Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

My eyelids droop again, and I rub my hands over my face, trying to keep my eyes open. I know I’m not thinking straight, but I can’t go to sleep without making this decision.

  Do I call the FBI or not? And if not, do I actually go to that Starbucks?

  A violent shudder ripples through me as I try to picture meeting my husband’s murderer for coffee. I don’t think I can do it. Just the idea of it makes my insides somersault. But what would I do instead? Hide in bed all day and then go to my parents’ house for dinner with the Levinsons as promised? Pretend the monster who destroyed my life isn’t after me?

  It’s the thought of my parents that decides it. If I were on my own, I might chance the FBI’s dubious protection, but I can’t endanger my parents that way. I can’t force them to leave their house and everyone they know on the unlikely possibility that Ryson and his colleagues would be able to protect us better than they’ve protected the others. And leaving my parents behind is out of the question; even if their age wasn’t an issue, I can’t risk Peter interrogating them like he interrogated me about George.

  There’s only one thing I can do.

  I have to meet my tormentor tomorrow and hope that whatever he does to me won’t extend to the rest of my family.

  When I finally close eyes and pass out, I dream of him again. Only this time, he’s neither torturing nor fucking me.

  He’s sitting on my bed and watching me, his gaze warm and strangely possessive on my face.

  14

  Sara

  * * *

  By the time I pull up to the Starbucks at noon, the stabbing pain in my skull has quieted to a dull throb, and my stomach doesn’t threaten to revolt every second. However, my palms are damp with anxiety, and my hands shake so much I almost drop my keys when I come out of the car.

  I cross the parking lot, feeling like I’m going to my execution. Fear pulses through me with every rapid heartbeat. He could kill me at this very moment, just take me out with a sniper rifle. Maybe that’s why he lured me here: to murder me in a public place and leave my body to terrorize everyone.

  But no bullet finds me, and when I come into the coffeeshop, I see him right away. He’s sitting at one of the empty tables in the corner, his big hand wrapped around a Starbucks cup.

  I meet his gaze, and everything inside me jolts, as though I got shocked with a defibrillator. For the first time, I see him in the light of day without alcohol or drugs in my system.

  For the first time, I fully comprehend how dangerous he is.

  He’s leaning back in his chair, his long, jean-clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles under the small round table. It’s a casual pose, but there’s nothing casual about the dark power that rolls off him in waves. He’s not just dangerous; he’s lethal. I see it in the metallic ice of his gaze and the coiled readiness of his large body, in the arrogant set of his jaw and the cruel curve of his lips.

  This is a man who lives and breathes violence, an apex predator for whom rules of society don’t exist.

  A monster who’s tortured and killed countless people.

  The surge of anger and hatred that comes with the thought cuts through my fear, and I take a step forward, then another and another until I’m walking toward him on almost steady legs. If he wanted to kill me, he could’ve already done it in a million different ways, so whatever he wants today must be something different.

  Something even more evil.

  “Hello, Sara,” he says, rising to his feet as I approach. “It’s good to see you again.”

  His deep voice wraps around me, his soft Russian accent caressing my ears. It should sound ugly, that voice from my nightmares, but like everything else about him, it’s deceptively appealing.

  “What do you want?” I’m being rude, but I don’t care. We’re long past politeness and good manners. There’s no use pretending this is a normal get-together.

  The only reason I’m here is because not showing up could endanger my parents.

  “Please, sit.” He motions to the chair across from him and sits down. “I took the liberty of ordering a cup of coffee for you. Black, no sugar… and decaf, since you’re not working today.”

  I glance at the second cup—prepared exactly the way I would’ve ordered it—then meet his gaze again. My heart drums in my throat, but my voice is even as I say, “You have been watching me.”

  “Yes, of course. But you figured that out last night, didn’t you?”

  I flinch. I can’t help it. If he saw me try to make that call, then he saw me stagger drunkenly into the bathroom and come out naked.

  If he’s been watching me for a while, he’s seen me in all sorts of private moments.

  “Sit, Sara.” He gestures at the chair again, and this time, I obey—if only to give myself a chance to calm down. Rage and fear are a tangle of live wires in my chest, and I feel like I’m one deep breath away from exploding.

  I’ve never been a violent person, but if I had a gun on me, I’d shoot him. I’d blow his brains all over the trendy Starbucks wall.

  “You hate me.” He says it calmly, as a statement of fact rather than a question, and I stare at him, caught off-guard.

  Does he read minds, or am I that transparent?

  “It’s okay,” he says, and I catch a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You can admit it. I promise not to hurt you today.”

  Today? What about tomorrow and the day after? My hands form into fists under the table, my nails digging into my skin. “Of course I hate you,” I say as steadily as I can manage. “Is that a surprise?”

  “No, of course not.” He smiles, and my lungs tighten, preventing me from breathing. It’s not a perfect smile—his teeth are white, but one is slightly crooked on the bottom, and his lower lip has a tiny scar that wasn’t visible until now—but it’s magnetic nonetheless.

  It’s a smile nature designed for one purpose only: to lure in unwary women and make them forget the monster underneath.

  My nails dig deeper into my palms, the bite of pain centering me as he says, “You have every right to hate me for what I did.”

  I gape at him. “Are you trying to apologize? Do you seriously think that—”

  “You misunderstand.” The smile disappears, and his silver eyes flash with sudden fury. “Your husband deserved it. If he weren’t brain dead, I would’ve made him suffer so much more.”

  I recoil instinctively, pushing my chair back, but before I can jump to my feet, his hand catches my wrist, shackling it to the table.

  “I didn’t say you could go, Sara.” His voice is dark ice. “We’re not done here yet.”

  His fingers are like a molten iron cuff around my wrist, his grip burning hot and unbreakable. I remain sitting and instinctively glance around. The nearest patrons are a good dozen feet away, and nobody is paying attention to us. Panic beats in my chest, but I remind myself the lack of attention is a good thing. I haven’t forgotten how he threatened the others at the club.

  Pushing my fear aside, I focus on slowing my breathing. “What do you want from me?”

  “I’m trying to decide that,” he says, his face smoothing out. Releasing my wrist, he picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip. “You see, Sara, I don’t hate you.”

  I blink, caught off-guard again. “You don’t?”

  “No.” He puts the cup down and regards me with cool gray eyes. “It probably seems that way, given what I’ve done to you, but I hold no ill will toward you. Just the opposite, in fact.”

  My pulse lurches before settling into a new frantic rhythm. “What do you mean?”

  The corners of his mouth turn up. “What do you think it means, Sara? You intrigue me. You fascinate me, in fact.” He leans in, his gaze pinning me in place. “You don’t remember what you said to me when you were drugged, do you?”

  A hot flush crawls up my neck and spreads over my face. I don’t remember everything from that night, but I remember enough. Bits and pieces from my drugged confession surface in my mind at random times when I’m
awake and pop into my dreams at night.

  Into my most twisted dreams, the ones I try not to think about.

  “I see you do remember.” His voice turns low and husky, his lids lowering halfway as his large, warm hand settles over my trembling palm. “I’ve been wondering what would’ve happened if I’d stayed that night… if I’d taken you up on your offer.”

  His touch burns through me before I yank my hand away, clenching it into a fist under the table. “There was no offer.” My heart is pounding in my ears, my voice tight with mortification. “I was high. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “I know. Drugs that lower inhibitions tend to have that effect.” He leans back, freeing me from the potent effect of his nearness, and my lungs drag in a full breath for the first time in two minutes. “You didn’t know who I was or what I was doing. You would’ve reacted similarly to any other reasonably attractive man who had you in that position.”

  “That’s… that’s right.” My face is still blazing hot, but the rational explanation steadies me a little. “You could’ve been anyone. It wasn’t directed at you.”

  “Yes. But you see, Sara”—he leans in again, his gaze filled with dark intensity—“my reaction was directed at you. I wasn’t drugged, and when you came on to me, I wanted you. I still want you.”

  Horror ices my blood even as my sex clenches in response. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. “You’re—you’re insane.” I feel like I’ve been dropped from a plane with no parachute. “I’m not… This is just sick.” I want to jump up and run, but I press on, pushing through the panic. I have to make this clear to him, put a stop to this insanity once and for all. “I don’t care what you want, or what your reaction was. I’m not going to sleep with you after you killed my husband and God knows how many others. After you tortured me and—”

  “I know, Sara.” His hand finds my knee under the table and rests on it. “I wish I could go back, because I would’ve found a different way.”

  Startled, I push my chair to the side, scooting out of his reach. “You wouldn’t have killed George?”

  “I wouldn’t have tortured you,” he clarifies, placing his hand back on the table. “I could’ve located that sookin syn some other way. It would’ve taken longer, but it would’ve been worth it not to hurt you.”

  My freefall from the plane resumes, the air whooshing past my ears. What planet is this man from? “You think torturing me is a problem, but killing my husband would’ve been okay?”

  “The husband who lied to you? The one you said you didn’t really know?” Rage ignites in his eyes again. “You can tell yourself whatever you want, Sara, but I did you a favor. I did the whole fucking world a favor by getting rid of him.”

  “A favor?” An answering fury blazes to life inside me, burning away all caution. “He was a good man, you… you psycho! I don’t know what you think he did, but—”

  “He massacred my wife and son.”

  Shock paralyzes my vocal cords. “What?” I gasp out when I can finally speak.

  A muscle pulses in Peter’s jaw. “Do you know what your husband did for a living, Sara? What he really did?”

  A sick sensation spreads through me. “He was a… a foreign correspondent.”

  “That was his cover, yes.” The Russian’s upper lip curls as he straightens in his seat. “I figured you didn’t know. The spouses rarely know, even when they sense the lies.”

  My world tilts off its axis. “What do you mean, cover? He was a journalist. He wrote stories for—”

  “Yes, he did. And in the process of getting those stories, he gathered information for the CIA and carried out covert missions for them.”

  “What? No.” I frantically shake my head. “You’re wrong. You made a mistake. You had the wrong man. I knew you must’ve had the wrong man. George wasn’t a spy. That’s impossible. He didn’t even know how to change a tire. He—”

  “He was recruited in college,” Peter says flatly. “University of Chicago, which you both attended. They often do that, hit up college campuses to round up the best and the brightest. They look for certain things: few family ties, a patriotic bent, smart and ambitious but lacking focus… Any of that sound like your husband?”

  I stare at him, my chest squeezing tighter and tighter. George’s mother died in a car accident during his last year of high school, and his father, a Marine, had been killed in Afghanistan when George was just a baby. His elderly uncle helped put him through college, but he died too, several years back, leaving only distant cousins to attend George’s funeral six months ago.

  No. It couldn’t be true. I would’ve known.

  “Only if he told you,” Peter says, and I realize I spoke my last thought out loud. “They teach them how to conceal their real job from everyone, even their own families. Didn’t you find it suspicious how Cobakis discovered his passion for journalism overnight? How one day he was a biology major, and then he was interning at magazines abroad?”

  “No, I—” My chest is so tight I can barely take a breath. “That’s just college. You’re supposed to discover yourself, find your passion.”

  “And he did: working for your government.” There’s no mercy in the Russian’s silver gaze. “They trained him, gave him the focus he was lacking. Taught him how to lie to you and everyone else. When he graduated, they got him a job at the paper, and he had an excuse to go to every hotspot in the world.”

  I jump to my feet, unable to listen further. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He stands up too, his large frame towering over me. “Don’t I? Think back, Sara. Think back to the man you married, to the life you really had together. Not the perfect one you showed to the world, but the one you led behind closed doors. Who was he, this husband of yours? How well did you really know him?”

  My insides feel like lead as I take a step back, my head shaking in nonstop denial. “You’re wrong,” I repeat in a choked voice, and spinning around, I run out of the coffeeshop, heading blindly for my car.

  It’s only when I stop at a red light near my house that I realize Peter Sokolov didn’t do anything to stop me.

  He just stood there and watched me go.

  15

  Peter

  * * *

  I watch through the binoculars as Sara enters her parents’ house; then I open my laptop and bring up the camera feed from inside the hallway.

  Sara’s parents live in a small, neat house that could use a few upgrades but is otherwise warm and cozy. Even I can tell it’s a home, not just a place to live. For some bizarre reason, it reminds me of Tamila’s house in Daryevo, though this suburban American home is nothing like a mountain village hut.

  Sara kisses both of her parents in the hallway, then follows them to the dining room. I switch to the camera feed there, zooming in on her face as she greets the other guests—an older couple and a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties.

  It’s the Levinsons and their son Joe, the lawyer Sara’s parents want her to date.

  Something ugly stirs inside me as Sara shakes the lawyer’s hand with a polite smile. I don’t want to see her with him; just the idea of it makes me want to plunge my blade between his ribs. Yesterday, when the bartender was smiling at her, I wanted to smash my fist into his grinning mug, and the violent urge is even stronger today.

  I might not have claimed her yet, but she’s going to be mine.

  Sara helps her parents bring out the appetizers and sits down next to the lawyer. I crank up the audio feed and listen as the two of them make small talk. For someone who just found out about her husband’s double life, the little doctor is remarkably composed, her smiling mask firmly in place. Nobody looking at her would know that before coming here, she hid in her closet for hours and emerged less than forty minutes ago with her eyes red and swollen.

  Nobody would suspect she’s terrified because I want her.

  It took everything I had to let her stay in that closet and cry on h
er own. She went in there to escape my cameras, and I let her have this time to herself. She would’ve been even more upset if I’d gone in and embraced her—if I’d tried to comfort her the way I wanted.

  I need to give her more time to get used to the idea of us—and to trust I won’t hurt her.

  The dinner lasts a couple of hours; then Sara helps her mother clear off the table and makes an excuse to leave. The lawyer asks for her phone number, and she gives it, but I can see it’s mostly out of politeness. Her cheeks are perfectly pale—there isn’t even a hint of the color that floods her face in my presence—and her body language speaks of indifference. Joe Levinson doesn’t excite her, and that’s a good thing.

  It means he gets to go home alive.

  I follow Sara at a distance as she drives to the clinic, and then I wait in my car until she emerges, entertaining myself by watching her through the cameras I installed inside the clinic. I know what I’m doing is stalker behavior at best, but I can’t stop myself.

  I have to know where she is and what she’s doing.

  I have to make sure she’s safe.

  I could entrust the physical guard duty to Anton and my other guys—they already watch her when I can’t—but I want to be here in person. I want to see her with my own eyes. With each day that passes, my need for her intensifies, and now that I’ve held an actual conversation with her, my fascination is quickly morphing into an obsession.

  I have to have her. Soon.

  She comes out of the clinic some three hours later, and I follow her as she drives to a hotel. She probably thinks she’ll be safer there than at her house with all the cameras, but she’s wrong.

  I wait until she checks into the hotel and goes up to her room, and then I get out of the car and go in.

  16

  Sara

  * * *

  The clinic shift was particularly rough today. I had a fourteen-year-old patient who asked for morning-after pills because her brother raped her and another patient barely out of her teens who came in with her third miscarriage. I did what I could, but I know it’s not enough.