by Anna Zaires
There, that’s good. A little flattery, a little genuine admiration. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in a vulnerable position: establish a rapport with your attacker, make him see you as someone he can empathize with. Of course, that strategy hinges on said attacker’s ability to empathize—something I suspect the psychopath wrapped around me is missing.
“Well, I did learn a few English words and phrases as a child,” he says. “I suppose that helped.”
“Oh? Where did you learn them? In school, or from your parents?”
He chuckles, his muscular chest expanding against my back. “Neither. Just from American movies. They’re your main export, you know—that and hamburgers.”
“Right.” I inhale, trying to ignore the heavy arm slung across my ribcage and the hard evidence of his arousal throbbing against my ass. It bothers me in ways I don’t care to think about. “So what made you decide to go into your… um, profession?”
He buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply, as if breathing me in. “What exactly did Ryson tell you?”
I tense at his casual use of the agent’s last name, then force myself to relax. Of course he’d know who Ryson is; he likely saw us talk at the cafe. “He said you were Russian Special Forces. Is that right?”
“Yes.” His voice sounds husky as he shifts behind me again, his cock like a steel pole pressed against me. “I headed a small off-the-books unit specializing in counterterrorism and counterinsurgency.”
“That’s… unusual.” Talking to him—and thus keeping him awake in this aroused state—is probably not such a great idea, but I can’t make myself shut up. “How does one get into something like that? Did you join the army and get recruited there?”
“No.” He continues to nuzzle his face against my hair. “They found me in what you would call juvie.”
“A prison for juvenile delinquents?”
“It was more of a labor camp, but yes.”
“What—” I swallow, trying to concentrate on his words rather than the effect his obvious desire for me is having on my body. “What did you do to end up there?”
This has nothing to do with George, but I can’t suppress my curiosity. I suspect that whatever I learn will only frighten me more, but I want to know what makes my enemy tick.
I want to know his weaknesses, so I can use them against him.
“I killed the headmaster of the orphanage where I was raised.” There’s no trace of regret or apology in Peter’s words, no emotion beyond the lust thickening his voice. He could just as well have been relaying what he had for dinner. “I guess you could say I started on my career path early.”
“I see.” My skin crawls, but I do my best to sound calm. “How old were you?”
“Eleven, almost twelve.”
“What did he do to you?”
He sighs and pulls back slightly. “Does it really matter, ptichka? You’ve made up your mind about me, and no sob story from my past is likely to change it. Right now, you hate me too much to feel anything other than joy at whatever misfortune I might’ve endured.”
So much for building that emotional rapport. “Well, what did you expect?” I ask bitterly, dropping all pretense of sympathetic listening. “That you could torture me and kill my husband, and we’d be pals?”
“No, ptichka. Despite what you may think, I’m not delusional. Your negative feelings toward me are rational and expected. I’m just hoping to change them over time.”
He is delusional if he thinks I’ll ever feel anything but hatred toward him, but I don’t bother arguing. “What is that word you keep calling me? Ptee-something?”
“Ptichka.” He resumes nuzzling my hair, or smelling it, or whatever the hell he’s doing. “It means little bird in Russian.”
My hands fist in the blanket in front of me. “A bird?”
“Hmm. A small songbird, pretty and graceful like you.” He pauses, then adds softly, “Also caged, like you.”
The asshole. I clench my teeth and try to shift away from him as much as the restraining arm around my waist would allow. “That’s a temporary situation.”
“Oh, I don’t mean caged by me.” I can hear the smile in his voice as he tightens his grip on me, preventing me from squirming away. “I might be holding you at the moment, but you were imprisoned long before I entered your life.”
I freeze in surprise. “What?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Sara. I know you’ve felt it: all the expectations from society, from your parents and your husband and your friends… The pressure to succeed because you were born smart and pretty, the desire to be perfect, the need to be everything to everyone at all times…” His voice is soft and dark, wrapping me in a silky, seductive web. “I saw it in the club yesterday: your longing for freedom, your desire to live without the restraints placed on you. For a few moments on that dance floor, you let the shackles fall away, and I saw the pretty bird exit her golden cage and fly free. I saw you, Sara, and it was beautiful.”
For a couple of seconds, all I can do is lie unmoving, my chest aching and my eyes burning in the darkness. I want to laugh and deny his words, but I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll break down and scream. How could this man, this violent stranger, know something so private—something I’ve just begun to understand about myself?
How could he know that my nice, comfortable life no longer makes me happy… that maybe it never did?
Forcing down the swelling bubble in my throat, I let out a derisive snort and say, “So you’re going to… what? Liberate me from my restrictive life? Set me free and watch me fly?”
“No, ptichka.” His voice is filled with gentle mockery. “Nothing as noble as that.”
“What then?”
“I’m going to place you in a cage of my own and make you sing.”
18
Peter
* * *
She shudders in my arms, and I feel the fear rippling through her. A part of me regrets my brutal honesty, but I can’t bring myself to lie to her. My desire for her is nothing like the gentle affection I’d felt for Tamila or the straightforward lust I’d experienced with other women.
My need for Sara is darker, tainted by what passed between us and the knowledge that she used to belong to my enemy. I don’t want to hurt her, yet I can’t deny that her suffering appeals to me in some perverse way. Tormenting her cools my burning rage, satisfies my need to punish and avenge, even as I tell myself I want to heal her, to atone for the pain I inflicted.
When it comes to Sara, I’m a mess of contradictions, and the only thing I’m sure of is that a simple fucking won’t be enough.
I want more.
I want to make her mine.
It’s tempting to break my promise and take her now, to claim her and ease the hunger consuming me alive. She’s completely naked in my embrace, her bare skin rubbing against mine each time she takes a breath. I can smell the flowery shampoo in her damp hair, feel the softness of her breasts resting on my arm, and my cock throbs painfully against the curve of her ass, my body aching with the need to thrust inside her. She’d fight at first, but I could make her like it.
She’s not immune to me. I know it. I sense it.
Before the dark impulse can take over, I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. As good as it would feel to fuck Sara, I want her trust as much as her body.
I want her to sing for me of her own accord.
“Go to sleep, ptichka,” I murmur when she remains silent, all her questions choked off for now. “You’ll be safe tonight.”
And ignoring the hunger raging through my body, I close my eyes and sink into a light but restful sleep.
* * *
I wake up three times during the night, twice when Sara tries to free herself from my embrace—undoubtedly to escape and do something painful to me—and once when she wakes up from a bad dream. I hold her tighter in each case, and she eventually falls asleep again. After a while, so
do I, though the lust gnawing at me only grows more intense throughout the night. By morning, I’m ready to explode, and it takes all of twenty seconds to jerk off when I go use the restroom.
She’s still asleep when I come out of the bathroom, and I contemplate getting back under the covers with her. However, it’s almost seven, and I want to catch up with Anton before he crashes for the day. I’m also not entirely certain of my self-control; the quick release barely took the edge off my violent craving for her.
If I climb into bed with Sara again, I run the risk of breaking my promise.
Deciding against tempting fate, I quietly dress and slip out of the room.
I’ll see Sara again soon. In the meanwhile, there’s work to be done.
19
Sara
* * *
I have a scheduled C-section in the morning and an unscheduled one in the afternoon. In between, I see a woman who has painful menstrual cramps but can’t tolerate the usual remedy of hormonal birth control—something I empathize with very much—and another one who’s been trying to get pregnant for two years without much success. I schedule an ultrasound for the first one to check for endometriomas and refer the second one to a fertility specialist. As soon as I’m done with that, I get called to the ER to examine a six-months-pregnant woman who’s been in a bad car accident. Luckily, I’m able to tell her that the baby is healthy and kicking—the best possible outcome in a head-on collision of that magnitude.
It surprises me that I’m able to focus on my work after last night, but for the first time in months, dark memories don’t invade my mind at every turn, and the paranoia of the past month is absent. Perversely, now that I know I’m being watched, the idea doesn’t fill me with as much anxiety as when I just had that unnerving sensation. I also feel well rested and alert with minimal caffeine consumption, and I suspect it’s because I got a solid nine hours of sleep despite the hard body wrapped around me all night.
Or maybe because of it. No matter how hard I tried to stay awake last night, the animal warmth coming off Peter’s skin and his even breathing lured me to sleep. I woke up a couple of times throughout the night to try to extricate myself from him, but it was impossible. He held me with the intensity of a child clutching his favorite teddy bear, and eventually, I gave in and simply slept, my subconscious mind blissfully unaware that the source of my nightmares was right next to me.
In any case, whatever the reason, I remain calm and focused throughout my shift. It helps that I’ve managed to suppress all thoughts of Peter and his intentions, shoving them to the back of my mind while I concentrate on my patients. If I let myself dwell on his declaration, I would run out of the hospital screaming, and who knows what my stalker would do then? When I woke up alive and unharmed this morning, I decided that the best course of action is to take it one day at a time and avoid provoking him as much as I can.
Maybe he’ll play nice for a while longer, and I’ll have time to figure out what to do.
When my shift is over, I head to the locker room and run into Andy in the hallway. She must be just starting her shift, because her scrubs look perfectly pressed and her curly hair is drawn into a neat bun, without a single strand out of place.
By the end of a long shift, most nurses and doctors—myself included—look far more disheveled.
“Hey,” she says, stopping in front of me. “Everything okay?”
I blink. “Um, yeah.” She can’t know about Peter, can she? “Why?”
“You said you weren’t feeling well the other night,” Andy says, a small frown tugging at her forehead. “When you hightailed it from the club.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” I attempt an embarrassed smile. “I had too much to drink, and it hit me hard. I think I puked when I got home, but it’s all kind of fuzzy now.”
“Ah, I see.” A relieved grin replaces the worry on her face. “I thought maybe you were upset about something. You looked like someone shot your favorite pony in front of you.”
I laugh and shake my head, though she’s not far from the truth. “I’m afraid the only victim was my liver.”
Andy laughs, then asks, “What are you doing next Saturday? Tonya and Marsha are planning another girls’ night out, but I was thinking of just grabbing dinner and a movie with Larry—both at a reasonable hour, since I have an early shift next Sunday. Want to join us?”
“You and your boyfriend?” I give her a surprised look. “Wouldn’t I be the third wheel?”
“Well…” An impish grin lights up her freckled face. “As it so happens, Larry has a very handsome—and very successful—friend who’s dying to meet a nice girl. He’s a real estate mogul, and he has an impossible list of requirements, but”—she lifts a finger when I’m about to interrupt—“you happen to fit all of them. If you’re cool with it, Larry will invite him along, and we could have a nice double date.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Oh, I don’t know about that—”
“He’s a good-looking dude. Here.” She pulls a phone out of her pocket, swipes across the screen a few times, and shows me a picture of a guy who looks like a blond Tom Cruise. “See? You could definitely do much worse.”
I chuckle. “For sure, but—”
“No buts.” She holds up her hand when I’m about to argue. “Just come, and we’ll have fun. No pressure to do anything. If you like Larry’s friend, great. If not, you and I will bail to join the girls, and Larry can have a boys’ night out—he’s been hankering for one for ages.”
I hesitate, then regretfully shake my head. “Thank you, but I can’t.” I don’t know if Peter poses a threat to Andy or her boyfriend, but I don’t want to risk it. With the Russian killer watching my every move, every person around me could become his target.
Until my stalker situation is resolved, it’s best if I keep to myself.
Andy’s face falls. “Oh, okay. Well, if you change your mind, ping me. Marsha has my number.”
“I will, thanks,” I say, but Andy is already hurrying away, walking as fast as her white sneakers allow.
* * *
On my way home, I listen to Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” and fight the urge to keep driving until I’m in another state. Or maybe even in another country. Canada and Mexico both sound appealing, as do Antarctica and Timbuktu. Instead of going to my camera-infested house, I could drive straight to the airport and hop on a plane to somewhere—anywhere.
I’d go to the North Pole if I had a guarantee Peter wouldn’t come after me.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that guarantee. Just the opposite, in fact. If I run, he’ll come after me. I’m sure of that. He’s a hunter, a tracker, and he won’t rest until he finds me, just like he found all the people on his list. I could go to another hotel or another continent, and it wouldn’t make any difference.
He won’t leave me alone until he gets what he wants—whatever that is.
My palms feel slippery on the steering wheel, and I realize I’m breathing fast, my calm dissipating as thoughts of last night creep in. I’m still not certain what he’s after, but it seems to be something other than just sex.
Something darker and far more twisted.
Realizing I’m on the verge of another panic attack, I switch from Kelly Clarkson to classical music and start doing my breathing exercises. Maybe I’m making a mistake by not going to the FBI. There’s at least a chance they might be able to protect me, whereas on my own I stand no chance at all. The best I can hope for is that he’ll get bored with me and move on to his next victim, leaving me alive and with most of my sanity intact.
I’m already reaching for my phone when I remember why I didn’t call Ryson right away: my parents. I can’t disappear and leave them, and it would be selfish to uproot them on the slim chance the FBI would be able to protect us. To explain the necessity for the move, I’d have to tell my parents everything, and I don’t know if my dad’s heart would survive that kind of stress. He had a triple bypass several years ago, and the doctors advised
him to keep stressful activities to a minimum. Learning about a homicidal stalker who tortured me and killed George could literally kill my dad, and might even be dangerous for my mom.
No. I won’t do that to them. Getting my breathing under control, I put Kelly Clarkson back on. My parents have a happy, normal life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. If that means I have to deal with Peter on my own, so be it.
Hopefully, I’m strong enough to survive whatever he’ll dish out.
20
Sara
* * *
What he dishes out is food. Lots of deliciously smelling food.
Stunned, I gape at the spread on my dining room table. There is a whole roasted chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a big leafy salad—all of it prettily arranged between lit candles and a bottle of white wine.
I figured I might get ambushed in my house tonight, but I didn’t expect this.
“Hungry?” a deep, lightly accented voice asks from behind me, and I whirl around, my pulse leaping as Peter Sokolov steps out from the hallway. The front of his hair is wet, as if he just washed his face, and though he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s not wearing shoes, only socks.
He looks gorgeous—and more dangerous than ever.
“What—” My voice is too high, so I take a breath and try again. “What is this?”
“Dinner,” he says, looking amused. “What does it look like?”
“I…” The air in the room thins as he stops a couple of feet from me, the intimate look in his eyes reminding me that I slept naked in his arms. “I’m not hungry.”
“No?” He arches his dark eyebrows. “All right, then. Let’s go to bed.” He moves as if to reach for me, and I jump back.