by Anna Zaires
And leaving the therapist’s office, I rush to the hospital, for once grateful for the unpredictability of my work.
* * *
I don’t know if it’s the session with Dr. Evans or the better sleep in the last few days, but that night, I find myself tossing and turning, drifting off only to jerk awake, heart hammering from some undefined anxiety. The emptiness of my bed grates at me, my loneliness a painful hole in my chest. I want to believe that I’m missing George, that it’s his arms I’m longing for, but when the uneasy sleep claims me, it’s steel-gray eyes that invade my dreams, not soft brown ones.
In those dreams, I’m dancing, performing in front of my tormentor like a professional ballerina. I’m dressed as one too, in a light yellow dress with stiff, feathery wings in the back. As I twirl and fly across the stage, I feel lighter than fog, more graceful than a wisp of smoke. But inside, I burn with passion. My movements come from deep within my soul, my body speaking through dance with the raw honesty of beauty.
I miss you, this plié says. I want you, that pirouette confirms. I say with my body what I can’t say through words, and he watches me, his face dark and enigmatic. Red droplets decorate his hands, and I know without asking that it’s blood, that he took another life today. It should disgust me, but all I care about is whether he wants me, whether he feels the heat that devours me from within.
Please, I beg with my movements, hinging in a graceful arc in front of him. Please give me this. I need the truth. Please tell me.
But he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, and I know there’s nothing I can do, no way I can convince him. So I dance closer, pulled by a dark attraction, and when I’m within his reach, he lifts his arms, his blood-splattered hands closing around my shoulders.
“Peter…” I sway toward him, that terrible longing twisting my insides, but his eyes are cold, so cold they burn.
He doesn’t want me anymore. I know it. I see it.
Still, I reach for him, my hand lifting to his hard-edged face. I want him—I need him—so much. But before I can touch him, he murmurs, “Goodbye, ptichka,” and shoves me away.
I tumble backward, falling off the stage. My dress flutters in the air for a brief second, and then my wings crumple as I hit the floor. Even before the shock of the impact reverberates through me, I know that this is it.
My body is broken, and so is my soul.
“Peter,” I moan with my last breath, but it’s too late.
He’s gone for good.
I wake up with my face wet with tears and my heart heavy with grief. It’s pitch black in the room, and in the darkness, it doesn’t matter that I can’t rationally miss a man I hate. The dream is so vivid in my mind it feels as if I truly lost him… as if I died from the rejection at his hands. I know what I’m grieving must be my real losses—George and the life we were supposed to have—but with my bed empty and my body aching for a hard, warm embrace, it feels like I miss him.
Peter.
The man I have every reason to despise.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll up into a small ball under the blanket and hug a pillow to myself. I don’t need Dr. Evans to tell me that what I’m feeling can’t possibly be real, that at best, it’s a bizarre version of Stockholm Syndrome. One does not fall for one’s stalker; it simply doesn’t happen. I haven’t even known Peter Sokolov that long. He’s been in my life for what? A week? Two? The days since the club outing have felt like years, but in reality, hardly any time has passed.
Of course, he’s been in my nightmares for much longer.
For the first time, I allow myself to really think about my tormentor—to wonder about him as a man. What had he been like with his family? It should’ve been difficult to imagine such a ruthless killer in a domestic setting, but for some reason, I have no problem picturing him playing with a child or making dinner with his wife. Maybe it’s the gentle way he took care of me, but I feel like there’s something within him that transcends the monstrous things he’s done, something vulnerable and deeply human.
He must’ve loved his family, to dedicate himself to vengeance so completely.
The pictures on his phone surface in my mind, making my chest squeeze with pain. False information, that’s what Peter blamed for those atrocities. Is it possible that George had been the one to provide that information? That my handsome, peaceful husband, who loved barbecues and reading the newspaper in bed, had really been a spy who’d made such a terrible error? It seems unbelievable, yet there must’ve been a reason Peter came after George, why he went to such lengths to murder him.
Unless Peter made a huge error himself, George hadn’t been what he seemed.
Tightening my grip on the pillow, I process that realization, letting the knowledge fully settle in. Over the past week and a half, I’ve avoided thinking of my stalker’s revelations, but I can no longer push the truth away.
Between the FBI protection that came out of nowhere and the growing distance between me and George after our marriage, it’s entirely possible that my husband had fooled me—that he’d lied to me and everyone else for the better part of a decade.
My life had been even more of an illusion than I’d known.
When I fall asleep an hour later, it’s with the bitter taste of betrayal on my tongue and a fresh determination in my mind.
Come tomorrow morning, I’m going to accept one of the offers on my house. I need a fresh start, and I’m going to get it. Maybe in a new place, I’ll forget both George’s duplicity and him.
If Peter Sokolov is gone for good, I might be able to finally start living.
35
Sara
* * *
On Thursday, I sign the papers, selling my house to a lawyer couple moving to the area from Chicago. They have two children in elementary school and a baby on the way, and they need the five bedrooms. Though their offer is three percent below market value and a couple of thousand dollars less than the other offer I received, I went with the lawyers because they’re paying cash and can close on the house quickly.
If there are no issues with the inspection, I’ll be moving out in less than three weeks.
Feeling energized, I ask another doctor to cover for me on Friday and spend the day looking for apartments to rent. I settle on a small one-bedroom within walking distance of the hospital, in a pet-friendly condo building. It’s a little dated, and the closet space is almost nonexistent, but since I’m planning to get rid of everything that reminds me of my old life, I don’t mind.
Fresh start, here I come.
My excitement lasts until the evening, when I get home and feel the emptiness of the house again. My dinner is another box from the freezer, and despite my best efforts, I can’t help thinking about Peter, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. It occurred to me yesterday that there could be another reason why he’s gone, and the thought has been gnawing at me ever since.
The authorities could’ve captured or killed him.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this possibility before yesterday, but now I can’t get it out of my mind. It would obviously be a good thing—I’d be truly safe if he were dead or in custody—but every time I think about it, my chest feels tight and heavy, and something bizarrely like tears prickles at my eyes.
I don’t want Peter Sokolov in my life, but I can’t bear the thought of him dead, either.
It’s stupid, so very stupid. Yes, we had sex that night—and he gave me orgasms more than once—but I’m not some virginal teenager who believes sleeping together means eternal love. The only feeling between us other than hatred is animal lust, an attraction of the most basic kind. That much I can accept; as a doctor, I know how potent biology can be, having seen the evidence of smart people making stupid decisions in the throes of passion. It’s disturbing that I wanted my husband’s killer on any level, but to fear for his wellbeing is something else.
Something far more insane.
I do not miss Peter, I tell myself as I toss and tu
rn in my empty bed. Whatever loneliness I’m feeling is a function of too much stress and not enough time with my friends and family. Once a little more time passes, and the threat of my stalker is completely gone, I’ll go out with Marsha and the nurses and maybe even consider a date with Joe.
Okay, maybe not the latter—I turned him down when he called a few days ago, and I still can’t work up any regret—but I’ll definitely go out dancing again.
One way or another, my new life will start soon.
36
Peter
* * *
She’s sleeping when I enter the room, her slender body swaddled in a blanket from head to toe. Quietly, I turn on the lights and stop, my breath catching in my chest. During the past two weeks, as I lay recuperating from the stab wound I sustained in Mexico, I’ve entertained myself by watching her on the house cameras and devouring the Americans’ reports on her activities. I know everything she’s done, everyone she’s spoken to, all the places she’s gone. That should’ve lessened the feeling of separation, but seeing her like this, with her shiny chestnut hair spread over her pillow, steals the air from my lungs and sends a stab of longing through me.
My Sara. I missed her so fucking much.
I approach the bed, curling my hands into fists to contain the need to reach for her, to grab her and never let her go.
Two weeks. For two impossibly long weeks, I couldn’t return for her because I’d missed the knife hidden in one guard’s boot. Granted, I was dealing with another guard pointing an AR15 at me, but that’s no excuse for sloppiness.
I was distracted on the job, and that nearly cost me my life. An inch to the right, and I’d have been laid up way longer than two weeks. Maybe permanently.
“What the fuck, man?” Ilya grumbled as he and his brother patched me up after the mission was over. “He almost nicked your kidney. You have to watch your fucking back.”
“That’s what I have you two for,” I managed to say, and then the blood loss got the better of me, preventing me from explaining the reason for my distraction. It was just as well. The truth is, I missed the knife coming at me because, as I was staring down the barrel of the AR15, I thought not of my team or my mission, but of Sara and never seeing her again.
My obsession with her almost became my downfall.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I carefully pull the blanket off her. She’s sleeping naked, as always, and lust roars in my veins at the sight of her slim, graceful curves. She doesn’t wake up, just huffs like a disgruntled kitten at the loss of the blanket, and I feel something soft slither into my chest. My heart fills with a warm glow even as my cock stiffens further and my pulse picks up pace.
I have to have her. Now.
Getting up, I swiftly strip off my clothes and place them on the dresser, making sure my weapons are well hidden. The jerky movements pull at the fresh scar on my stomach, but I want her so much the pain scarcely registers. Putting on a condom, I climb into bed with her and roll her over onto her back, settling between her legs.
My touch wakes her up. Her eyelids fly open, her hazel eyes panicked and dazed at the same time, and I smile as I grasp her wrists and pin them by her shoulders. It’s a predatory smile, I know, but I can’t help myself.
Even with the warm feeling in my chest, my hunger for her is dark, as violent as it is all-consuming.
“Hello, ptichka,” I murmur, watching the shock creep into her eyes as her gaze clears. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long. It couldn’t be helped.”
“You’re… you’re back.” Her chest rises up and down in an uneven rhythm, her nipples like hard pink berries on her deliciously round breasts. “What are you—why are you back?”
“Because I’d never leave you.” I lean down and inhale her scent, delicate and warm, as captivating as Sara herself. Lightly nibbling on her ear, I whisper against her neck, “Did you think I would just walk away?”
She shivers underneath me, her breathing speeding up, and I know if I reach between her legs, I’ll find her hot and wet, ready for me. She wants me—or at least her body does—and my cock throbs at the knowledge, eager to fill her, to feel the tight, slick embrace of her pussy. First, though, I want an answer to my question.
Raising my head, I pin her with my gaze. “Did you think I’d leave, Sara?”
Her face is a mask of confusion as she blinks up at me. “Well, yes. I mean, you were gone, and I thought—I hoped…” She stops, frowning. “Why did you leave if you didn’t get bored with me?”
“Bored with you?” Does she not realize that I literally think about her all the time, even in the heat of battle? That I can’t go an hour without checking on her whereabouts or spend a night without seeing her in my dreams? Holding her gaze, I slowly shake my head. “No, ptichka. I didn’t get bored with you—nor will I ever.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her slender fingers flex, and I realize I’m still holding her wrists pinned next to her shoulders, my grip as tight as if I’m afraid she would escape. She wouldn’t, of course—even with my recent injury, she’s no match for my reflexes or strength—but I like having her like this, restrained underneath me, naked and helpless. It’s part of my fucked-up feelings for her, this need to dominate, to have her always at my mercy.
“Don’t,” she whispers, but her tongue flicks out to wet her soft pink lips, and the hunger within me intensifies, my balls tightening as blood rushes to my groin. There’s something so pure about her, something so gentle and innocent in the graceful lines of her heart-shaped face. It’s as if she’s been untouched by life, uncorrupted by all the vileness I deal with daily. It makes the things I want to do to her that much more dirty, that much more wrong, yet I know I will do them all.
Right and wrong has never been my strong suit.
Lowering my head, I taste her lips, keeping my kiss gentle despite the aching stiffness of my cock. Even with the dark urges gnawing at me, I don’t want to hurt her today—not after the last time. I still can’t define what she means to me, but I know she’s mine to care for, mine to coddle and protect. I don’t want her to fear pain from my touch—even if I sometimes want to inflict it.
I don’t know what I want from her, but I know it’s more than this.
She’s unresponsive at first, her lips sealed against the probing of my tongue, but I keep kissing her, and eventually, her lips soften, letting me into the warm recesses of her mouth. She tastes delicious, like a hint of minty toothpaste and herself, and I can’t suppress a groan as the head of my cock brushes against her inner thigh. I want to be inside her, to feel her hot, slick walls squeezing me tight, but I resist the temptation, focusing on seducing her, on giving her so much pleasure she’ll forget the pain I caused.
I don’t know how long I tease and caress her lips, but after a while, I feel the tentative touch of her tongue. She’s responding to me, kissing me back, and as her body softens underneath me, my heartbeat spikes, the need to have her drumming in my chest. Breathing raggedly, I move from her lips to the tender skin of her neck, then her collarbone and the plush softness of her breasts. She moans as my lips close over her nipple, and I feel her arch underneath me, her hips rising off the bed to press her pussy against me.
Growling low in my throat, I turn my attention to the other breast, sucking on it until Sara’s moans grow in volume, and she’s writhing underneath me, her hands flexing convulsively as I hold her wrists. When I lift my head, I see that her face is flushed, her eyes squeezed shut and her head tipped back in sensual abandon.
It’s time. Fuck, it’s way past time.
Releasing her nipple, I move up, lining my hard cock against the entrance to her body.
“Do you want this?” I ask hoarsely as her eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes hazy with desire. “Tell me you want this, ptichka. Tell me you missed me when I was gone.”
Sara’s lips part, but no words emerge, and I know she’s not ready to admit it, to accept the connection that exists between us. I might have her
body, but I’ll have to fight harder for her mind and heart. And I will, because that’s what I need from her, I realize: for her to be completely mine, to want me and need me as much as I need her.
Lowering my head, I kiss her lips again, then release one of her wrists to guide my cock into her hot, slick opening. She’s still incredibly tight, but this time, I manage to go slow, to work myself in inch by inch until I’m buried in her to the hilt. She clutches at my side with her free hand, her delicate nails digging into my skin as she pants against my ear, and I feel her inner walls flex as I begin to move inside her, sliding in and out in a slow, deliberate rhythm. My own desire is at a fever pitch, and it’s all I can do to keep my strokes steady, grinding against her clit each time I bottom out inside her.
“Yes, that’s it,” I groan, feeling her muscles tighten as her breathing speeds up. “Come for me, ptichka. Let me feel you come.”
She cries out as I pick up my pace, and I grip her hip, squeezing the tight flesh of her ass as I hammer into her, fucking her so hard the bed creaks underneath us. I can’t get enough of her, of her silky softness and sweet scent, and I drive deeper into her body, wanting to meld with her, to sink so far into her I’d be permanently etched inside her flesh.
Her cries grow louder, more frantic, and I feel her pussy clenching, her hips rising off the bed as she reaches her peak. Her contractions are the last straw; with a hoarse shout, I explode, grinding my pelvis against hers as my cock jerks and pulses in release, flooding the condom with my seed.
Panting, I roll off her and gather her against me, holding her tight as our breathing slows. With my hunger sated, I become aware of the dull pulsing of the healing wound on my abdomen. The doctors warned me to take it easy for a few weeks, but I forgot about that, too consumed by Sara and the incandescent pleasure of possessing her.