Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  Dr. Evans would try to alleviate my guilt and shame, and that’s not something I deserve.

  When the tea is ready, I carry it over to the kitchen table and sit down. I’m about to take my first sip when I get the watched feeling again. Rationally, I know I’m alone, but my heart rate speeds up, and my palms dampen with sweat.

  My pepper spray container is upstairs, so I get up and, as calmly as I can, make my way to the knife rack on the counter. I select the biggest, sharpest knife and bring it back to the table with me. I know it would be useless against someone like Peter Sokolov, but it’s better than nothing. After a few deep breaths, I calm down enough to drink my tea, but the unsettling sensation of invisible eyes persists.

  If the house doesn’t sell soon, I’ll just move out, I decide as I go back to bed.

  I can afford a second residence, and even a crappy studio would be preferable to this.

  11

  Sara

  * * *

  “So how did your Open House go yesterday?” Marsha shouts over the music as we wait for our fourth round of drinks at the bar.

  “The realtor says it was good,” I shout back, trying not to slur my words. I haven’t done this in forever, and the alcohol is hitting me hard. “We’ll see if any offers come of it.”

  “I can’t believe you own a house and are selling it,” Tonya says as the next song comes on and the music volume drops from deafening to merely loud. “I’d love to buy a house someday, but it’ll take forever to save up.”

  “Yeah, if you spend half your paycheck on clothes and shoes,” Andy says with a grin, her red curls dancing as she sways her curvy hips in tune with the music. “Besides, Sara here is a doctor. She makes the big bucks, even if she doesn’t act as stuck up as the rest of them.”

  Tonya giggles, her long earrings jiggling. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You look so young, Sara, I keep forgetting you’re a real MD.”

  “She is young,” Marsha says before I can respond. “She’s our own little Doogie Howser.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I elbow Marsha, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment as I see the tattooed bartender grinning at me. He’s making our Lemon Drops with practiced motions, his brown gaze trained on me with unmistakable interest.

  “Here you go, ladies,” he says, sliding our drinks over, and Andy winks at me as she hands me one of the glasses.

  “Bottoms up,” she says, and we knock back the shots before going back to the dance floor, where the next song is already beginning to blast through the speakers.

  I wasn’t going to come out this Friday after the shitty week I had, but at the last minute, I decided that going out and getting drunk would be preferable to passing out early and risking another twisted sex dream. Luckily, I keep a pair of cute silver flats in my locker at work, and Tonya lent me a short black dress that fit surprisingly well.

  “H&M, baby,” she said proudly when I asked her where she got it, and I made a mental note to stop by the trendy store and get something similar for myself—in case I’m ever tempted to repeat this insanity.

  We started off with a couple of drinks at Patty’s, then got a car to take us to the club Tonya talked about. True to her word, the promoter was able to get us in without a line, and we’ve been dancing nonstop for the past two hours. I’m sweating, my feet hurt, and I’ll probably have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow, but this is the most fun I’ve had in… well, years.

  Maybe longer than five years.

  The crowd at the club ranges from college kids to hot forty-somethings like Marsha, but the majority look to be in their late twenties, like myself. The DJ is outstanding, mixing the latest hits with hip-hop classics, and I sing along as we dance, belting out my favorite songs with abandon. I’ve always loved music and dancing—I did ballet all through elementary and middle school and took salsa classes in college—and with the buzz of alcohol in my veins, I feel sexy and carefree, for once like any other young woman at the club. Tonight, I’m not the serious student, the overworked doctor, the dutiful daughter, or the perfect wife. I’m not even the widow with paranoia and messed-up dreams.

  Tonight, I’m just me.

  The four of us dance by ourselves for a while; then a couple of guys join us, dancing up to Tonya and Marsha. Andy drags me away to the bathroom with her, and by the time we return, Tonya and Marsha are full-on flirting with the guys.

  “You want to get another drink?” Andy yells over the music, and I nod, following her to the bar. The room is spinning around me, so I figure I’ll just get some water.

  The club has become more crowded in the last hour, the dance floor spilling over to the bar and lounge area, and when a group of laughing women cuts in front of me, I lose sight of Andy. I’m not particularly worried—I can catch up to her at the bar—so I go around the group to avoid the most dense parts of the crowd.

  I’m within a few feet of the bar when strong fingers wrap around my upper arm, and a deep male voice murmurs into my ear, “Dance with me, Sara.”

  I freeze, my blood solidifying in my veins.

  I know that voice, that subtle Russian accent.

  Slowly, I turn my head and meet the metallic gaze that stalks my dreams.

  Peter Sokolov is in front of me, his sculpted mouth curved in a faint smile.

  12

  Peter

  * * *

  She sways on her feet, her face chalk white, and I grip her other arm to steady her. She clearly knows who I am; she recognizes me.

  “Don’t scream,” I say. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Her hazel eyes look wild, and I know she’s not really processing what I’m saying. All she sees is a mortal threat, and she’s reacting accordingly. In another few seconds, she’ll either faint or become hysterical, and neither would be a good thing.

  “Sara.” I make my voice hard. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to. Do you understand? If you do anything to attract attention to us, people will die.”

  The mindless panic in her gaze abates slightly, replaced by a fear that’s more rational, if not any less intense. I’m getting through to her.

  It helps that I’m not bluffing.

  “W-what do you want?” Even with the layer of lipgloss over them, her trembling lips are pale. “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to see you,” I say, pulling her with me through the crowd as I maneuver away from the cameras positioned around the bar. Sara’s bare arms are tense in my grasp, her skin chilly to the touch, but as expected, she doesn’t scream.

  From everything I know about her, the little doctor would sooner die than endanger a bunch of strangers.

  “Dance with me,” I say again when I have her where I want her—next to a wall in a dimly lit part of the dance floor, where the crowd forms a human shield around us. To facilitate her compliance with my request, I release her arms and clasp her waist, being careful to keep my grip gentle.

  Her body is as stiff as a block of ice as I hold her close, but to everyone around us, we look like any other couple swaying to the music. The illusion is only strengthened when her hands come up and her palms splay against my chest. She’s trying to push me away, but she’s too shocked to put much strength behind it. Not that it would help if she put all her strength behind it.

  I can overpower most men with minimal effort, much less a woman as slight as her.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I murmur, holding her gaze. Even on a crowded dance floor, I can smell her scent, something delicate and flowery, and my body reacts to her proximity, my cock hardening at the feel of her slender waist between my palms. I want to pull her closer, feel her body against mine, but I force myself to keep a small distance. I don’t want to scare her with the intensity of my need. As it is, the look in Sara’s eyes is that of a small animal caught in a trap, all blind fear and desperation. It makes me want to pick her up and cuddle her against my chest, but that would just terrify her more. There’s no action of mine that wouldn’t terrify her at this point; I cou
ld invite her to sing karaoke, and she’d have a panic attack.

  “What do you want from me?” Her breathing is fast and shallow as she stares up at me. “I don’t know anything—”

  “I know.” I keep my voice gentle. “Don’t worry, Sara. That part is over.”

  Confusion edges out some of the terror in her eyes. “But then why…”

  “Why am I here?”

  She nods warily.

  “I’m not really sure,” I say, and it’s the absolute truth.

  Over the past five and a half years, vengeance ruled my life. Everything I did was in pursuit of that goal, but now that I’m almost through with my list, the future lies dull and empty in front of me, the path ahead shrouded in a bleak fog. Once I kill the last person responsible for my family’s deaths, I won’t have a purpose. My reason for existing will be well and truly gone.

  Or so I thought until I met her and saw the pain in her doe-like eyes. Now she consumes my dreams and haunts my waking moments. When I think of Sara, I don’t see my son’s torn body and Tamila’s bloodied face.

  I only see her.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  She’s trying—and failing—to keep her voice steady. Still, I admire her attempt at composure. I approached her in public to make her feel safer, but she’s too smart to fall for that. If they’ve told her anything about my background, she must realize I can snap her neck faster than she can scream for help.

  “No,” I answer, leaning closer as a louder song comes on. “I’m not going to kill you.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  She’s shaking in my hold, and something about that both intrigues and disturbs me. I don’t want her to be afraid of me, but at the same time, I like having her at my mercy. Her fear calls to the predator within me, turning my desire for her into something darker.

  She’s captured prey, soft and sweet and mine to devour.

  Bending my head, I bury my nose in her fragrant hair and murmur into her ear, “Meet me at the Starbucks near your house at noon tomorrow, and we’ll talk there. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  I pull back, and she stares at me, her eyes huge in her heart-shaped face. I know what she’s thinking, so I lean in again, dipping my head so my mouth is next to her ear.

  “If you contact the FBI, they’ll try to hide you from me. Just like they tried to hide your husband and the others on my list. They’ll uproot you, take you away from your parents and your career, and it will all be for nothing. I’ll find you, no matter where you go, Sara… no matter what they do to keep you from me.” My lips brush against the rim of her ear, and I feel her breath hitch. “Alternatively, they might want to use you as bait. If that’s the case—if they set a trap for me—I’ll know, and our next meeting won’t be over coffee.”

  She shudders, and I drag in a deep breath, inhaling her delicate scent one last time before releasing her.

  Stepping back, I melt into the crowd and message Anton to get the crew into position.

  I have to make sure she gets home safe and sound, unmolested by anyone but me.

  13

  Sara

  * * *

  I don’t know how I make it home, but somehow I find myself in my shower, naked and shivering under the hot spray. I have only a vague recollection of making some awkward excuse to Andy and stumbling out of the club to catch a cab; the rest of the trip is a blur of shock-induced numbness and alcoholic haze.

  Peter Sokolov spoke to me. He held me.

  My husband’s killer, the man who tortured me and ripped apart my life, danced with me.

  My knees fold under me, and I sink to the floor, panting. A wave of dizziness makes the shower stall rotate around me, and all the drinks I consumed threaten to come up.

  Peter Sokolov was in the club with me. It wasn’t my mind playing tricks; he was actually there.

  I swallow convulsively as my nausea worsens. The water beats down on me, the spray almost painfully hot, but I can’t stop shivering.

  The monster from my nightmares is real.

  He’s coming after me.

  My dizziness intensifies, and I lie down, curling into a fetal ball on the tile floor. My hair is all over my face, wet and thick, and my throat constricts as memories of that night press in. For the first few days after the attack, I avoided washing my hair because I couldn’t take the feeling of water streaming over my head, but eventually, the need to be clean won out over the phobia.

  One breath in. One breath out. Slow and steady.

  Slowly, the suffocating sensation recedes, leaving only misery behind. I feel drunk and sick, and it takes all my strength to struggle to my feet and turn off the shower.

  Why is he here? What made him come back? What does he want from me?

  The questions streak through my mind as I towel off, but I’m no closer to answers than I was back at the club. My mind feels like a swamp, all my thoughts sluggish and slow.

  Wrapping the towel around my wet hair, I stumble to the bedroom and fall onto my king-size bed. The ceiling rocks back and forth, as though I’m on a ship, and I know I’m in for a brutal hangover tomorrow. I haven’t been this drunk since college, and my body doesn’t know how to handle it.

  Taking small, shallow breaths, I curl up on my side, hugging the blanket to my chest. The alcohol is dragging me under, but for once, I’m fighting the lure of sleep. I need to think, to understand what happened and figure out what to do.

  The killer who waterboarded me wants to meet for coffee tomorrow.

  It would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying. I don’t understand what he’s after. Why come up to me in the club? Why ask me to meet him in public again? He’s wanted by just about every law enforcement agency out there; surely he has to know that. Why take that kind of risk?

  Unless… unless he feels it’s not a risk.

  Maybe he’s arrogant enough to think he can evade justice forever.

  Anger ignites inside me, clearing some of the haze from my brain. I sit up, fighting a wave of dizziness, and reach for the corded phone on my nightstand. It’s a dinosaur, clunky and unnecessary in the age of cellphones, but George insisted on having a landline in the house.

  “You never know,” he said in response to my objections. “Cell phones aren’t always reliable. If power goes out during a winter storm, what are you going to do?”

  My eyes sting at the recollection, and I pick up the phone with an unsteady hand. I have a knack for remembering numbers, so I dial Agent Ryson’s from memory, pushing one button after another.

  I have most of the number keyed in when a sudden thought freezes me in place.

  Could Peter have bugged my phone? Is that what he meant when he said he’ll know if they set a trap for him?

  My mind leaps to another possibility.

  Could he be watching me right now?

  My breathing quickens, my skin prickling with adrenaline. Before the club, I would’ve dismissed the idea as a manifestation of my paranoia, but it’s not paranoia if it’s real.

  I’m not insane if it’s truly happening.

  Peter has resources, Ryson said. Could he have access to high-tech spyware?

  Are there cameras and listening devices inside my house?

  My heart hammering, I drop the phone back on its cradle and grab the blanket, pulling it up to cover my naked breasts. I rarely bother putting on a robe in my bedroom; even in the winter, I sleep in the buff, covered only by my blanket. I’ve never been self-conscious about my body—George loved it when I walked around naked—but the thought that his killer might’ve seen me nude makes me feel violated and painfully exposed.

  It also makes me recall my twisted dreams.

  No. No, no, no. Panting, I wrap the blanket around me and stumble to the closet to grab a T-shirt and a pair of underwear. I can’t think of those dreams. I refuse to. I’m drunk; that’s the only reason my mind went there in connection with that monster.

  Except he doesn’t look
like a monster. Even with the scar cutting through his eyebrow, he’s a stunningly good-looking man, the kind that women salivate over. If I’d met him at the club without knowing who he is, I would’ve danced with him.

  I would’ve wanted his strong arms around me, his hard body grinding against mine.

  My hands shake as I pull on the underwear, and I feel a spot of dampness where my sex touches the cotton fabric.

  No. This isn’t happening. I’m not turned on.

  Putting on the first T-shirt I find, I stagger back to bed and collapse on it, wrapping myself in the blanket. The room is doing cartwheels around me, and my stomach roils along with it. I pant through the nausea and realize my lids are growing heavy as my thoughts start to drift.

  Clenching my teeth, I force my eyes to open. I can’t pass out until I decide what to do about tomorrow.

  Staring at the spinning ceiling, I mentally go over my options.

  The sane thing to do would be to tell Ryson about this and hope they can protect me. Except if my suspicions are right and Peter Sokolov is indeed watching me, he’ll know that I contacted the FBI, and I might not survive long enough for the agents to reach me.

  Of course, if he decides to kill me, I might not survive even with the FBI protection. The people on his list certainly didn’t, and he said he’d come after me.

  He promised to find me no matter where I go.

  Still, it’s probably worth the risk, because the alternative is going along with whatever cruel game Peter is playing. I don’t know what he wants from me, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. Maybe he hated George enough to want to torment his widow, or maybe, despite what he said, he thinks I know something—like the sister of that poor man he killed.

  At this very moment, he might be devising some new, exotic torture for me, something spectacularly horrible that somehow involves coffee.