Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 3)

by Anna Zaires

  You never know when a favor might be needed.

  “So what are you going to do here?” Yan asks when I stop to count the chairs in front of the gazebo. “Other than plan weddings?”

  “I have a few ideas,” I say, finishing the count. We’re one chair short—something the venue staff needs to remedy right away. “For now, wedding planning suits me.”

  “You know you’re deluding yourself, right?” Yan’s tone lacks all hint of mockery, and when I turn to face him, I see a peculiar seriousness in his cold green eyes. “This is not for you—any more than it would be for me.”

  Did he and Esguerra read the same script? “Who are you trying to convince of that?” I ask curiously. “Me or yourself?”

  He holds my gaze, then nods, as if seeing something I’m missing. “Good luck,” he says softly. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

  And turning, he walks back, leaving me to track down the photographer on my own.

  63

  Sara

  My pulse skips a beat, then roars into overdrive.

  This can’t be happening.

  They can’t arrest Peter on the day of our wedding.

  “Agent Ryson.” I’m proud of the steadiness of my voice. “What are you doing here?”

  He gives me a thin smile. “Oh, don’t worry, Dr. Cobakis—or is it soon-to-be Dr. Garin? I’m not here in any official capacity.”

  My frantic heartbeat settles slightly. “Why are you here then?”

  “To offer my congratulations, of course.” His mouth twists. “You and your Russian lover sure had us all fooled.”

  I remain silent, because what can I say? I understand how this must look from his perspective—from the perspective of anyone who’s been following the story from the beginning, really. I’m marrying George’s killer, the man who waterboarded me, invaded my life, and kidnapped me.

  The man Ryson spent the past two-plus years hunting.

  “Tell me one thing, Dr. Cobakis,” the agent continues bitterly. “At what point did you and Sokolov conspire to rid you of your brain-damaged husband? Was it before or during the so-called attack on you?”

  I suck in a horrified breath. Is that what he really thinks? “You’re mistaken. I never—”

  “Never lied to us? Never pretended to need protection from the man you’re about to marry?” His gaze is cutting. “Yeah, I thought so.”

  My neck burns. “It wasn’t like that. Not at the beginning.”

  “Oh, really? How was it then? Did he brainwash you in Japan? Show you a few bedroom tricks to make you forget all the blood on his hands? Maybe you didn’t care about the alcoholic you were going to divorce—yes, we know all about that—but your lover killed Cobakis’s guards too. Good men, honest men. He blew their brains out—or have you forgotten?”

  I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Of course not.”

  “No?” Ryson steps toward me. “What about the police officers in the helicopter he shot down when they tried to rescue you from the supposed kidnapping? Or how about all the others he’s killed and tortured in the name of whatever twisted justice he’s pursuing? Would you like me to give you a list of all his victims, so you can pin it on the wall above your marriage bed?”

  I’m shaking now, my stomach in complete revolt. The smell of the warmed-up pasta, so tantalizing a minute ago, is making me want to vomit, and it’s all I can do to hold Ryson’s gaze instead of curling up into a little ball of shame on the floor.

  It’s true, all of it.

  Peter is a monster, and so am I for loving him.

  At my lack of response, the agent snorts derisively. “Nothing to say? Well, let me give you a little warning.” He comes closer until I have no choice but to step back. Looming over me, he says softly, “I don’t know who pulled the strings, giving the two of you a clean slate, but if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that psychopaths like Sokolov don’t change. He will commit another crime, and when he does, the deal he’s made with my higher-ups will be null and void. We’ll be waiting—and now, Dr. Cobakis, we also have your number.”

  He steps back and turns, as if to leave, but then he stops and says over his shoulder, “Oh, and congratulations again. You make a beautiful bride. I hope the two of you will be very happy together.”

  He walks out then, slamming the door behind him, and I just barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach heaves, expelling its contents into the toilet bowl.

  64

  Peter

  She’s late.

  The ceremony is due to start in forty-five minutes, and Sara is still not here.

  I give the photographer a scathing look as he pointedly glances at his watch, and he blanches, then looks away and starts fiddling with his cufflinks, as though that’s what he was doing all along.

  According to the bodyguards watching Sara’s apartment, as well as the tracking devices I’ve planted on her, my bride is still at home with her mother. I’ve called both of them several times, but only Lorna picked up once. “Sara has an upset stomach,” she informed me curtly and hung up—and has been sending my calls to voicemail ever since.

  Worried and increasingly irritated, I survey the people milling around the gazebo in small groups, drinking champagne and eating the artfully arranged canapés. Nearly everyone is here already, seemingly having a good time despite some of the guests—mostly, Sara’s friends and former coworkers—eyeing me like I’m Osama bin Laden. Yan is chatting with Sara’s new coworkers, while Ilya seems fascinated by what Sara’s bandmates are telling him about their performances. Anton is talking to Sara’s father about growing up in Russia, and I even see Joe Levinson, the lawyer who likes Sara, knocking back shots of tequila at the bar and staring grimly in my direction.

  He’s got balls, showing up here. He doesn’t know I’m aware of his interest in Sara, but still. If he so much as looks at her the wrong way, he won’t live to regret it.

  That is, assuming she ever shows up for anyone to look at her in any way at all.

  I wait five more minutes, checking my Sara-tracking app every thirty seconds, and then I call Danny, who’s part of Sara’s bodyguard crew today.

  “I need you to go up to the apartment,” I say when he picks up. “Hand your phone to Sara and do not leave until she calls me.”

  “Got it.”

  He hangs up, and five minutes later, my phone lights up with a call from Danny’s number.

  “Sara?”

  “Peter, I…” She swallows. “I’m so sorry. I just need a little more time.”

  My worry intensifies. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “No, nothing. My stomach is just unsettled.”

  “Do you need me to send for a doctor? Get you anything?”

  “No, it’s just…” She stops, then says carefully, “Look, Peter, I know this is awful timing, but—”

  “Are you trying to back out?” My voice is soft, betraying nothing of the fury blazing to life inside me. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No, not at all. I just need a little more time. Your return, the wedding—it’s all happening really fast. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do it, but maybe this is too soon, maybe we can just live together for a bit, see if this is even—”

  “Even what?” The hard metal of the phone cuts into my palm. “Even possible? Do you really think this is how it’s going to go?” The rage is white hot within me, but I keep my tone gentle and my expression pleasant as I step behind a little patch of trees, away from curious eyes and ears.

  “Peter, please. I’m just asking for a little extension. We can tell people the truth—that I’m not feeling well—and then—”

  “Let me tell you how it’s going to go, ptichka,” I say in an even softer voice. “You can either go with Danny right now, coming straight here with no delays, or I’m going to come get you. Only we’re not going to come back here in that case. In fact, there will be nothing here to come back to, because I intend to leave no witnesses to this
unfortunate event.” I pause, then ask gently, “Do you understand what I’m saying, my love?”

  There’s dead silence on the phone. Then she says in a broken whisper, “You wouldn’t.”

  “No? Try me.” I wait a couple of beats, then add, “Of course, your parents don’t fall into the witness category. I know how much they mean to you, so we’ll just take them with us when we leave. How does that sound? They’ll enjoy an exotic getaway, don’t you think?”

  She’s silent for so long I’m almost certain she’s going to try to call my bluff. Except I’m not bluffing. I don’t give a fuck about any of these people, with the exception of Sara’s parents. If she pushes me, I will carry out my threat, even if it means giving up the amnesty I’ve fought so hard to get.

  Without Sara, none of that bullshit matters.

  If I can’t have her, I might as well burn down the whole fucking world.

  “You’re insane,” she whispers finally, and I smile darkly as I hear the capitulation in her voice.

  “Yes, I am, ptichka. Don’t forget that. I’ll see you here soon.”

  And hanging up, I stroll back to mingle with the guests.

  65

  Sara

  I’m still shaking as I emerge from my bedroom, clutching Danny’s phone in one hand and smoothing the soft lace of the dress with the other.

  “I’m ready to go, Mom,” I tell her when she rises from the couch, clearly surprised to see me.

  “Are you sure? Darling, you look really pale.”

  “No, I’m fine, Mom.” I manage a small smile. “The medication is finally kicking in.”

  My mom returned with the medicine just as I was coming out of the bathroom after being sick, so I immediately took a couple of pills and told her I had to lie down for a few minutes. I thought she’d accepted that explanation, but as her eyebrows pull together, I know I was just fooling myself.

  Mom knows me far too well.

  “Sara, darling… you know you don’t have to go through with it, right?” she says, stopping in front of me. “If you’re having second thoughts, you’re allowed to change your mind. Everyone would understand. You don’t have to marry him if you’re not ready.”

  She’s wrong. I’m not allowed to change my mind—not if all our friends are to survive the day. I have no idea if Peter would actually do what he implied, but I can’t take that kind of risk.

  Not with a man who’s capable of such monstrous things.

  If the agent’s goal was to make me feel lower than a squashed bug, he succeeded admirably. Every word he threw at me felt like a bullet, because all of it was true. The crimes Peter has committed are awful, unforgiveable, and I know it. I’ve known it all along, yet I let myself fall for him.

  I accepted his evil, embraced it to the point that I agreed to marry him of my own free will. Even after Ryson’s visit, I wasn’t going to reject Peter, though he interpreted it that way. I was just still reeling from Ryson’s verbal lashing, and my instinct was to plead for time.

  I would’ve gone through with the wedding—just on another day.

  “It’s not that, Mom,” I say as her eyes skim over my face, looking for any hint of doubt. “I love Peter, and I want to marry him. I was simply not feeling well.”

  Her gaze drops to the phone I’m holding. “What did he tell you?”

  I blink at her. “What?”

  “That big driver of yours who came—he gave you that phone. I assume to call Peter, right? So what did your fiancé tell you?”

  “Nothing. He just reminded me of the time. And speaking of which”—I pointedly look at the phone’s lit-up screen—“we really need to go.”

  Mom searches my face for a few more moments, then nods. “All right, darling. If that’s what you want, let’s go. We have a wedding to attend.”

  66

  Sara

  I must zone out on the way because the ride to Silver Lake seems to take just a few seconds. Blinking, I come out of the car to the cheers of some guests, and my gaze falls on a tall, dark figure standing a dozen feet away.

  Peter.

  My enemy.

  My stalker.

  My lover.

  My husband-to-be.

  His eyes are like gray tar, reflecting nothing, but I can sense the volatile emotions within him, feel the coiled violence masked by that predator-like stillness. Still, I can’t help but drink him in, running my gaze over the powerful lines of his body. I’ve never seen him dressed so formally before, but it suits him, the sleek tuxedo emphasizing the V-shape of his torso and the crisp white shirt making his tan skin glow.

  He’s magnificent, as striking as any movie star, and despite the continued turmoil within me, a prickle of heat runs over my skin, the reaction as primal and uncontrollable as the accompanying frisson of fear.

  I might’ve saved others by showing up, but I’ll pay for that delay.

  Peter won’t let my moment of weakness slide.

  I hold his gaze as I approach, and he extends his hand, his mouth curved in a mocking half-smile. I place my hand in his big palm and feel the warmth of it all the way down to my toes—which I’m only now realizing feel as icy as my fingers.

  “Hello, ptichka,” he murmurs and bends his head to place a gentle kiss on my lips. Around us, I hear a few “awwws”—probably from my new coworkers, who have no reason to suspect this is anything other than a simple love match. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marsha staring at us, her face tense and pale, and behind Peter is Joe Levinson, who’s wearing the expression of someone attending a funeral… where the casket is filled with explosives.

  “Hi,” I reply softly, doing my best to ignore all the stares around us. “Is the photographer here?”

  “Yes, my love. Let’s go.”

  Placing a possessive hand on the small of my back, he steers me toward a picturesque spot by the lake, where a man with a camera is taking pictures of Phil and Rory.

  My dad is already there too, and my mom is on the way as well, walking as briskly as her high-heeled shoes allow. It warms my heart to see her so strong and healthy; the memory of her in the hospital, bandaged like a mummy, still haunts my nightmares.

  When we’re halfway to the lake and out of the earshot of the other guests, I glance up at Peter and murmur, “I’m sorry.”

  His jaw hardens. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  I swallow and look down, focusing on not tripping on the uneven ground in high heels. I didn’t lie: I am sorry. Now that I’m back in Peter’s orbit, I feel the inevitability of it all, the pull of the dark threads that bind us. My earlier doubts seem baseless and naïve, irrational to the point of insanity. What does it matter if our wedding is today, tomorrow, or a year from now? My tormentor is going to be the same man, the same lethal killer I’ve fallen for.

  From the moment I met Peter, I’ve known there’s no escape for me, and what happened today just confirms it.

  As we approach the lake, I spot Peter’s teammates clustered together, off to the side, and I wave at them. I’m pleased to see that they wave back. It’s strange, but I missed them too.

  To me, they’re like Peter’s brothers.

  When we reach the lake, the photographer—a chubby, bearded man who resembles a dark-haired Santa Claus—arranges us in a variety of poses, from looking longingly into each other’s eyes to sitting together on a bench to Peter holding me in his arms. He takes pictures of the two of us together and then each of us on our own; of the two of us with my parents, and then with all of our friends. The permutations are endless, and after I introduce Peter to everyone, I find myself zoning out, smiling and posing on autopilot.

  Would Peter have done as he threatened?

  Would he have killed all these people just to punish me for standing him up?

  I want to believe that the answer is no, but my instincts tell me yes. He’s capable of it, and his obsession with me has always had a tinge of darkness, just like our bedroom play.

  Peter loves me, treasures m
e, would do anything for me.

  Including commit mass murder.

  It’s a terrifying thought—or at least I should find it terrifying. And I do… for the most part. It’s only a tiny portion of me that finds something about that level of obsession intoxicating, as thrilling as jumping off a cliff into a stormy sea.

  “Ready, my love?” Peter’s large hand possessively clasps my elbow, and I look up at him, dazed.

  “For the ceremony,” he clarifies, and I nod, letting him lead me to the gazebo.

  This is it.

  Married life, here we go.

  67

  Peter

  My ptichka is pale and startlingly beautiful as she stands next to me, listening to the judge give his spiel. He talks about love and commitment, about supporting each other through thick and thin, and a dark wave of satisfaction rolls through me as he poses the traditional question to Sara, and she responds quietly, “Yes, I do.”

  He turns to me then.

  “Do you, Peter Garin, take Sara Cobakis to be your legally wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

  “Yes,” I say clearly, making sure my voice carries to our small audience. “I do.”

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the judge says, and I face Sara.

  She’s looking up at me, eyes wide and soft lips parted, and I bend my head, brushing my lips gently across that tempting mouth. It’s very important to be gentle right now. The slightest lapse in control could unleash the rage simmering within me, and I can’t have that happen.

  Not until we’re alone.

  There’s clapping and hooting, and then a familiar tune starts playing from behind the gazebo.

  The band I commissioned—the one Sara seemed so excited about—is here, having set up and gotten ready to play during the ceremony. It cost me a pretty penny to get them here for a couple of hours, but judging by the reaction of the guests, it’s worth it.