by Anna Zaires
A lightning-hot tingle zings through me at the thought, intensifying the burn under my skin. My heart is pounding so violently it might burst, and I’m no longer cold. No longer frozen inside. My body came to life from the moment he spoke, and it’s been humming with need ever since… even as I drown in confusion.
“Are you kidnapping me?” My voice is thin and much too high, but I’m having trouble processing this… whatever this is. How can he just show up out of the blue, after more than nine months, and introduce himself to my friends like some long-lost boyfriend? Out of all the ways I imagined my second abduction, this scenario—where he’d just walk into a bar and lead me out by the hand—never even blipped on my radar. I was ready for a needle in my neck, or a hood over my head—or at least a rough wake-up in the middle of the night. Not a casual stroll down North Broadway in Uptown Chicago. How can he be out in the open like this? He used a different name at the bar, but his face is unchanged. Where are the Feds? After all the months of watching my every move, they just suddenly—
“I’m not kidnapping you. I’m taking you home.” His hand tightens on mine, engulfing it with its heat… just like I feel his will wrapping around me, strong and unbending, as inescapable as a force of nature.
I shake my head in a futile attempt to clear it. “Home?” Does he mean Japan? Because if so, I need to tell him that—
“Your apartment.” His metallic eyes gleam as he captures my gaze. “For now, at least, since you have all your things there. Later, we can move back to the house if you want—or get a new one closer to your work.”
I feel like I’m either drunk or stoned out of my mind. Was there something in the beer I just had? “What are you talking about?”
He stops walking, and I realize we’re next to my car. Releasing my hand, he frames my cheek with his big, rough palm and says tenderly, “Us, my love. I’m talking about us.”
And taking my bag from me, he riffles through it, pulls out the car key, and unlocks the car.
43
Sara
Peter is driving, and I’m glad. I don’t think I could do it right now—not without crashing, at least.
I don’t have that worry with Peter. He handles the car like he does everything else: with calm, lethal competence. As I watch him pull out of the parking spot, it occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen him behind a wheel before. Whenever we were in a vehicle together, someone else drove and Peter was in the back seat with me. Which brings me to another question: Where are Peter’s teammates? Why is he here alone?
And what did he mean by “quit his job?”
My mind is racing in tune with my hammering pulse, but I gather my careening thoughts and try to focus on one thing at a time. “What do you mean by ‘us?’” I ask, staring at his strongly etched profile. Or more specifically, devouring it with my gaze. I’d forgotten how strikingly masculine his features are, how beautiful in that dangerously magnetic way. His face is still as lean as when we left the clinic—whatever he was doing, it wasn’t rest and relaxation—and his high cheekbones are like twin blades, his stubble-covered jaw so hard it could’ve been hewed from marble.
I catch a glimpse of his silver gaze and the scar on his left eyebrow as he glances at me before returning his attention to the road. “I mean I’m here for good,” he says calmly. “I got full amnesty and immunity—for myself and the rest of my team.”
My breath stalls in my lungs. “Amnesty and immunity? As in…”
“As in, I’m no longer a fugitive, yes.”
And just like that, I’m careening off a cliff. He’s no longer a wanted man? “How? What did you do? How is that even—”
“It’s a long story, but I essentially did a favor for a former employer of mine—remember Julian Esguerra, Kent’s partner?”
I inhale sharply. “The one who wanted to kill you for endangering his wife?”
“That’s the one,” Peter confirms as we merge onto the highway and pass a slow-moving truck. “In any case, in exchange for that favor, Esguerra used his leverage with various governments to get the hounds off our trail.”
I stare at him, speechless. I had no idea illegal arms dealers had that kind of pull, though I guess I should’ve suspected. Lucas Kent even talked about some CIA contact of theirs—John, Jeff Somebody?—when we all had dinner at his Cyprus mansion.
“Wow. That must’ve been some favor,” I finally manage, and Peter nods, looking straight ahead.
“It was.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press him. I have more important things to cover first.
Balling my damp palms on my lap, I try to sound casual. “So, when you say you’re here for good, what exactly do you mean?”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “What do you think I mean, my love? You wanted a dog behind a picket fence? Barbecues and children in the park? Well, I can now give you that—or rather, Peter Garin can.” He switches into the right lane and gets on the exit ramp. “That different world you wanted, that life—it’s yours, ptichka… and so am I.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “You want to date me? Here? Like a normal couple?”
“No, ptichka. I don’t want to date you.” He takes a right turn and pulls into a nearby gas station—which is when I notice the gas tank is nearly empty.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, turning off the car and stepping out. I watch numbly as he expertly fills up my Toyota, paying at the pump with a fancy-looking black credit card.
My Russian assassin has a credit card, and he’s using it to pay for gas.
The sheer improbability of that—of Peter suddenly here, doing something so utterly mundane—adds to the sense of unreality I’ve been battling since we left the bar. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in some bizarre dream and will wake up at any moment, cold and alone in my bed.
But no. The driver’s door opens, bringing with it a wave of humid summer air and the pungent odor of gasoline as Peter gets back into the car, folding his long frame behind the wheel.
If it’s a dream, it’s the most realistic I’ve ever had.
“What do you mean you don’t want to date me?” I ask as we pull out of the gas station and turn onto a two-lane road. “What do you want, then?”
He stops at a red light and looks at me. “I want everything, Sara.” His deep voice is low and soft, his gray eyes reflecting the streetlights around us. “I want your days and nights, your hours and minutes. I want to share your joys and sorrows, your triumphs and frustrations. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms every night and wake up every morning smelling your hair on my pillow. I want you, ptichka—with me for all time, in all ways.”
I stare at him, my ribcage tightening with every word he speaks. “What…” I swallow to moisten my dry throat. “What are you saying, Peter?”
The light must’ve changed to green, because he returns his attention to the road and the car moves forward.
To my surprise, a few moments later, we stop again, and I realize he’s pulled over to the side of the road. Calmly, he puts the car in “Park” and turns toward me.
I blink, my pulse speeding up as he unfastens his seatbelt and reaches into his front jeans pocket, pulling out a small velvet pouch.
“This is what I’m saying,” he says quietly, and I stop breathing as he opens the pouch to take out a diamond ring—an exquisitely cut solitaire that looks to be at least a few karats in size. Set in a delicate circle of either white gold or platinum, it’s simple yet striking—exactly what I would’ve chosen if I had a hundred grand to spare.
Stunned, I lift my gaze to meet his. “Peter…”
“I want you as my wife, Sara,” he says softly, reaching over to pick up my left hand. His fingers are warm and dry on my chilled skin, his gaze shadowed in the dim interior of the car. It’s as if we’re all alone in the darkness, as if the rest of the world no longer exists as he slides the ring onto my left ring finger, its cool, metallic weight like a manacle clamping around my heart.
My breath escapes in a shaky exhale.
Oh God. This is happening.
It’s actually happening.
Reflexively, I try to pull my hand back, but he tightens his grip, refusing to release me.
“I want to own you, legally and in every other way,” he continues, and this time, I hear the steel behind the softness, feel the prick of the barbed wire wrapped in silk. “You’re already mine, ptichka, and I want to make it official,” he says, his lips curving in a dark smile. “I want you to marry me, and soon.”
44
Sara
I spend the remainder of the ride home in a haze, the ring on my finger both hot and icy on my skin. I didn’t respond to Peter’s side-of-the-road proposal—I couldn’t—and thankfully, he didn’t press me.
He just pulled back out onto the road and continued driving.
When we park in front of my building, Peter walks around and opens my door, taking my hand to help me out of the car. His grip is both solicitous and possessive, his gaze roving over me with a hunger that spikes my pulse and sets off alarm bells in my mind.
He’s not going to wait to take me.
He’s going to be on me—and in me—as soon as we get inside.
“Wait,” I say, suddenly desperate to slow things down. As much as I want him—as much as I physically missed him—I’m not ready for this. It’s been too long, and there are too many unanswered questions.
Pulling my hand out of his grasp, I step back until I’m pressed against the car.
His jaw tightens and he comes forward, gripping the top of the car to cage me between his muscular arms. “You think I haven’t waited?” He leans over me, silver eyes gleaming, and even though we aren’t touching, I feel the heat coming off his powerful body. “You think I haven’t been patient all these fucking months?”
My pulse shoots up at the barely contained anger in his voice, and an answering fury—one that’s been gradually building during his long absence—erupts in me. All these months of worrying and waiting to be stolen, of not knowing if he was hurt or captured, all the lies and half-truths and sleepless nights, and he just waltzes into a bar like nothing happened? Puts a ring on my finger as if after torture and kidnapping, marriage is the natural next step?
Teeth clenched, I punch up with the heel of my palms, striking the front of his shoulders. “Then where the hell have you been?” I shout as he reflexively jerks back, surprised by my outburst. “Why did it take you so long? I was also fucking waiting—and waiting and waiting and waiting—”
His lips crash against mine, his hands gripping both sides of my face as he crushes me against the car. It’s not a kiss so much as a conquest, his tongue invading the inside of my mouth ruthlessly, without mercy. I taste blood where my teeth cut into my lip, but it’s overlaid by the familiar taste of him, by the dark heat and violence of his desire.
It should’ve been too much, but my body comes alive with answering fierceness, my hands clutching fistfuls of his shirt as I kiss him back, sucking on that invading tongue, retaliating with an invasion of my own. This, right here, is what I’ve been dreaming about all those nights, what my body’s been burning for.
Why I haven’t been able to so much as look at another man, much less imagine myself with him.
After a minute, his lips soften and his hands release my face to roam over the rest of me, one big palm squeezing my breast while the other grips my ass. Despite the gentler kiss, his touch is unrestrained, unapologetically possessive—a king reclaiming his birthright. I feel the thick bulge in his jeans as he grinds it against my stomach, and waves of heat pulse through my body as his mouth trails off to my neck, branding me with hot, biting kisses while his hand leaves my ass to wind my hair around his fist.
“You are fucking mine,” he growls in my ear, arching my head back, and I shudder, gooseflesh rising on my arms as he nips my earlobe and wedges his knee between my legs, making me straddle his hard-muscled thigh. Even through the layers of my jeans and his, the pressure on my sex is sudden and intense, and as he squeezes my breast again, rubbing the fabric of my bra against my peaked nipple, the pulsing heat moves down to my clit, a familiar tension coiling deep within my core. As I helplessly ride his leg, I’m viscerally aware of the starkly male scent and taste of him, of the potent size and hardness of his body, and as his hand delves under my shirt, his rough, warm palm sliding over my bare skin, the tension violently spikes.
With a choked cry, I come, the pent-up need releasing all at once as my body spasms and contracts, the blast of ecstasy curling my toes inside my shoes. Dazedly, I’m aware of distant laughter, and then I’m abruptly horizontal, being carried in impossibly strong arms.
Startled, I open my eyes, looping my arms around Peter’s neck. He’s walking fast, and we’re already halfway across the parking lot, but I still catch a glimpse of three teenage boys on the other side of the lot. They must’ve seen us, I realize, flushing all over as the orgasm-induced haze clears from my mind.
“Peter, they—”
“I know.” His jaw is tight as he covers the pavement with long, sure strides, carrying me as easily as if I were a child. “We need to get inside.”
The teenagers’ wolf whistles and hooting reach my ears again, and I push at his shoulders. “Put me down. Please, I can walk.”
The last thing I need is to be carried through the lobby like some kind of underdressed bride.
To my relief, Peter listens, lowering me to my feet as we reach my building’s entrance. It’s just in time, too. We don’t have a doorman, but I do see my neighbors—two young women dressed up for a night out. They’re coming out just as we’re coming in, and their curious gazes swing from me to Peter, who’s maintaining a possessive grip on my arm.
I don’t know them that well—we’ve only exchanged pleasantries about the weather—so I smile awkwardly and wish them a good evening.
“You too,” one of the women says, openly staring at Peter as her roommate starts giggling like a schoolgirl. “Have a very nice evening indeed.”
My face flushes brighter as they continue down the lobby, whispering and giggling with their heads bent close together, and for the first time, I’m glad my building doesn’t have much of a community dynamic. There are a lot of renters, like me, and with the high turnover in the apartments, people don’t bother to get to know their neighbors—or gossip about them.
“Friends of yours?” Peter asks, releasing my arm to press the elevator button, and I shake my head.
“Not really.” I look up at him, frowning. “Don’t you know that? Weren’t you having me followed?”
His gray eyes gleam with dark amusement. “Of course. But they couldn’t get that close to you with the Feds watching your every move and regularly sweeping for bugs.”
“Oh.” That makes sense—and explains why I only ever saw the Feds.
The elevator doors slide open, and he ushers me in, his hand on my lower back warm and gentle—and as inflexible as steel. My heart skips a beat, then settles into a heavy, pounding rhythm.
He’s herding me.
Literally shepherding me to my apartment so we can fuck.
“You didn’t really think I’d leave you alone, did you?” he says softly as the elevator starts moving, and I shake my head again, looking away from his penetrating stare. My gaze falls on the sizable bulge in his jeans, and the heat in my cheeks intensifies.
Has he been sporting that erection this whole time?
No wonder my neighbors went into estrogen overload.
I force myself to look up and to the side, but that way lies disaster too. The inside of the elevator is mirrored on two sides, and the sight of my reflection makes me want to sink through the floor. Thanks to our impromptu make-out session in the parking lot, not only is my underwear damp, but my lower lip is swollen to twice its normal size, my cheeks are bright pink, and my hair is sticking up on one side.
I look like I’m coming home from an orgy.
In despera
tion, I look away, catching Peter’s gaze again. “So you never told me… Why did it take you so long to return for me?”
His jaw flexes. “Because that favor I did for Esguerra—it took a long time. I wanted to come for you sooner, ptichka, believe me.” He gives me an arrested stare. “Did you miss me? Were you hoping I’d come?”
I swallow and look away as the elevator doors open, sparing me from having to reply. I thought I’d reconciled my contradictory feelings for Peter, had come to terms with the fact that my husband’s killer managed to steal my heart, but all of a sudden, I’m not so sure. This—Peter here, in my regular life—is too unexpected, too terrifyingly real. I can’t wrap my mind around the logistics of it, the sheer number of complications involved in attempting a normal relationship—a marriage—with a former assassin who once tortured and kidnapped me. If this is really happening, what am I going to tell my parents who still think of him as “that criminal?” Or Marsha, who knows not only the official FBI story that paints Peter as a monster, but also that he killed George? And will the FBI really leave us alone? How can they, when the man standing in the elevator with me has to be one of the most dangerous people they know?
Whenever I imagined us together, it was elsewhere, with me as his now-willing prisoner. I was ready to accept my fate as his captive, to embrace my tormentor as my destiny, but I wasn’t ready for this.
The ring is cold and heavy on my finger as we step out of the elevator and Peter leads me down the hallway to my apartment. He’s never been to my building before—at least, I assume he hasn’t—yet there’s no trace of hesitation in his movements, no sense that he’s lost or uncertain in any way. He’s as confident in navigating an unfamiliar hallway as he is in everything he does, and I can’t help envying that.