by Anna Zaires
If I can avoid schlepping around in Peter’s sweatpants, I’ll gladly do so.
Clothing dealt with, I move on to toiletries, packing our toothbrushes and toothpaste in a plastic Ziploc bag I find under the sink. As I zip them up, along with Peter’s razor and a small tube of moisturizer, it strikes me that I’m being oddly calm about this. My palms are sweaty and my heartbeat is elevated, but I’m no more stressed than I’d be if we were running late for a flight. I suppose it’s because deep inside, I expected something like this to happen. As skilled as Peter and his men are at evading the authorities, sooner or later, they’re bound to be found. If not by the FBI or Interpol, then by some criminal out to avenge one of their targets.
Even drug lords and corrupt bankers may have someone who loves them.
I’m running back into the bedroom to get a belt for Peter’s jeans when he walks in, his expression pitch black.
“What happened?” Dropping the backpack on the bed, I rush toward him. “Do we have to—”
He catches my face between his callused palms and slants his lips across mine in a hard, violently hungry kiss. We didn’t make love after the encounter in the kitchen—I passed out early from jet lag and Peter considerately let me sleep—and I can taste the pent-up lust in this kiss, the dark fire that always burns between us.
Backing me up against the bed, Peter tears off my clothes, then his own, and then, with no preliminaries, he thrusts into me, stretching me with his thickness, battering me with his hard heat. I cry out at the shock of it, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. His eyes glitter fiercely as he stretches my arms above my head, his hands shackling my wrists, and I realize it’s something more than lust driving him today, something savage and desperate.
My body’s response is swift and sudden, like oil catching fire. One minute, I’m gritting my teeth at the merciless force of his thrusts, and the next, I’m hurtling over the edge and screaming as I splinter in brutal ecstasy. There’s no relief in this orgasm, only a lessening of impossible tension, but even that doesn’t last. The second peak, as violent as the first, comes right on its heels, and I cry out at the agonizing spasms, the pleasure ripping me apart as he drives into me, over and over again, riding me through the climax and beyond.
I don’t know how long Peter fucks me like that, but by the time he comes, spurting burning-hot seed inside me, my throat is raw from screaming and I’ve lost count of how many orgasms he’s wrung from my battered body. The hard muscles of his chest gleam with sweat as he withdraws from me, and I lie there panting, too dazed and exhausted to move.
He leaves, then returns a few moments later with a wet towel, which he uses to pat at the wetness between my legs. “Sara…” His voice is rough, thick with emotion as he leans over me to brush a lock of hair off my sweat-dampened forehead. “Ptichka, I—”
A hard knock on the door jolts us both.
“Peter.” It’s Yan, his voice as sharp as earlier this morning. “You need to hear this. Now.”
Swearing under his breath, Peter jumps off the bed, finds his discarded jeans in the pile of clothes on the floor, and pulls them on without bothering with underwear. The look he gives me over his shoulder is fierce, almost angry, but he doesn’t say anything as he strides out of the room.
I sit up, wincing at the soreness between my thighs, and force myself to get up and take another quick rinse before getting dressed again.
I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m getting an awful premonition.
7
Peter
It’s a testament to the seriousness of the situation that there isn’t a suggestive smirk in sight as I stalk into the kitchen barefoot and shirtless, the smell of sex clinging to me like some primal cologne.
“It’s bad,” Yan says with no preamble as I approach. “A drunk driver T-boned her at an intersection, and the car rolled three times before landing on its roof. She has over a dozen broken bones and is hemorrhaging internally. They just took her in for a second surgery, but it’s not looking good. Given her age and the extent of her injuries, they don’t think she’s going to make it.”
Every word he speaks stabs deep into my gut. “What about Sara’s father?” I ask, my mind spinning. “Is he—”
“He’s holding himself together so far, but his blood pressure is dangerously high.” Anton’s dark gaze is grave. “They tried to send him home to get some rest, but he refuses to go. Some of their friends are there with him, but there’s only so much help they can provide.”
“Right.” I stare at my teammates, and in their eyes, I see the bleak knowledge of what I’m going to have to do.
The patter of light footsteps on the stairs captures my attention, and I turn to see Sara hurrying down the steps, her heart-shaped face pale with worry.
“What’s going on?” Her sock-clad feet slide on the kitchen tiles as she skids to a stop in front of us. Her hazel gaze jumps from me to my teammates and back. “Did something happen?”
“Give us a minute,” I tell the guys, and they immediately disperse, the twins going upstairs while Anton heads toward the closet by the door.
“Do you want me to prep the chopper?” he asks in Russian as he passes me, and I nod, keeping my gaze on Sara, who’s looking more anxious by the second.
“What happened?” she asks again, coming up to me, and I know I can’t delay it any longer. Reaching over, I clasp her delicate hand between my palms and, as gently as I can, convey what I just learned.
Her face lacks all semblance of color by the time I’m done, and her fingers are ice cold in my grip. Her eyes are still dry, but I know it’s the shock that’s keeping her from falling apart. My songbird was just dealt a devastating blow, and if I don’t act now, she’ll never recover from it.
I will lose her.
I know it.
I feel it.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I say evenly, “I saw you packing earlier. Are you ready to go?”
She blinks uncomprehendingly. “What?” Her voice is dazed, even as her gaze focuses on me with a sudden desperate hope. “Where?”
“Home,” I say, and the sucking pain in my gut intensifies, the hollowness spreading to engulf my heart. “I’m taking you back, my love, before it’s too late.”
8
Sara
I stare out the plane window at the clouds below, my thoughts scattered and my chest agonizingly tight. Maybe it’s because I’m still in shock, but everything happened with such speed that I simply can’t comprehend it, can’t make sense of this development and the tangle of emotions choking me up inside.
Mom was in a car accident. She might die.
Peter is taking me home.
My breaths are shallow, yet each time I inhale, it hurts, like the air inside the cabin is too thick. It feels like it took only minutes for us to leave, to get on the chopper and fly out, as though this was the plan all along, as if we talked it over and decided it was time.
Time for me to go home.
Time for Mom to die.
My breath hitches on a particularly thick inhale, and I have to fight to get my lungs to expand, to drag in oxygen through a windpipe that feels no wider than a pinprick.
The thing is, we didn’t talk it over. Not at all. Peter informed me, and that was it. Then there was just the hustle to get going, to grab whatever we need and get on the chopper. And once we were there, he was on the phone, arranging something, speaking lots of Russian and some English. I caught bits and pieces of his conversations, but I was too out of it to make sense of them. To make sense of anything, really. How can he take me back when they’re looking for him? When he knows that the moment I show up, I could be whisked away somewhere he may never find me?
How can he let me go when he swore he never would?
I want to ask Peter all this and more, but he’s not next to me. He’s on the couch, huddled over a laptop with the twins. I hear a barrage of rapid-fire Russian as they point at something on the screen
, and I know they must be planning the logistics of this unforeseen operation, figuring out how to swoop in and drop me off right under the nose of the authorities.
I could get up and demand answers from them, but that could throw them off, make them miss some crucial detail that might mean the difference between life and death, or at least capture and freedom. So I just sit and look out the window, focusing on the exhausting task of breathing.
One inhale, one exhale. Slow and steady. I fight to use the unnaturally thick air as I keep my gaze on the fluffy clouds outside. Concentrating on them helps me cope with the knowledge that out there, thousands of miles away, Mom is under a surgeon’s knife, her frail body cut open and bleeding. I’ve seen hundreds of surgeries, have performed dozens of C-sections myself, and I know how it looks and feels, how human flesh is just meat at that point, something the doctor cuts and slices and stitches in order to save the person who’s not a person to the doctor at that moment but an assignment, a challenge to complete.
My stomach coils into a knot, my chest squeezing ever tighter, and I swipe at an annoying tickle on my cheek, only to lower my hand when it feels wet.
I didn’t realize I was crying, but now that I do, I try to pull myself together and focus on something besides the mental image of Mom’s body on a gurney, her stomach sliced open to repair the damage. And of Dad in the hospital waiting room, exhausted and sleep-deprived, his bad heart overwhelmed and overworked.
Why is Peter doing this? I try to think about that, because it’s better than the images in my head. Is he letting me go for good, or is he planning to return for me? If it’s the latter, he has to realize that stealing me the second time won’t be as easy. He’s taking an enormous risk by bringing me back, and yet he’s doing it. Why?
Could he be bored with me?
No. I slam the door on that pathetic, insecure idea. Whatever else he might be, Peter is the polar opposite of fickle. Once he sets a course of action, he doesn’t deviate from it, whether it be avenging his family or inserting himself into my life. Yesterday, he told me that he loves me, and I believed him. I still do.
He’s not taking me back because he wants to get rid of me.
He’s doing it for me. Because he loves me.
He loves me enough to risk losing me.
We land at a private airstrip near Chicago just as the sun is setting. I have no idea how many favors Peter had to call in to clear this with air control, but the plane touches down on the runway with no interference. A nondescript sedan is waiting for us when we exit the plane, and Peter leads me to it, his strong fingers gently restraining my elbow.
His face is like a block of granite, as hard and remote as I’ve ever seen it. We didn’t have a chance to talk during the flight, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. For the majority of the trip, he was on the phone and planning with his men, and I alternated between restless naps and silent crying. A few hours ago, we learned that Mom made it through the surgery, but her vitals continue to be unstable.
It’s not a good sign.
We stop in front of the car, and I see a man in the driver’s seat.
I look up at Peter’s shuttered face. “Are you going to—”
“He’s going to drop you off at the hospital,” he says in a hard, flat tone. “I won’t be coming with you.”
I expected as much, yet the words still slice across my heart. “When—” I swallow the growing lump in my throat. “When will you come back for me?”
He stares at me, his emotionless mask briefly cracking. “As soon as I can, ptichka,” he says thickly. “As soon as I fucking can.”
The lump in my throat expands, and tears sting my eyes anew. “So I’ll be here until Mom recovers?”
“Yes, and until I finish with—” He breaks off and takes a deep breath. “Never mind. You have enough on your plate. All you need to know is that I will be back for you.” His eyes sear into me as he cups my face between his big, rough palms. “You hear me, Sara? No matter what happens, as long as there’s breath in my body, I will come back for you. You are mine, ptichka. For as long as we’re both alive.”
I wrap my hands around his solid wrists, burning tears streaking down my cheeks as I hold his gaze. Once, his statement would’ve terrified me, but now it lessens the squeezing ache in my chest, gives me something to hold on to as he leaves and my new world—the one that’s centered around him—falls to pieces.
Coming home is what I’ve fought for all these months, but I feel no joy today, only a terrible void in my heart where Peter has so ruthlessly carved a space for himself.
He leans in and kisses the tears off my cheeks. “Go, my love.” Releasing me, he steps back. “There’s no time to waste.”
And before I can say anything—before I can tell him how I feel—he turns and walks to the plane, leaving me standing by the car.
Leaving me to return home alone.
9
Peter
I should be pleased that we outwitted the US authorities and this mini-operation went off without a hitch, but the pain in my chest is too crushing, too raw. I know this is only temporary, but I feel like someone ripped me open and tore out my beating heart.
My ptichka was crying when I left. And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I got the sense she wasn’t overjoyed to be home—and not just because of the circumstances. The way she asked me when I’ll return for her—when, not if—and the look in her hazel eyes…
It was everything I’ve ever wanted, and I had no choice but to walk away. To set her free when every selfish instinct screamed for me to hold her tight, to chain her to me and never let her go. And above it all is the irrational fear for her safety, the terrible paranoia that something could happen to her while I’m not there. It stems from her accident, I know, but that doesn’t lessen it one bit.
I’m going to have her watched, but I won’t be nearby and that kills me.
“Are you sure about this?” Ilya asks, buckling himself into a seat next to me as our jet lifts off, the wheels folding in with a screech. “It’s not too late. We could still turn around and—”
“No.” I close my eyes and force my breathing to even out. “It’s done.”
I would give anything to keep Sara with me, but I can’t—not without destroying her and whatever chance we have at a future together.
In any case, it might be for the best that she’s nowhere near me when I do what it takes to ensure that future.
I will be back for her, but first, I must deal with Novak and Esguerra.
10
Sara
The drive to the hospital takes nearly two hours—we hit traffic on the way—and my nerves are stretched thin by the time the driver drops me off by the hospital entrance and disappears. He didn’t reply to any of my questions, so I have no idea who he is or what his relationship is to Peter and his team. And maybe it’s for the best. I have no doubt I’ll be questioned as soon as the FBI learn I’m here.
My hope is to see Mom and Dad before that happens.
Fighting to contain my anxiety, I hurry through the familiar hallways. I need no signs to point me to the ICU. This hospital is where I did my residency and where I worked all those years; it’s more home to me than the house I lived in.
“Lorna Weisman?” I ask, rushing up to the ICU check-in desk, and then I wait, silently screaming with impatience as a middle-aged receptionist with a garish red perm leisurely looks up the name.
I see the exact moment she finds whatever special notes the FBI left in the system. Her eyes fly up to my face, wide and startled behind her green-rimmed glasses, and she stutters out, “J-Just a moment.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “Where is she?” I lean in, imitating Peter’s scariest tone. “Tell me now.”
“Sh-she’s in surgery.” The woman shrinks back as much as her sizable frame allows. Her ring-laden fingers scramble for the phone on the table. “They t-took her in an hour ago.”
“Again?”
Frantically
bobbing her head, she finds the emergency button on the phone. “There was more internal bleeding and—”
I don’t stay to hear the details. In a few minutes, security—and possibly the FBI—will be here, and I have to find Dad before that. The last Peter heard, Dad still hadn’t gone home, and given what I just learned, I have no doubt he’s here, waiting to see if Mom pulls through.
There is a big waiting room by the ICU, but I don’t see him there. It’s possible he went down to the cafeteria to get a bite to eat, or he might be in the bathroom. Either way, I don’t have time to hang around, so I run to one of the smaller waiting rooms that are off to the side. Some families prefer those for greater privacy, so there’s a small chance that Dad might—
“Sara?”
I pivot to the right, my heartbeat jumping at the familiar voice.
It’s my friend Marsha. She’s dressed in her nurse’s scrubs and staring at me like I just jumped out from under her bed. Behind her is another shocked—and familiar—face: Isaac Levinson, one of my dad’s closest friends. He and his wife, Agnes, are sitting in the corner of the small waiting room I poked my head into, and next to them is—
“Dad!” I rush over, nearly tripping over a chair as tears blur my vision and choke off my breath.
“Sara!” Dad’s arms fold around me, so much thinner and weaker than I remember, and I realize he’s crying too, his frail frame shaking with sobs. Pulling away, he stares at me in disbelief mixed with dawning joy, his mouth trembling as he grips my hands. “You’re here. You’re really here.”
“I’m here, Dad.” I squeeze his shaking hands and step back, wiping my tears as I steady my voice. “I’m here now. Tell me… How’s Mom?”