops to talk to their drummer, Simon.
How bad would it be if I stole her away right now? Just picked her up and carried her out of here, then kept her in my bed until we both can’t walk?
I want her singing for me, and only me, in this dress.
And in any other dress, come to think of it.
“Man, you have it bad,” Phil says, and I glance at him, irritated. The idiot is shaking his head and grinning, like he can’t see that I’m about to literally rip his head off.
“Phil, hey!” A blond woman rounds the corner, and I realize it’s Sara’s friend from the hospital, Marsha.
Spotting me, she freezes for a second, then hesitantly approaches us.
“Hi, Marsha.” I smile at her as gently as I can. No need to scare the woman further; she already has all sorts of suspicions about me. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Yeah, well…” Her gaze darts to Phil. “Can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” He looks back at me. “Excuse me.”
I return my attention to Sara as Marsha all but drags the guitarist away. My ptichka is now talking to the redheaded guy, Rory, and I don’t like the way that muscle-bound peacock is looking at her.
I start heading over there, but Sara ends the conversation and sticks her head out to the stage area. “They’re ready for us,” she yells over her shoulder, and I quietly exit the backstage area to join the crowd in the bar.
My ptichka’s performance is about to begin, and I’m not about to miss it.
To my amazement, the rowdy crowd quiets down as soon as Sara steps out onto the stage. And when she opens her mouth, I see why. She’s as phenomenal up there as any pop star, her voice strong and pure as she belts out the lyrics she’s composed. I’ve heard her practice this in Japan, but I listen as raptly as everyone in the bar.
It’s impossible not to.
The song is both evocative and upbeat, an unusual mixture of country, R&B, and recent pop hits—all combined with Sara’s unique spin.
She’s more than good.
She’s amazing.
Our eyes meet, and my heart expands in my chest, until it feels like it can’t be contained. It’s surreal, how badly I need her, how I crave her with every cell of my body. The primitive instinct awakens in me again, the urge to throw her over my shoulder and drag her off to my lair.
I want her far from everyone’s eyes, so I can devour her all on my own.
One song, three, five, fifteen—before I know it, it’s been two hours. They keep calling her back, demanding an encore, and she keeps giving in—until finally, it’s all over.
I catch her as she steps off the stage. Literally grab and lift her, pressing her against my chest.
“Newlywed’s privilege,” I growl at her rabid fans, and as she hides her face, blushing and laughing, I do what I’ve been dying to do all evening.
I carry her off, to enjoy all on my own.
16
Peter
* * *
I restrain myself long enough to get us home, though each time Sara shifts in her seat and I catch a glimpse of her bare thigh under that flirty white skirt, I’m tempted to pull off the road.
The only thing that stops me is that I don’t want another quickie in the car. I need her in my bed, where I can feast on her delicious body all night long. Where I can show her that she’ll always be mine, no matter how many men salivate over her.
It helps that she’s talking nonstop, still riding the high from her performance. She’s telling me all about how Phil’s guitar needed a last-minute tune-up and how Simon almost didn’t make it because he has an article deadline. Focusing on her words keeps me from reaching under her skirt and trailing my hand up her smooth, shapely thigh before delving under the lacy thong she put on this morning and stroking her soft, silky pussy—
“Can you believe Marsha is now going out with Phil?” Sara says, and I realize I’ve stopped listening, lost in the heated fantasy.
“She is?” I do my best to refocus on her words. “When did that happen?”
“Rory told me they hooked up the night of our wedding. Isn’t that funny? Marsha was apparently too drunk to drive after the ceremony, and Phil volunteered to bring her home. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“That’s great,” I say, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the road instead of devouring Sara with my gaze. “Good for them.”
I mean it, too. Maybe the flamboyant nurse will keep the guitarist occupied, and he’ll stop slobbering over Sara every chance he gets. And in turn, maybe he’ll keep Marsha distracted enough to stay out of our business.
Sara has told her a bit too much during my absence, and though Marsha doesn’t know for sure that I’m the man who had stalked Sara and killed her first husband, she strongly suspects it.
“Yeah, I hope it works out for them,” Sara says. “They both deserve a good partner.”
I nod noncommittally and risk another glance at Sara. She’s looking at me, smiling, and then she kills me by casually reaching over to lay her hand on my thigh.
My cock, already semi-erect from the X-rated images in my mind, snaps to full attention. The touch of her slender fingers heats my skin even through the thick material of my jeans. It’s like a
live wire is lying on my thigh, sending jolts of electricity straight to my groin. My heart rate spikes violently, and my jaws clench as the road ahead blurs for a dangerous second.
“Sara.” I all but growl her name as my hands tighten convulsively on the wheel. “Ptichka, if you don’t move your hand right now…”
Her breath audibly hitches, and she yanks her hand away, having finally realized what she’s doing. It doesn’t help, though. I can still feel her touch. It’s branded into my skin, my mind… my heart. Maybe one day it won’t feel like this, with her casual affection slaying me each time, but for now, we’re still too new, too raw. Not long ago, she’d feared and hated me. I’d been a monster in her eyes. And maybe I still am—but now she loves me.
She knows she needs me, monster and all.
When we pull up in front of our new house, I pause to make sure nothing sets off my well-honed sense of danger. Nothing does—not that it should. The place is now as secure as possible, with cutting-edge technology monitoring everything and my crew positioned in strategic locations throughout the neighborhood.
I won’t chance enemies from my past intruding on our peaceful present.
“Wow,” Sara exclaims as I help her out of the car. Her head swivels from side to side, her eyes wide in amazement. “Where did all these trees come from? And that fence? When did you have time to do all this?”
I spare a glance at what she’s talking about. I did indeed put up a tall fence, and I planted trees all around the property to provide privacy and obscure the line of sight for any potential snipers.
“Yesterday,” I tell her, placing a hand on her lower back to shepherd her to the entrance.
She can marvel at our new place tomorrow; tonight, all her time belongs to me.
We’re barely cleared the doorway when my restraint snaps like a twig in a hailstorm.