Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 3)

by Anna Zaires

  Maybe as soon as this winter.

  My heart starts racing again, and I have to take calming breaths before getting out of the car. No, winter is definitely too soon; there’s far too much to plan in such a short span of time. Next spring would be better… maybe even next summer.

  A summer wedding is always in fashion.

  Yes, that’s it, I decide, walking into the clinic. A year-long engagement would be perfect. We’d have a chance to acclimate to each other, settle into a regular life together. I have no idea if Peter is even capable of living like this, without the adrenaline and danger of his missions. He admitted to me once that he likes killing, that he enjoys the power and control that comes along with dealing death. Addictive, he called it, and I knew then that he’d never give it up.

  That the darkness is a part of him, one that can never be erased.

  Except he did give it up for me. He quit his job, he said. I haven’t had a chance to question him about that, but there’s only one way to interpret what he said.

  He’s going straight.

  For me.

  So I wouldn’t have to give up everything for him.

  My eyes prickle, and it’s all I can do to smile and wave at Lydia as I hurry into the room where the patient is already waiting for me. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, here with her mom for her first Pap smear, and I force myself to push my emotions aside and focus, to give the patient the attention she deserves.

  Fortunately, her exam shows nothing untoward, though when the mom leaves the room, the girl admits to having been sexually active since last year. I surreptitiously give her a box of condoms, and when the mom returns, I recommend an IUD—to regulate the daughter’s painful periods and provide protection against unplanned pregnancy in case she does become sexually active in the future.

  “My daughter ain’t no slut,” the woman snaps and drags the girl away, making me glad I at least gave her daughter those condoms.

  Parents like that can be their kids’ worst enemies.

  My next patient is a pregnant woman in her thirties. She has a history of miscarriages and no health insurance. After her, I see another teenage girl—she turns out to have chlamydia—and then it’s time for my last patient.

  Finally.

  For the first time in forever, I’m eager to go home.

  Getting out my phone, I look up Peter’s new number—Peter Garin, it says in my Contacts—and text him that I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes, in case he wants to meet me at the clinic. I don’t know how exactly he’d do that, since I’m the one with the car, but knowing Peter, he’ll manage.

  Putting the phone away, I stick my head out of the exam room and tell Lydia I’m ready for the next patient.

  I’m jotting down a few notes about the girl with chlamydia when the door opens and the last patient walks in.

  I look up and freeze in shock.

  I recognize this girl.

  It’s Monica Jackson, the seventeen-year-old I helped after her stepfather raped her.

  Her small round face is covered with purplish bruises, and one corner of her puffy lips is crusted with blood. “Hi, Dr. Cobakis,” she says tremulously, and before I can answer, she breaks down crying.

  It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to calm her down and learn that the stepfather got out of jail last week. “He was supposed to be away for s-seven years,” she tells me, her voice shaking. “And we were doing so, so well. With the money you gave us, we got a new place, I graduated and have been working full-time, and Bobby—that’s my baby brother—he started school, a really good one, where they have computers and everything. And Mom…. she was doing better too, only drinking a little in the morning. I thought we finally had our shit together, and then he got out on a technicality and…”

  She starts crying again, and I wait until she calms a little before asking carefully, “Did he do this to you? Did he hurt you?”

  She nods, wiping the tears off her face with one small fist. “Mom went on a drinking binge as soon as she heard he’s out, and when I came home the day before yesterday, he was there, home with her, drinking together like old times. I got into an argument with him, told him to get out, and then he—” She breaks off, her shoulders beginning to shake again.

  It takes all my training to maintain a physician’s required distance instead of hugging her. “Did you report this to the police?” I ask gently when she regains some composure, and she shakes her head, looking down at the floor.

  “He said he’ll sue Mom for custody of Bobby if I say anything, and he’s got connections now. That’s how he got out early. Some drug-dealer friend of his pulled some strings.”

  “Even if he does sue, that doesn’t mean he’ll win,” I say, but Monica adamantly shakes her head again.

  “He might not win, but he’ll drag her through the mud,” she says, looking up to meet my gaze. “She’s got priors too, for public intoxication and prostitution, and Child Services is bound to get involved. I’m eighteen now, so I could also sue for custody, but my job pays minimum wage and there’s no guarantee I’d win. And if I don’t, Bobby will end up in a foster home.” A fierce protectiveness kindles in her brown eyes. “I can’t let that happen, Dr. Cobakis. I’ve been through that, and I can’t have that for my brother. He’s got special needs; he won’t survive the system. I can’t take that risk, believe me.”

  My heart breaks for her all over again. I still feel she should go to the police, but I can see I won’t be able to convince her of that. And this time, I can’t cut her a check and make it go away.

  Five thousand dollars won’t fix this, and I finally understand what it’s like to hate someone enough to wish him dead.

  If a car hit her bastard of a stepfather tomorrow, I’d be the first to cheer.

  Swallowing my anger, I reach deep to find the distance necessary to do my job. “Okay, Monica, I understand. Climb up on that table, please, and let’s make sure you’re not injured inside.”

  She complies, wiping away the remnants of her tears, and I carefully examine her. Though the assault took place two days ago, there are still signs of vaginal bruising and tearing, so I collect a rape kit, just in case any DNA evidence remains and she later changes her mind about going to the police. I also give her emergency contraception and check for STDs after she admits that her assailant didn’t use a condom.

  “Can you also please give me one of those copper things?” she asks when I’m done. “I don’t want to get pregnant for a long time.”

  “Of course.”

  She’s eighteen, so it’s easy. I schedule her for an IUD insertion next week, to give her time to heal.

  “Do you have someplace to go? Other than your mom’s place?” I ask as she prepares to leave.

  She better not be going home to her stepfather.

  “I’m staying with a friend right now,” she says to my relief. “He’s got a couch I can crash on.”

  “What about your brother?”

  Her narrow shoulders tense. “There’s no room for Bobby at my friend’s place. I pick him up in the morning to take him to school, and then I bring him home.”

  “To your mom who’s drunk? Is your stepfather there when you return with Bobby?”

  She looks away. “I have to go, Dr. Cobakis. Thank you for everything.”

  And before I can question her further, she hurries out of the room.

  50

  Sara

  I thought I did a good job fixing my smeared mascara before leaving the clinic, but as soon as I step outside and lay eyes on Peter’s tall, broad-shouldered figure, the smile on his hard face disappears.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks sharply, stepping forward to grip my hands. “Did someone hurt you?”

  I attempt a smile. “No, of course not. Everything’s fine.”

  His eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t lie. You’ve been crying.” His gaze drops to my bare left hand. “Where is your ring?”

  “I… didn’t want to have to explain
.” Despite my best efforts, my voice is overly thick, and I see his expression darken further.

  “Did someone say something?” he demands, and I shake my head, pulling my hands out of his grip and taking half a step back.

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” I glance around us, but the street is dark and quiet, deserted except for an SUV idling by the curb on the other side. His ride, maybe? Looking up, I meet Peter’s gaze. “I just got upset over a patient, that’s all.”

  His harsh expression eases slightly. “I see. I’m sorry, ptichka. Did someone get hurt?”

  I swallow against a fresh influx of tears. “It’s a long story. Let’s just go home.” I start turning toward my parked car, but he catches my arm.

  “I’ll have it taken home, don’t worry,” he says and leads me toward the idling car—a black Mercedes SUV with suspiciously thick tinted windows.

  The driver rolls down his window as we approach.

  “Take her car home,” Peter orders, and a big, hard-looking man climbs out of the vehicle and hands over the keys to Peter.

  I blink as he walks by without so much as a nod to me. “Is that—”

  “One of the security experts I’ve had watching you? Yes.” Peter leads me around the car to the passenger side and opens the door for me, helping me climb inside before walking back to the driver’s seat.

  “I’ve decided that instead of us getting another car, Danny will be your driver going forward,” he says as he starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “I’ll still pick you up most of the time, but if I can’t get here in time or you need to leave right away, I’ll know you’re safe regardless.”

  I open my mouth to argue, then stop. I don’t have the energy for this right now—not with my heart in pieces over Monica’s tragic story.

  Not when I know that tomorrow morning, she’ll be picking up her brother and confronting her assailant in the process.

  “What happened, ptichka?” Peter’s big, warm palm covers my thigh, massaging the tense muscle before withdrawing. “What got you so upset?”

  I hesitate for a second, then capitulate. Who cares if Peter knows the whole story? So I tell him everything, from Monica’s visit to the clinic before my kidnapping to what happened today.

  Peter listens expressionlessly until I finish. Then he asks softly, “So this girl is the reason you were assaulted by that alley that night?”

  I sit up straight, jolted by a sudden fear. “It’s not her fault!” The last thing I need is for my overprotective assassin to blame Monica for the methheads who tried to rob me.

  “Not saying that it is.” He pulls off the highway onto my exit and stops at a red light. “Just want to make sure I have all the facts.”

  My heart skips a beat. This is not going in the direction I expected.

  “Why?” I ask, staring at his hard profile. “What do you need that for?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t worry about it, my love. Your patient will be fine, I promise.”

  My mouth goes dry. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I didn’t tell him Monica’s name, but it wouldn’t be hard for someone with Peter’s knack of finding people to triangulate who she is.

  “Peter…”

  The light switches to green, and he presses on the gas, still not looking at me.

  My pulse speeds up further. “Peter, please tell me you’re not going to…”

  “Going to what?” He turns onto my street. “I told you, you have nothing to worry about. She’s going to be fine, this girl you helped. You don’t need to worry about her.”

  She will be fine… but what about her stepfather?

  I want to ask, but I can’t bring my mouth to form the words. If I say it out loud, it will make it real, instead of just a terrifying possibility in my mind.

  It will make me culpable.

  We pull into the parking lot of my building, and I exit the car before Peter has a chance to walk around and open the door for me. My heart is hammering in an audible rhythm, and my palms are sweating even though I tell myself I’m likely misinterpreting the situation.

  Peter might just be soothing me, telling me what he thinks will calm me down.

  I want to believe it, and with any other man, I would believe it. If this were Joe Levinson or any one of my bandmates, I’d take those words as nothing more than an empty reassurance, a kind of “there, there, all will be well.” But this is Peter, and I can’t make that kind of assumption.

  I have to—

  “When are we going to see your parents?” Peter asks, and I look up, startled, to find him standing next to me. Reaching over, he gathers my hand in his big palm and starts leading me toward the building, saying, “We need to discuss the arrangements for this Saturday with them.”

  I stare up at him in confusion. Did I already tell him about my idea of visiting my parents this weekend? But no, I just thought of that at work, and— “This Saturday?”

  He nods, glancing at me with a smile. “That’s when I’ve booked everything for our wedding. We just need to discuss a few small details, and we’re all set.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What?”

  Did he just say our wedding?

  He releases my hand and turns to face me. “If you call them tonight, maybe we can have dinner with them tomorrow. That way, they’ll have a chance to invite a few friends. And you can already talk to your coworkers and whoever else you want to be there. We should keep it small, for security reasons, but the venue will accommodate up to a hundred people.”

  My tongue unglues from the roof of my mouth. “You want us to marry this Saturday? As in, three days from now?”

  He tilts his head. “Is that a problem? I wanted to do it sooner, but I figured the weekend is better than mid-week as far as getting your friends to attend.”

  I gape at him, feeling like I got hit by a freight train. “Next year would be better,” I finally manage. “This weekend is just… It’s impossible.”

  “Why?” He takes my hand again and resumes walking, as though we’re discussing what to eat for dinner and not our freaking wedding.

  A wedding he wants to have in three days.

  “Because… because we can’t.” I scramble for ways to convince him. “What about invitations? We don’t have time to send them and—”

  “You can just call the people you want to invite. It’s more personal like that, anyway.”

  “What about food? And photographers? And the dress?”

  “All taken care of. I hired an excellent catering company and a highly recommended florist, and the photographer is booked for all day Saturday, as is the videographer. For the dress, they’re going to come to your office to measure you tomorrow, and you’ll choose a design you like from their catalog. They promised me it won’t take longer than a half hour, so you could do it on your lunch break. The hair and makeup people will come to our apartment first thing Saturday morning, and for the music, I hired a band that’s currently on tour in Chicago—The C-Zone Boys, I believe they’re called. I think I’ve heard you sing their songs?”

  If my jaw weren’t attached, I’d be picking it up off the floor. He hired The C-Zone Boys for our impromptu wedding? As in, the band whose singles have been topping the charts for the past two years?

  “Why not Rihanna or The Black-Eyed Peas?” I ask when I can speak again, and he shoots me a sidelong glance as we enter the lobby.

  “Is that what you want? I can see if we can—”

  “No! I just…” I shake my head, unable to even find the words to explain. “Never mind that. C-Zone is perfect. What’s the venue?”

  “It’s Silver Lake Country Club, over in Orland Park. The weather is supposed to be perfect, so we’ll have both the ceremony and the reception outdoors, right by the lake. Unless you want to take it inside? It’s not too late to do that.”

  “No, that’s… The lakeside will work.”

  He shepherds me into the elevator, and I numbly press the button for my floor, feeling like
that freight train is dragging me along at madness-inducing speed. How could he have done all this? When? And why didn’t he consult me?

  Is this what our life together is always going to be like?

  Before I tackle that thorny issue, I need to voice one last rational argument.

  “What if no one comes?” I ask as we exit the elevator. “It’s already Wednesday. Most people have weekend plans, and—”

  “They’ll change them.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a set of keys—a set he must’ve had made today, as I have mine in my bag. Opening the door, he lets me in and closes it behind us.

  I kick off my sandals. “And if they can’t?”

  “Then they’ll miss out.” He removes his own shoes and turns to face me. “Do you really care, ptichka? Your parents will be there, and so will you and I. Who else do you need?”

  No one—not really—but that’s not the point.

  “Peter…” I take a deep breath. “I can’t marry you this weekend. It’s just too soon.”

  His gaze hardens. “Too soon how? I told you, we have all the logistics covered.”

  “It’s not about the logistics!” My voice spikes in volume, and I take another breath in an attempt to regain control. Striving for a calmer tone, I say, “I haven’t seen you for over nine months, and before that, we didn’t exactly have a… normal relationship.”

  “So what?” His eyes narrow. “We have that now.”

  “You railroading me into marriage and making all the decisions about our wedding is not normal, Peter. Not by a long stretch.” I’m proud of my composure so far. “We need time to get to know each other in this context, to see if we can make this work…” I trail off, seeing the storm gathering in the reflective silver of his gaze.

  “Why wouldn’t we make it work?” His voice is dangerously low as he steps toward me. “This isn’t a trial run, a wait-and-see college roommate situation. Do you really think that if we argue over dishes, I’m going to let you walk away?”