Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  I can’t be this close to him without remembering how it feels to be even closer, to be joined with him in the most intimate of ways.

  “A sick relationship fantasy?” His eyebrows arch mockingly. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “I. Am. Done,” I repeat, enunciating each word. My heart slams anxiously against my ribcage, but I’m determined not to back down or let him distract me with a discussion of our messed-up relationship. “If you want to cook in my kitchen, go ahead, but short of force-feeding me, you can’t make me eat with you—or do anything else with you of my own accord.”

  “Oh, ptichka.” Peter’s voice is soft, his gaze almost sympathetic. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”

  His lips curve in that imperfect, magnetic smile, and my stomach flips as he comes even closer. Desperate for some distance, I take another step back, only to feel the back of my knees press against the bed.

  I’m trapped, caught by him once again.

  Mercilessly, he steps closer, and my sex clenches as his hands curl around my shoulders. “Come downstairs with me, Sara,” he says softly. “You’re hungry, and you’ll feel better once you eat. And while you’re eating, we can talk.”

  “About what?” I ask, my voice tight. The heat of his palms burns even through the thick layer of my sweater, and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing semi-steady as pernicious arousal curls in my core. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “I think we do,” he says, and I see the monster behind the dark silver of his gaze. “You see, Sara, if you don’t want to be with me here, we can be together someplace else. The fantasy can be made real—but solely on my terms.”

  39

  Peter

  * * *

  She’s shaking as I lead her downstairs, and I know it’s as much from anger as fear. I suppose her reaction should bother me, but I’m too angry myself. Yesterday, and today at breakfast, I could’ve sworn she was glad to see me, relieved that I came back. But tonight, she’s back to being cold and distant, and I won’t stand for it.

  It’s time the gloves came off.

  “Sit,” I tell her when we get to the kitchen table, and she plops down in a chair, a defiant expression on her pretty face. She’s determined to make things difficult, and I’m just as determined not to let her.

  Taking a breath to steady myself, I turn off the bright overhead lights and light the candles. Then I plate the risotto I made and bring it over to her before getting my own food. I’m as hungry as she is, so as soon as I sit down, I dig into the food, figuring the discussion of our relationship can wait a couple of minutes.

  Unfortunately, Sara doesn’t share that opinion. “What did you mean, ‘the fantasy can be made real?’” she asks, her voice tense as she toys with her fork. “What exactly are you saying?”

  I make her wait until I’m done chewing; then I put down my fork and give her a level look. “I’m saying that you living in this house, going to work, and interacting with your friends is a privilege I’m allowing,” I say calmly and watch her blanch. “Other men in my position wouldn’t have been nearly so accommodating—and I don’t have to be either. I want you, and I have the power to take you. It’s as simple as that. If you don’t like our existing relationship dynamic, I will change it—but not in a way you’ll enjoy.”

  Her hand trembles as she reaches for the glass of wine I poured earlier. “So you’ll what? Kidnap me? Take me away from everyone and everything?”

  “Yes, ptichka. That’s precisely what I’ll do if I can’t make the current situation work.” I resume eating, giving her time to process my words. I know I’m being harsh, but I need to squash this little rebellion, make her understand just how precarious her position is.

  There’s no line I won’t cross when it comes to her. She’s going to be mine one way or another.

  Sara stares at me, the glass shaking in her grasp; then she puts it down without taking a single sip. “So why haven’t you done this already? Why all this?” She sweeps her hand out in a broad gesture, nearly knocking over the glass and one of the candle holders.

  “Careful there,” I say, moving both objects out of her reach. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to drug me again.”

  Her teeth audibly grind together. “Tell me,” she demands, her hand curling into a fist next to her untouched plate. “Why haven’t you kidnapped me already? Surely you have no moral qualms about that.”

  I sigh and put my fork down. Maybe I should’ve promised her a discussion after the meal, not during. “Because I like what you do,” I say, picking up my wine glass and taking a sip. “With babies, with women. I think your work is admirable, and I don’t want to take you away from that—or from your parents.”

  “But you will if you have to.”

  “Yes.” I put down the glass and pick up my fork again. “I will.”

  She studies me for a few seconds, then picks up her own fork, and for a couple of minutes, we eat in an uneasy silence. I can practically hear her thinking, her agile mind struggling to find a solution.

  It’s too bad for her that one doesn’t exist.

  When Sara’s plate is half-empty, she pushes it away and asks in a strained voice, “Did you stalk her too?”

  My eyebrows lift as I pick up my wine glass. “Who?”

  “Your wife,” Sara says, and my hand tightens on the wine stem, nearly snapping the fragile glass in half. Instinctively, I brace for the agonizing pain and fury, but all I feel is a dull echo of loss, accompanied by a bittersweet ache at the memories.

  “No,” I say, and surprise myself by smiling fondly. “I didn’t. If anything, she stalked me.”

  40

  Sara

  * * *

  Shocked, I stare at my tormentor, caught off-guard by that soft, almost tender smile. I fully expected him to explode at the question, and as I watched his fingers tighten on the glass stem, I was sure he would.

  Instead, he smiled.

  Chewing on my lower lip, I consider dropping the topic, but even with the threat of kidnapping looming over me, I can’t resist the chance to learn more about him.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, picking up my wine glass. The risotto is amazing, but my stomach is tied in knots, preventing me from finishing my portion. Wine, though, I could use.

  Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll forget his terrifying promise.

  “We met when I was passing through her village almost nine years ago.” Peter leans back in his chair, a wine glass cradled in his big hand. The candlelight casts a soft, warm glow over his handsome features, and if it weren’t for the stress-induced adrenaline in my veins, I could’ve bought into the illusion of a romantic dinner, into the fantasy he’s trying so hard to create.

  “My team was tracking a group of insurgents in the mountains,” he continues, his gaze turning distant as he relives the memory. “It was winter, and it was cold. Unbelievably cold. I knew we had to crash someplace warm for the night, so I asked the villagers to rent us a couple of rooms. Only one woman was brave enough to do so, and that was Tamila.”

  I take a sip of wine, fascinated despite myself. “She lived by herself?”

  Peter nods. “She was only twenty at the time, but she had a small house of her own. Her aunt died and left it to her. It was unheard of in her village, for a young woman to live on her own, but Tamila was never big on rules. Her parents wanted her to marry one of the village elders, a man who could give them a dowry of five goats, but Tamila found him repulsive and was delaying the marriage as much as she could. Needless to say, her parents weren’t pleased, and by the time my men and I came to the village, she was desperate to change her situation.”

  I gulp down the rest of my wine as he continues. “I didn’t know any of this, of course. I just saw a beautiful young woman, who, for whatever reason, welcomed three half-frozen Spetsnaz soldiers into her home. She gave her bedroom to my guys and put me into the second, smaller room, saying that she herself would s
leep on the couch.”

  “But she didn’t,” I guess as he leans in to pour me more wine. My stomach feels tight, something uncomfortably like jealousy roiling my insides. “She came to you.”

  “Yes, she did.” He smiles again, and I hide my discomfort by drinking more wine. I don’t know why picturing him with this “beautiful young woman” bothers me, but it does, and it’s all I can do to listen calmly as he says, “I didn’t turn her down, naturally. No straight man would. She was shy and relatively inexperienced but not a virgin, and when we left in the morning, I promised to swing by the village on the way back. Which I did, two months later, only to learn that she was pregnant with my child.”

  I blink. “You didn’t use protection?”

  “I did—the first time. The second time, I was asleep when she started rubbing against me, and by the time I woke up fully, I was inside her and too far gone to remember the condom.”

  My mouth drops open. “She got pregnant on purpose?”

  He shrugs. “She claimed she didn’t, but I suspect otherwise. She lived in a conservative Muslim village, and she’d had a lover before me. She never told me who he was, but if she’d gone through with the marriage to the elder—or if she’d turned him down and married someone else from her village—she could’ve been publicly exposed and cast out by her husband. A non-Muslim foreigner like me was her best bet at avoiding that fate, and she seized the opportunity when she saw it. It’s admirable, really. She took a risk, and it paid off.”

  “Because you married her.”

  He nods. “I did—after the paternity test confirmed her claim.”

  “That’s… very noble of you.” I feel inexplicably relieved that he didn’t fall head over heels for this girl. “Not many men would’ve been willing to marry a woman they didn’t love for the sake of the child.”

  Peter shrugs again. “I didn’t want my son exposed to ridicule or growing up without a father, and marrying his mother was the best way to ensure that. Besides, I grew to care for Tamila after my son was born.”

  “I see.” Jealousy bites at me again. To distract myself, I drain my second glass of wine and grab the bottle to pour myself more. “So she trapped you, but it worked out.” My palms are sweaty, and the bottle almost slips out of my hand, the wine splashing into my glass with such force that some liquid spills over the rim.

  “Thirsty?” Peter’s gray eyes gleam with amusement as he reaches over to take the bottle from me. “Maybe I should get you some water or tea instead?”

  I vehemently shake my head, then realize the motion made the room spin a little. He might be right; I haven’t had much to eat, and I should probably slow down on the wine. Except my anxiety is melting away with each sip, and it feels too good to stop.

  “I’m fine,” I say, picking up my glass again. I might regret this at work tomorrow, but I need the warm buzz the alcohol brings. “So you grew to care for Tamila. And she continued living in that village?”

  “Yes.” His face tightens; we must be getting close to the painful memories. Confirming my suspicion, he says roughly, “I figured she and Pasha—that’s what we named my son—would be safer there. She wanted to live with me in my apartment in Moscow, but I was always traveling for work, and I didn’t want to leave her in an unfamiliar city on her own. I promised I’d take her to Moscow for a visit when Pasha was older, but until then, I thought it would be better if she stayed close to her family, and my son grew up breathing fresh mountain air instead of city smog.”

  The mouthful of wine I swallowed burns though my tightening throat. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, putting down my glass. And I am sorry for him. I despise Peter for what he’s doing to me, but my heart still aches for his pain, for the loss that led him down this dark path. I can only imagine the guilt and agony he must be feeling, knowing that he inadvertently made the wrong choices, that his desire to protect his family led to their demise.

  It’s something I can relate to, having killed my own husband not once, but twice.

  Peter nods, acknowledging my words, then gets up to clear off the table. I keep drinking my wine as he loads the dishes into the dishwasher, and the warm buzz in my veins intensifies, the candles in front of me attracting my attention with the hypnotic flickering of the flames.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he says, and I look up to see him drying his hands with the kitchen towel. I must’ve zoned off for a bit, watching the candles. That, or he’s insanely fast with his cleanup. Most likely, though, I zoned off—which means I’m more buzzed than I thought.

  “Bed?” I force myself to focus as he comes up to me and clasps my wrist, pulling me to my feet. Despite the wine-induced softness around the edges of my vision, I remember the reason I was upset, and as he tugs me toward the stairs, the tightness in my stomach returns, my pulse picking up pace. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”

  He glances at me, his fingers tightening on my wrist. “I’m not interested in sleep.”

  My anxiety grows. “I don’t want to have sex with you either.”

  “No?” He stops at the foot of the stairs and turns me to face him. “So if I reached into your jeans right now, I wouldn’t find your panties soaked through? Your little pussy swollen and needy, just waiting to be filled by my cock?”

  Heat climbs up my neck and blazes all the way up to my hairline. I am wet, both from before and from the way he’s looking at me now. It’s like he wants to devour me, like his dirty words are turning him on as much as they’re arousing me. The mental haziness from the wine isn’t helping, either, and I realize I made a mistake, trying to drown my sorrows.

  Resisting him with my head clear is difficult enough; like this, it’s nearly impossible.

  Still, I have to try. “I don’t—”

  “Ptichka…” He lifts his hand, curving his big palm around my jaw. His thumb strokes over my cheek as he gazes down at me, his eyes like molten steel. “Do we need to discuss alternative arrangements again?”

  I stare at him, ice crystals forming in my veins. For the first time, I comprehend the full extent of his ultimatum. He doesn’t just expect me to stop fighting him over meals; he wants me fully compliant, welcoming him into my bed as though we’re in a real relationship.

  As though he didn’t murder my husband and forcibly invade my life.

  “No,” I whisper, closing my eyes as he bends his head and brushes his lips over mine… softly, gently. His tenderness tears me into pieces, juxtaposed as it is with the looming horror of his threat. If I fight him on this, he’ll kidnap me, take away all remnants of my freedom.

  If I resist him, I’ll lose everything that matters, and if I don’t, I’ll lose myself.

  * * *

  I stumble as Peter leads me up the stairs, so he lifts me into his powerful arms, carrying me up the steps with ease. His strength is both terrifying and seductive. I know what it’s like to have it turned against me, yet something primitive within me is drawn to it, attracted by the promise of safety it provides.

  When we reach the bedroom, he lowers me to my feet and undresses me, pulling off my sweater and jeans in a calm, unhurried manner. Only the dark heat in his silver gaze betrays his hunger, the desire that he’ll stop at nothing to satisfy.

  Once I’m naked, he undresses too, and I spot a metallic glint inside his jacket as he hangs it on a chair. A gun? A knife? The idea of him bringing weapons into the bedroom should terrify me, but I’m too overwhelmed to react, my emotions already veering from shock to anger to icy fear. And underneath it all is a strange, illogical relief.

  With all my choices gone, I can give in.

  It’s the only way.

  A tear trickles down my cheek as he approaches me, fully naked and aroused, his large body a study of hard angles and sculpted muscles, of violent beauty and dangerous masculinity. Monsters shouldn’t look like this, shouldn’t be as mesmerizing as they’re lethal.

  It’s too hard on one’s sanity.

  “Don’t cry, ptichka,” he murmurs, stopp
ing in front of me. His fingers brush across my cheeks, wiping away the moisture. “I won’t hurt you. It’s really not as bad as you think.”

  Not as bad as I think? I want to laugh, but instead I just shake my head, my mind hazy both from the wine I consumed and the heat his nearness generates. He’s right: I do want him. I ache for him, my body burning with a need so strong I can scarcely contain it. And at the same time, I hate him.

  I hate him for what he’s doing—and what he’s making me feel.

  His fingers slide into my hair, cupping my skull, and I close my eyes as he kisses me again, his other hand gripping my hip to draw me closer to him. His erection presses against my stomach, huge and hard, but his kiss is gentle, his lips coaxing out the sensations instead of forcing them.

  It feels good, so unbelievably good that for a moment, I forget I have no choice in this. My hands grip his sides, feeling the hard flex of muscle, and my lips part as the heat builds inside me. Taking advantage, he licks inside my mouth, his tongue bringing with it the dizzying taste of wine and sweet seduction. This isn’t our first time, but in this kiss, there is a sense of exploration, of sensual discovery and tender wonder.

  He kisses me like I’m the most precious, most desirable thing he’s ever known.

  My head spins from the bone-melting pleasure, and it’s tempting to lose myself completely, to give in to the illusion of his caring. The way he holds me speaks of raw need, but also of something deeper, something that resonates with the most vulnerable corners of my heart.

  Something that fills the well of loneliness left by the ruins of my marriage.

  I don’t know how long Peter kisses me like this, but by the time he lifts his head, we’re both breathing raggedly, and the heat circling through my body is a full-blown conflagration.

  Dazed, I open my eyes and meet his gaze as he bears me down to the bed. There’s no coldness in the gray metallic depths, no seething darkness, nothing but that hungry tenderness, and as he settles between my thighs, covering me with his powerful body, I know it could be easy.