Forever Mine

by Anna Zaires

  Daily sweeps? There’s paranoia, and then there’s whatever this is. I knew our house has all the security of a military base—I’ve seen the futuristic tech embedded throughout—but I didn’t realize Peter is that paranoid.

  “And no,” he continues while I’m gathering my thoughts. “I don’t think he knows anything. My hackers are keeping tabs on the files related to Sonny Pearson, and nobody’s accessed them in weeks.”

  Sonny Pearson? Is that Monica’s stepfather’s name? My stomach tightens as I stare at Peter, images of dark alleys and pools of blood swimming in front of my eyes. I’ve mostly put that murder out of my mind, just like all the other awful things Peter’s done, but now that I know the man’s name, the horror and guilt are fresh again.

  “Stop it, ptichka.” Peter’s tone gentles, and I realize my face must reflect my thoughts. Reaching out, he captures both of my hands in his big palms. “Don’t go there again. It’s over.”

  Pulling me toward him, he enfolds me in a soothing hug, and I wrap my arms around his waist, inhaling his familiar scent as my cheek presses into his muscled shoulder. It’s perverse to let him comfort me like this, but I can’t resist accepting this from him.

  It’s the only way I can cope with loving someone so ruthless.

  As he holds me, patiently stroking my hair, I feel a growing hardness pressing into my stomach, and I know that in a few more moments, he won’t be content with simply holding me.

  It’s tempting to go along with that, to find refuge in the mind-melting pleasure he always gives me, but I need to make sure of something first.

  “Peter…” Pulling back, I gaze up at him. “You’re not going to do anything to Marsha or Agent Ryson, right?”

  He stares down at me, his hands tightening on my sides. “Define ‘anything.’”

  “Peter, please.”

  His lips flatten, and he steps back, releasing me. “Fine. Your friend is safe. I won’t go near her. Even if she didn’t avoid us like the plague, you now know better than to trust her.”

  “My lips are sealed around her,” I promise. “And you won’t go near Ryson either. Right?” I prompt when Peter neither confirms nor denies my statement.

  A muscle ticks in his chiseled jaw. “He poses a threat. You know that, Sara. It’s no longer just an assignment for him. He wants to bring us down; he’s obsessed with it.”

  “Yes, but we’re not doing anything wrong—just living our life. And if we continue doing that, he won’t be able to do anything to us. However, if you rise to his bait…”

  Peter swears under his breath and turns away, walking over to stand by the window. I follow, knowing that if I don’t extract this promise from him, the FBI agent’s days are numbered.

  “You know this is exactly what he’s hoping for,” I say when Peter turns to face me, his expression forbidding. “He wants you to violate the terms of your deal. It’s killing him that you are here with me, and we’re happy. This”—I reach out to clasp Peter’s hand—“is the best revenge you can have. Let him run around sniffing at our heels. He won’t find anything because there won’t be anything to find.”

  As I speak, Peter’s fingers tighten into a fist in my grasp before slowly relaxing, and his eyes take on a peculiar gleam. “All right,” he says huskily as he grips my wrists and moves them lower. “I see your point.” He presses my hands to his crotch, where I feel a growing bulge.

  I lick my lips as an answering warmth ignites in my core. “So I have your word?” I gently massage his erection through his jeans before sinking down on my knees in front of him. “You won’t hurt Ryson in any way?”

  He closes his eyes and grasps my shoulders as I unzip his jeans. “Yes, you have my word. He’s safe.” His voice is strained with need, but I hear the dark note underneath as he adds, “As long as he doesn’t try anything else.”

  20

  Henderson

  * * *

  I turn into an alley, shivering at the biting gust of wind. It’s unseasonably cold in Budapest this week, reminding me of my brief stint in Vladivostok in the early nineties.

  Fuck, I miss those simpler days.

  She’s waiting for me by the back door, as agreed, her small, boyish figure bundled up in a thick jacket and her short, platinum-blond hair standing up in spikes around her elfin face.

  If I didn’t know what she is, it would be easy to believe her cover as a waitress at a trendy bar.

  “Mink?” I say as I approach, and she nods.

  “Here.” I hand her a thick envelope. “US passport and half of the agreed-upon payment.”

  She takes the envelope and stuffs it into her coat. When she takes her hand out, she’s holding a folder. “These are the men you want,” she says, handing it to me. Her English is as American-sounding as mine, without so much as a hint of an Eastern European accent. “They’re the best, and they’ll do anything.”

  I open the folder and flip through the files inside. Each of the candidates has a rap sheet as long as my targets, and all are elite former military.

  Best of all, I see four whose appearance could be sufficiently altered with wigs and makeup.

  “All good?” she asks, and I nod, closing the folder.

  These were the last puzzle pieces I was missing.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take him out myself?” she asks as I stuff the folder into my own coat. “Because I could, you know.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” I say. “He’s too well guarded. And even if you managed, that’s not the plan. Your job is to make sure he doesn’t get taken alive, understand?”

  She gives me a mocking salute. “Aye, aye, General. Consider it done.”

  And pivoting on the heel of her Doc Martens, she opens the door and disappears into the bar.

  21

  Peter

  * * *

  I didn’t think it was possible to love Sara more, but as the weeks pass and we find our stride as a married couple, my feelings for her both intensify and deepen. I realize now that there was a lot I didn’t know about the object of my obsession—our relationship had been so tense that she’d never truly relaxed around me. Now, however, I get to see a different side of her, and I adore every new trait and quirk that I uncover.

  My ptichka hates politics but is weirdly fascinated by natural disasters, religiously devouring all the news coverage before sending in a generous donation. She claims to love dogs more than cats, but it’s cat videos she’s addicted to on YouTube. She thinks Big Bang Theory is the funniest show of all time and makes me watch it with her on the weekends. And best of all, she sings when she’s in a great mood—sometimes under her breath, sometimes out loud.

  “You should include that in your next performance,” I tell her when I catch her humming in the kitchen one Saturday morning. “I like that melody. Very evocative.”

  She grins up at me. “Really? It’s something I just composed. Still need to come up with words for it.”

  “You will.” I drop a kiss on her smooth forehead. “You always do.”

  Her music is evolving, just like our relationship. She’s more confident in her choices, and it shows in the band’s performances, which now consist of original material composed by her—and draw increasingly larger crowds. A month ago, Simon created a YouTube channel for their band, and it’s already at two hundred thousand subscribers.

  “It’s only a matter of time before we go really big,” Rory tells us giddily after a sizable outdoor venue completely sells out for their Friday night concert. “We’re on the verge of breaking out, I just know it.”

  Phil and Simon are just as excited, wanting to go out to celebrate, but Sara refuses, claiming that she’s tired. Concerned, I immediately take her home, so I could tuck her into bed in case she’s getting sick.

  “I’m fine, really,” she tells me in exasperation when I physically pick her up to carry her from the car to the house. “I’m tired, but I can walk. Seriously, it’s just been a long week.”

  Ignorin
g her protests, I carry her into the house, not setting her down until I get to our bathroom upstairs. There I draw her a hot bath and make sure she’s comfortably settled in before I go to the kitchen to make her some echinacea tea.

  When I return with the tea, she’s already nodding off in the tub, looking so adorably sleepy that I put her in bed as soon as I towel her off, ignoring the predictable hunger that having her naked in my arms generates.

  I need to take care of her right now, not fuck her.

  She falls asleep immediately, without so much as a sip of the tea, even though it’s only ten p.m. and we don’t normally go to bed until eleven at the earliest. I feel her forehead to make sure she’s not running a fever, then grab my laptop and settle in a lounge chair by the bed, figuring I’d do some work as I keep an eye on her.

  There’s a surprising amount of paperwork that goes along with running a legitimate business like my training studio—and generally managing a fortune.

  I’m glad about that. Not the paperwork—nobody likes that—but that I’m able to keep busy. Training civilians in the basics of self-defense is a far cry from the adrenaline-fueled missions of my past, but it helps occupy my days and takes the edge off my constant longing for Sara. Though her bosses are back, she still works too much, and it takes all my willpower not to pressure her to cut back and spend more time with me.

  As is, outside of work, we do everything together, from running errands to volunteering at the women’s clinic to hanging out with her family and friends. I’ve even scheduled our dental cleanings to take place at the same office at the same time, so we can be together for the drive.

  It may seem like too much to most people, but it’s barely enough for me.

  After an hour, I check on Sara. Still no fever, and she’s sleeping peacefully, if a bit too deeply. Maybe she is just tired.

  Yawning, I put my laptop away and take a quick shower before getting into bed as well. Pulling her to me, I inhale deeply, drawing in her sweet scent, and let myself drift off, reveling in the feel of her in my embrace.

  22

  Sara

  * * *

  I’m still strangely tired when I wake up the next morning, and the breakfast smells wafting from the kitchen downstairs make me nauseated instead of awakening my appetite as usual. Bleary-eyed, I stumble to the bathroom, and as I’m brushing my teeth, it dawns on me that today is Saturday.

  As in, four days after my period was due to start.

  The surge of adrenaline chases away the remaining grogginess. Heart racing, I rush back to the bedroom and pull out my phone, frantically counting the days on the calendar to make sure I didn’t make a mistake.

  Nope.

  I’m definitely late, and this time, I can’t blame it on stress.

  I’ve stocked up on home pregnancy tests since our discussion about children, so I rush back to the bathroom to take one. Except I’ve already peed, and I can’t squeeze out so much as a drop of urine.

  Silently cursing my lack of foresight, I stuff the completely dry test back in the box, put it back in the drawer, and go get dressed.

  I’ll have to wait until after breakfast to take the test.

  “Your parents are almost here,” Peter informs me when I get downstairs, and I recall with a jolt that they’re coming over for brunch today.

  “Did I oversleep again?” I glance at the clock. “Oh, wow, yeah.”

  It’s 11:27 a.m.—exactly three minutes before my parents are due to arrive.

  “You must’ve been really worn out,” Peter says, garnishing a fluffy-looking quiche with a sprig of parsley. “How are you feeling this morning, ptichka?”

  I hesitate, then give him a bright smile. “Fine. Just needed to catch up on my sleep, that’s all.”

  Given how much he wants a baby, it’s better if I know for sure before I tell him. If this is a false alarm, I’d hate for him to be disappointed.

  Peter doesn’t look like he completely believes me, but the doorbell rings before he can say anything. I hurry to the door to greet my parents, and by the time we get to the dining room, my husband has already set the table.

  “Oh, wow,” Mom says when she tries a bite of the quiche. “Peter, I have to say, I’ve been to five-star restaurants that aren’t as amazing.”

  He gives her a warm smile, and my dad grunts approvingly as he bites into his own portion. My parents are still somewhat wary of Peter, but he’s slowly winning them over by being a model son-in-law. With George, when we’d get busy, we’d sometimes go a month or more without seeing my parents, but Peter makes sure we meet with them at least once a week. He’s also been cutting their grass and taking care of technological and handyman-type tasks around their house, all the while making my parents feel like they’re doing it all themselves and he’s just lending an occasional hand.

  “You have a real gift for this,” I told him a couple of weeks ago. “Is winning over hostile in-laws something they teach in assassin school?”

  Peter nodded placidly. “In-laws, explosives, high-caliber weapons—all must be handled with care. Besides, I like your parents. They created you.”

  I grinned at him then, feeling incandescently happy. I don’t know what I imagined when I pictured our life as a married couple, but so far, everything about it has exceeded my expectations. The darkness of our shared past still hovers in the background, but the future now looks so bright that it almost doesn’t matter.

  We’ve achieved the impossible: a normal, happy life together.

  After we finish brunch—which I choke down despite persistent low-grade nausea—I take Mom upstairs to show her a stylish coat that I bought online. Dad stays downstairs, settling in our living room to watch the news on our big-screen TV while Peter clears away the dishes.

  Mom approves the coat immediately—she loves fashionable things—and I’m about to excuse myself to finally take the test when Dad’s tense voice floats upstairs.

  “Lorna, Sara, come here. You need to take a look at this.”

  My phone buzzes at the same time, and so does my mom’s.

  Exchanging worried looks, we simultaneously pull out our phones.

  On my screen is a notification from CNN.

  Suspected terrorist act at FBI field office in Chicago, it reads. Casualties unknown.

  23

  Sara

  * * *

  My heart is pounding and the quiche is like a rock in my stomach by the time we get downstairs. My dad and Peter are in the living room, staring at the TV screen—which is showing a sizable building up in flames.

  The same building where Ryson had interrogated me so many times.

  Mom covers her mouth, her face starkly pale as we watch helicopters circle the burning building. Below, firefighters and paramedics are frantically working to rescue survivors and load the injured onto stretchers.

  It looks like a scene out of a movie, except it’s happening right now, less than an hour’s drive away.

  “While the authorities haven’t made any official statements, early indications suggest that a sophisticated, powerful explosive went off inside the building,” the female newscaster says in a grave tone. “As of now, all airports and government offices nationwide are on high alert, and air traffic in the Chicago region has been grounded.”

  The image on TV flips to show SWAT-like figures rushing into O’Hare with bomb-sniffing dogs, all but mowing down the terrified travelers in their way.

  “Chicago residents are advised to stay off the road to clear the way for emergency vehicles,” the newscaster continues. “Anyone with information about this terrible event can call the number below.” A 1-800 number appears in bold font on the bottom of the screen. “As of now, three people are confirmed dead and fifteen injured. We’ll keep you posted as we learn more.” She pauses, hand to her ear, then says, “This just in: Seven people are now confirmed dead, and the explosion appears to have originated on the third floor of the building.”

  Third floor?

 
That’s where Ryson’s office is.

  Could he have been there?

  Is he among the dead?

  I’m not fully cognizant of swaying on my feet, but I must have, because suddenly, Peter is there, his powerful arm looping around my back. “Here, sit down,” he murmurs, guiding me to the couch. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

  I blink up at him, struck by how calm he appears as he sits beside me. Other than some tension in his jaw, nothing about Peter’s expression suggests that anything unusual is going on. Then again, I’m sure he’s seen worse.

  Maybe even done worse.

  An awful thought nibbles at the back of my mind, but I shove it away, not wanting to so much as verbalize it to myself.

  I’m not going there, not even for a second.

  “I can’t believe this,” Dad says, his voice shaking, and I turn to see him sitting next to me, his face as pale as my mom’s as he stares at the TV. “The FBI building of all places. How could they have gotten past all that security?”

  How indeed?

  The dark thought flickers back to life, but I determinedly stamp it out. This horrible tragedy has nothing to do with me or Peter.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” I ask, reaching over to touch his arm.

  This can’t be good for his faulty heart.

  He nods, his eyes still glued to the screen. “Thank God it’s a Saturday. Can you imagine how many people would’ve died if this were Monday?”

  I look back at the TV, where firefighters are battling the flames and victims are being carried away on stretchers.

  A lot fewer victims than I would’ve expected from an explosion of this size.

  Of course, some people might’ve been blown apart, with their remains yet to be discovered, but I suspect Dad is right, and there were fewer people because it’s the weekend.