Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 3)

by Anna Zaires

  Yes or no. Do I marry the assassin who once tortured me? He loves me, and I’m almost certain I love him. The “almost” is there because a tiny part of me still cringes away in terror, in the toxic sludge of guilt, self-loathing, and shame. Even if I eventually forgive him for George’s death, I can never forget that he’s a killer—that in the name of vengeance, he’s inflicted massive suffering and pain.

  That he himself has suffered more than I can comprehend.

  I hold his gaze, feeling the temperature in the humid bathroom dropping, sensing the growing darkness in the hard metal of his gaze. “Yes. It’s a yes.” The words leave my lips of their own volition, like some demon yanked me by the tongue. Yet as soon as I say it, it feels right.

  It feels like it was fated.

  The dangerous tension leaves his face, though I still sense the menace deep within. “Good,” he says softly, pushing away from the counter. Turning, he walks out of the bathroom, and I slump over the sink, taking deep breaths to calm the churning in my stomach.

  I said yes.

  I agreed to marry my tormentor.

  Oh dear God. What have I done?

  45

  Peter

  I watch my beautiful fiancée sleep, alternating between joy and dark satisfaction. Her fine-featured face is particularly sweet and delicate in her repose, with one slender hand tucked in a half-open fist under her cheek and plush lips slightly parted.

  I should probably turn off the bedside light and go to sleep as well, but that would mean missing this. Some irrational part of me is afraid that if I close my eyes, it’ll all turn out to be a dream, a fantasy like the ones that sustained me all these months.

  My Sara.

  Finally, I have her.

  She’s mine, and soon, the whole world will know it.

  She was completely worn out by the time I finally brought her to bed, so tired she fell asleep right away. I held her for about an hour, ignoring the renewed stirrings of my body, and then I got on her laptop to start making the appropriate arrangements.

  She agreed to marry me. The elation I feel at the thought is almost violent. I’d been prepared to resort to harsher measures to convince her, but I didn’t have to.

  She said yes.

  She’s still wearing my ring on her left hand, the one that’s currently tucked inside a blanket. I’m tempted to pull the blanket away so I can look at it again, but that might wake her, and I want her to get good sleep.

  After all, this Saturday is our wedding.

  Over the past month, while I waited for the bureaucrats to get their paperwork in order, I had time to plan it all out and grease all the requisite palms. So unless Sara hates what I’ve chosen, we’re all set in terms of venue, dress, flowers, photographers, and nearly everything else that goes along with a small, private wedding. There are still a few small decisions to be made—like who’d officiate the ceremony—but I want Sara, and hopefully her parents, to weigh in on those.

  It really does help that she agreed.

  Taking a deep breath, I climb into bed next to her and turn off the light, then curve my body around her from the back, holding her tight as she mumbles something in her sleep.

  My ptichka.

  She’s not a fantasy anymore.

  This is as real as it gets, and when I wake up, she’ll still be here.

  She better fucking be.

  46

  Sara

  I wake up to the mouthwatering smell of eggs and bacon, mixed with some kind of baked goods. Pancakes? Biscuits, maybe?

  Did I fall asleep at my parents’ house again?

  Prying open my heavy eyelids, I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

  My apartment’s plain white ceiling.

  Instantly, the memories rush in, and I sit up with a gasp, throwing off my blanket.

  Was last night real? Is Peter here?

  A flash of something bright catches my attention, and I glance down at my left hand, where a giant diamond is sparkling in the barely-there sunlight seeping through the lowered blinds.

  Holy shit. It is real.

  Peter is here.

  I’m officially engaged to him.

  Throwing on a robe, I run to the kitchen, where I not only smell but hear the sizzle of frying bacon.

  The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.

  Dressed in nothing but a pair of dark jeans, Peter is standing over the stove, expertly flipping over an omelet. On another frying pan are bacon strips, and on a plate by the oven is a stack of pancakes. The muscles in his broad back ripple as he moves, the jeans riding low on his narrow hips, and I literally have to swallow my saliva as he turns around to face me, revealing a solid eight-pack and a powerfully built chest dusted with dark hair.

  The few pounds he lost only refined his incredible physique, made him even harder, more dangerous.

  “Good morning, ptichka.” His deep voice is like a tiger’s purr as he looks me over, his gaze traveling from the tips of my bare toes to the top of my sleep-mussed hair. The tattoos on his left arm flex as he sets the spatula down on the counter and starts toward me.

  “Oh, um… good morning.” I back away, realizing I rushed in without so much as splashing water on my face. “I’ll be right back.”

  I beeline for the bathroom before he can stop me. Swiftly, I brush my teeth, then jump into the shower for a quick rinse. My heart is galloping in my chest, and my breathing is fast and shallow.

  Peter is here.

  In my kitchen, cooking up a storm.

  I should probably take a moment to calm myself, but I don’t want all that delicious food to get cold.

  After all, my fiancé made it for me.

  My stomach flips, my heart rate accelerating further, and I force myself to take deep breaths as I towel off and put the robe back on.

  Then, squaring my shoulders, I head back into the kitchen.

  47

  Sara

  “What time do you have to be at work?” Peter asks, serving me an artfully arranged plate of vegetable omelet with strips of bacon and a side of pancakes.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. “In about forty minutes.” I’m lucky I woke up when I did, because I completely spaced out on the alarm last night.

  I’m probably spacing out on something right now, because even though I’m outwardly calm, on the inside, I’m a hyperventilating mess.

  Peter is here.

  He’s here, and we’re engaged.

  “I’ll walk you to your office,” he says, sitting down across from me with his own plate. “Unless you’re taking the car?”

  I cautiously spear a piece of pancake with my fork. “I was planning to go from there straight to the clinic, so yeah…”

  He doesn’t blink. “Okay. I’ll ride with you and then go grocery shopping. Your fridge is nearly empty. How late are you going to be at the clinic?” He begins consuming his omelet with obvious hunger.

  “I’m scheduled to be there until ten, but if there’s any kind of an emergency, I might end up staying later,” I say, watching him warily. Is he going to object? Try to control this portion of my life? George was understanding about my long hours, as he often worked late himself and had to travel a lot for work, but I don’t know how Peter feels about it. He didn’t stop me from working a lot before, but that was different.

  Back then, he was just biding his time before stealing me away.

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up there.” He gets up and walks over to the counter, where my handbag is sitting. Reaching in, he fishes out my phone and starts typing on it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Giving you my number.” Finishing his task, he slips my phone back into my bag and returns to the table. “So you can call me when you’re close to being done at the clinic. I don’t want you in that area alone at night.”

  “You’re not having me watched anymore?”

  “I am, but they keep their distance—and I won’t.” He cuts into
a piece of bacon, then looks up. “It’s for your safety, ptichka.”

  His voice is soft but firm, utterly inflexible. He’s not going to compromise on this, and for some reason, I’m okay with that. Instead of making me feel restrained and controlled, his pathological need to protect me fills me with a kind of bubbly warmth. I’ll never forget how it felt when the two methheads tried to rob me by the clinic, and as traumatic as it was when Peter killed them, in hindsight, I’m grateful he was there. Besides—

  “Are you expecting any trouble?” I ask as the thought pops into my head. “I mean, you must have quite a few enemies, with your former profession and all…”

  He puts down his fork and meets my gaze. “It’s always a possibility, ptichka, I can’t lie. That’s why I’m not going to take the security team off you—and why I created a new identity before coming here. I didn’t want anyone in my former life to connect Peter Garin in the suburbs of Chicago with Peter Sokolov the assassin. In fact, part of the deal I made with the authorities is that Peter Sokolov no longer exists. He’s listed as deceased in FBI, CIA, and Interpol records, as are Yan and Ilya Ivanov and Anton Rezov. The amnesty deal itself is highly classified, with only a few high-ranking individuals in the FBI and CIA privy to all the terms. The rest, like Agent Ryson, were told to just back off and keep their mouths shut. Of course, Esguerra and Kent know who I am, and there’s always a chance I’ll be spotted and identified by a former client or some such. However, unlike my name, my face wasn’t widely known, and in any case, the chance of a random encounter with someone from my former life is small—especially in this part of the world.”

  “Oh. Wow.” Until this moment, I didn’t realize the full scope of the impossible deal he made. “How did you get them to agree to all this? I mean, I know you said this Esguerra has leverage, but…” I trail off as Peter’s expression noticeably darkens.

  “Your government had conditions of their own for me,” he says tightly. “But it’s nothing that needs to concern you, ptichka. Suffice it to say, the US military is one of Esguerra’s biggest clients, and they want to maintain that amicable relationship, both because they want the weapons he produces and because they want to keep those weapons out of others’ hands.”

  “By buying them up themselves?”

  Peter nods and resumes eating. “Exactly.”

  There’s a grim edge to his expression, and as much as I want to pry further, I know I need to back off. Watching him finish his food, I have the unsettling sensation that a wild animal has invaded my cramped kitchen, a predator who belongs out in the jungle. I’ve seen him in domestic settings before, of course, but it feels different this time, knowing that he’s here for good, that this big, lethal man is going to be part of my regular life… part of my family.

  My mind starts to spin again, and I push my nearly empty plate away. “Peter… How is this going to work?” At his questioning look, I clarify, “What am I going to tell my parents? The FBI probably showed them your picture at some point. Even if I introduce you as Peter Garin, they’re bound to suspect who you really are—especially since I kept insisting that you’ll be back when the misunderstanding with the FBI is resolved.”

  The grim look leaves his face, replaced by one of dark amusement. “Well, that’s just perfect then, isn’t it?” Reaching across the table, he covers my hand with his palm. “You’ll just tell them that the misunderstanding finally got resolved—and that I got a new last name in the process.”

  “Uh-huh. And what about their friends, who’ve heard a version of that same story, and what about my friends, who were told a completely different version—one in which you’re nothing more than my kidnapper? What are they all going to think when I show up with this”—I lift my left hand, displaying my ring—“out of the blue, and introduce a Russian fiancé named Peter who looks suspiciously like a picture FBI agents might’ve been passing around when I disappeared?”

  He squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry about them, ptichka. Their opinions don’t matter. Just tell them I’m someone you’ve been secretly dating for a few months, and let them draw their own conclusions.”

  “What conclusions? That I’m fucked in the head? Or that I have a fetish for Russian men who share the same darkly handsome looks and happen to be named Peter?”

  He grins and gets up, picking up his plate and mine. “Either way works. Just don’t confirm anything. Let them think I’m in some kind of witness protection program, and you can’t really talk about it.”

  That’s actually not a bad idea. Marsha and anyone else who suspects Peter’s real identity will think I’m completely nuts, but as long as I don’t confirm their suspicions, there will be room for doubt. After all, how crazy is it that the man who murdered George and kidnapped me got full amnesty and is now about to marry me? My friends might as well think I’ve got some kind of masochistic tendencies and have decided to hook up with a man who shares many of my tormentor’s traits.

  It’s certainly a simpler explanation.

  “So we tell my parents the truth, and stick to the Peter Garin story with everyone else,” I say, getting up to help him clear the table.

  “That’s what makes sense to me,” he says and glances at the clock. “You should get dressed and going, ptichka. You don’t want to be late.”

  Right. For my job. I almost forgot about that.

  “Here, let me help you,” I say, walking over to put away the leftovers, but he waves me away.

  “I’ve got it, don’t worry. Just go get ready for work.” And dropping a quick kiss on my forehead, he starts loading the dishwasher.

  48

  Peter

  I drive Sara to her office and leave the car with her, so she can go to the clinic after work as planned. It’s only a ten-minute walk from her office to her apartment building, and the grocery store is on the way, so I stop by and load up on the basics for tonight’s dinner. It’s not a lot, only what I can easily carry in one hand—I like my gun hand always free—and I make a mental note that we’ll need a second car, just like everyone in the suburbs.

  That’s not the only thing we’ll need, either. The fridge in Sara’s tiny kitchen is only a meter tall, and the kitchen itself is barely usable. I spent my formative years in a freezing, crumbling cell in Siberia, so I’m not picky about living quarters, but I see no reason for us to continue with an apartment that was clearly designed for a single occupant.

  Tonight, when Sara returns, we’ll discuss living arrangements, as well as our upcoming wedding on Saturday.

  Of course, I know why cars, apartments, and wedding details are on my mind. Thinking about logistics is distracting me from the urge to grab Sara and lock her in my bedroom, so I can fuck her all day long. And then all night. And then for a week after that.

  In fact, I want to chain her to my bed and always keep her there.

  I don’t know what I expected when I returned, but it wasn’t this. I didn’t expect it to be so hard for me to let Sara go about her routine, to go back to the way we lived before Japan. Back then, I also wanted her with me all the time, but letting her leave for work didn’t tear me apart like this, didn’t activate this maddening need to cage her and throw away the key. It was all I could do to act normally this morning, to kiss her on the forehead and drop her off at the office like a good husband-to-be instead of a savage who wants nothing more than to cart her away to his cave.

  It’s the one variable I didn’t account for in my planning.

  My intensifying obsession with Sara—the one thing that can fuck it all up.

  I’m hoping it’s a temporary situation, that I’m feeling this way because we’ve just spent nine months apart and I’ve missed her so intensely. That over time, as the memory of those hellish months fades, separating from her for a few hours will get better, easier… less like torture.

  The other possibility—that in Japan, I got used to having Sara with me twenty-four-seven and may not be able to readjust to the old routine—is infinitely worse. The r
eason why I did all this is to make Sara happy, to give her the ability to retain her career, her relationships with her family and friends. It was impossible when I was a fugitive, but now I can be a part of her life without taking it all away from her.

  I can give her everything—if only I can overcome my selfish need to keep her to myself.

  49

  Sara

  I spend the majority of my workday oscillating between heart-pounding joy and spurts of panic.

  Peter is alive.

  He’s back and we’re together—without me getting kidnapped, no less.

  Despite what Peter said about his deal, I half expect the FBI to show up and charge me with aiding and abetting. Nobody comes, however. Everything is normal—or as normal as can be when one is engaged to a former assassin.

  I’m not ready to answer my coworkers’ questions, so I hid my hand in my pocket and took off the ring as soon as I had a moment of privacy. Now the huge diamond is sitting at the bottom of my handbag, forcing me to carry the bag with me everywhere.

  I don’t know how much the ring cost, but I suspect it was well into six figures.

  Did Peter buy or steal it? It’s probably the former—he’s rich enough to afford it—but I’ll ask to be sure. I doubt he’ll be offended; he’s done much worse, that’s for certain.

  That I’m even thinking about that, wondering if my millionaire fiancé could’ve stolen my engagement ring, would’ve given any normal person pause. However, I’m no longer in the “normal” camp. Compared to killing my husband, a diamond heist is nothing more than a misdemeanor, one for which I can easily forgive Peter. In general, now that I’ve had time to recover from the shock of his arrival, the sporadic panic assailing me at the thought of marrying him is less intense, almost manageable. Toward the evening, as I get in the car to drive to the clinic, I even start thinking that we could visit my parents this weekend, and depending on their reaction, tell them that we’re getting married soon.