by Anna Zaires
I stop, my voice shaking too much to continue, when a big, warm hand wraps around my palm. Peter’s expression is unchanged, his gaze trained on the view outside the window, but the silent gesture of support steadies me, giving me courage to continue.
“He was still passed out when I went to work, so I confronted him when I returned,” I say as steadily as I can manage. “I told him to pack his bags and get out, said I was filing for divorce the next day. We got into a huge fight, and both said hurtful things, and I—” I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I forced him out of the house.”
Peter glances at me with mild surprise. “How could you have forced him out? He wasn’t the biggest guy I’ve seen, but he must’ve outweighed you by at least fifty pounds.”
I blink, distracted by the odd question. “I threw his car keys and his bag in the garage and yelled at him to get out.”
“I see.” To my shock, a faint smile touches the edges of Peter’s mouth. “And you think you’re at fault because he drove and got into an accident?”
“I am at fault. The police said he had double the legal amount of alcohol in his blood. He was drinking, and I forced him to drive. I threw him out and—”
“You threw his keys out, not him,” Peter says, the smile disappearing as his fingers tighten around my hand. “He was a grown man, both bigger and stronger than you. If he wanted to stay in the house, he could’ve done so. Besides, did you know he was drinking when you told him to get out?”
I frown. “No, of course not. I had just come from work, and he didn’t look drunk, but—”
“But nothing.” Peter’s voice is as hard as his gaze. “You did what you had to. Alcoholics can appear functional with a lot of drinks in their system. I should know; I’ve seen plenty of this in Russia. It wasn’t your responsibility to check on his blood alcohol levels before sending him packing. If he was too drunk to drive, he had no business getting behind the wheel. He could’ve called a cab, or asked you to give him a ride to a hotel. Hell, he could’ve slept it off in your garage and then driven.”
“I…” It’s my turn to stare out the window. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Releasing my hand, Peter captures my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Somehow I doubt that, ptichka. Have you told anyone what really happened?”
My stomach twists, an unpleasant, heavy ache settling low in my belly. “Not exactly. I mean, the cops knew he was drinking, but…”
“But they didn’t know it was habitual, did they?” Peter guesses, lowering his hand. “No one knew except you.”
I look away, feeling the familiar burn of shame. I know it’s the classic spousal mistake, but I just couldn’t bring myself to air out our dirty laundry, to admit that the marriage everyone praised was rotten inside. Initially, it was pride, mixed with equal amounts of denial. I was supposed to be smart, a young doctor with a bright future ahead of her. How could I have made that kind of error? Were there warnings signs that I missed? And if not, how could this have happened to the wonderful man I married, the golden boy everyone said had so much promise? Surely, it was a temporary situation, a fluke in an otherwise perfect life. And by the time I realized the drinking was here to stay, there was another reason to keep quiet.
“My dad had a heart attack about a year into my marriage,” I say, staring at the naked branches swaying in the wind. “It was a bad one. He almost died. After the triple bypass, the doctors told him to keep stress to a minimum.”
“Ah. And learning that his beloved daughter’s husband turned into a raging alcoholic would’ve been stressful.”
“Yes.” I could’ve stopped at that, let Peter think I was simply a good daughter, but some strange compulsion makes me blurt out, “That wasn’t all, though. I was afraid of what people would say and the judgments they’d make. George was good at hiding his addiction from everyone—in hindsight, I guess the acting skills should’ve been a clue about the whole spying bit—and I also became a pro at pretending. The nature of our work helped with that. I could always be ‘on call’ if we needed to cancel an outing last minute, and George could have an ‘urgent story’ come up if he was having trouble sobering up.”
Peter doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and I wonder if he’s condemning me for my cowardice, for not seeking help before it was too late. That’s another thing that weighs on me: the possibility that I could’ve done something if I’d been more open about our problems. Maybe I could’ve gotten George into rehab or under psychiatric care, and the tragedy of the accident would’ve been averted.
Of course, the man standing next to me would’ve killed him regardless, so there’s that.
Unable to deal with that thought, I push it away just as Peter asks, “What about his work? How could he continue to function like that? Unless… you said he stopped taking on foreign assignments?”
“Pretty much.” Taking a breath to calm the churning in my stomach, I focus on watching the hypnotic swaying of the branches outside. “He traveled a few times after we got married, but mostly, he investigated local stories—like the one about the mafia bribing Chicago police and government officials.”
“The one they told you was the reason for his protection.”
I nod, unsurprised that he knows. He probably had some kind of parabolic microphones trained on me during my conversation with Agent Ryson. From what I’ve learned about my stalker in recent weeks, it’s entirely possible.
The millions he earns from every hit buys access to all kinds of equipment.
“He must’ve quit working for the CIA, then,” Peter says, and I glance over to see him watching the tree branches too. “Either because he was fired or because he couldn’t cope with the aftermath of his fuck-up. That’s the only thing that would explain the lack of foreign assignments.”
“Right.” My head throbs with a nagging tension, and my stomach continues churning and twisting, like my insides are being wound tighter and tighter. My lower back hurts too—a realization that makes me do some quick mental math.
Sure enough, my period is about to start.
We stand by the window for a few moments longer, watching the trees outside, and then I walk over to the medicine cabinet and take two Advils, washing them down with a glass of water.
“What’s the matter?” Peter asks, following me with a concerned frown. “Are you sick?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, not wanting to go into all the details. Then I realize he might find out later today anyway and add, “It’s just that time of the month for me.”
“Ah.” Unlike most men, he doesn’t look the least bit uncomfortable with that information. “Does it typically pain you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” As I speak, I feel the cramps getting worse and thank the schedule gods that I’m not on call today. I was going to volunteer at the clinic this afternoon, but I revise that plan in favor of huddling in bed with a heating pad.
“Why aren’t you on birth control pills?” Peter asks, following me as I head upstairs. “I haven’t seen you take anything all this time, and I believe that usually helps with painful periods.”
“An expert on female reproductive health, are we?”
Peter doesn’t bat an eye at my sarcasm. “Far from it, but I did get a pill prescription for Tamila because she had bad cramps. I assume you have a reason for not doing the same?”
I sigh, entering the bedroom. “I do. I’m one of those rare women who can’t tolerate hormonal birth control. I get migraines and nausea, no matter how small the dosage. Even hormonal IUDs give me headaches, so I have to choose between misery a couple of days a month or misery all the time.”
“I see.” Peter leans against the doorway as I begin to undress. I can see the heat in his gaze as he watches me strip down to my underwear, and I hope he doesn’t get any ideas about joining me in bed. He rarely passes up the chance to fuck me.
Ignoring his staring, I grab my heating pad from the nightstand drawer and curl into a fetal position, hugging it under
the blanket as I wait for the Advil to kick in.
I hear a quiet patter of footsteps, and then the bed dips next to me.
No, no, no. Go away. No sex right now. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping my tormentor gets the hint, but in the next instant, the blanket is turned down, and a rough male hand caresses my naked back.
“Do you want me to get you anything?” His deep, softly accented voice is low and soothing. “Maybe toast or some tea?”
Startled, I roll over onto my back, clutching the heating pad against my stomach. “Um, no, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” He smooths my hair away from my face. “What about a belly rub?”
I blink at him. “Um…”
“Here.” He gently pries the heating pad away from me and places his warm palm on my stomach. “Let’s try this.” He moves his hand in a circular motion, applying light pressure, and after a couple of minutes, the tight, cramping sensation eases, the heat from his skin and the massaging motion chasing away the worst of the painful tension.
“Better?” he murmurs as I close my eyes in blissful relief, and I nod, my thoughts beginning to drift as drowsiness steals over me.
“It’s very nice, thank you,” I mumble, and as the soothing massage continues, I sink into a warm fog of sleep.
42
Peter
* * *
I watch Sara sleep for a few minutes; then I quietly get up and leave the bedroom. I could sit by her bedside for hours, doing nothing more than watching her, but I have a phone call with a potential client at noon, and I have to discuss a few logistics with Anton before that.
It takes only a couple of minutes to clean up in the kitchen, and then I’m on my way, slipping out the back door to cut across a neighbor’s yard. Ilya’s armored SUV is parked on the street two blocks over, and as I walk, I pay attention to everything: the distant barking of a small dog, a squirrel darting across the road, the brand of sneakers on the jogger who just rounded the corner… The hyper-vigilance is as much a part of me now as my lightning-fast reflexes, and both have kept me alive more times than I can count.
Ilya starts the car as I approach, and as soon as I get in, he pulls out, heading down the quiet suburban street at precisely three miles above the speed limit.
He believes that blending in requires acting like a typical civilian, right down to minor traffic infractions.
“Any trouble?” I ask in Russian, and he shakes his shaved head.
“All quiet, like always.”
Unlike his twin brother and Anton, Ilya doesn’t sound disappointed as he says that. I think he’s enjoying our little stint in suburbia, though he’d never admit it out loud. Out of the four of us on the core team, Ilya looks most like the quintessential thug, with his skull tattoos and a jaw thickened by a youthful flirtation with steroids. His twin Yan, on the other hand, could pass for a professor or a banker, with his neatly pressed clothes and brown hair cut in a conservative corporate style. Personality-wise, though, it’s Yan who revels in our high-adrenaline lifestyle, while Ilya prefers to focus more on strategy and working behind the scenes.
I suspect if Ilya hadn’t followed his brother into the army, he would’ve ended up as a computer programmer or an accountant.
“Anything from the Americans?” I ask as we stop at a stoplight. Since my guys are fairly busy, I’ve been using the locals as backup security. Their job is to keep an eye on Sara when she’s not with me and alert us of any unusual activity in the neighborhood.
“No. Your girl doesn’t deviate much from her routine, but I’m sure you know that.”
I nod, scanning the row of neatly manicured lawns as we drive past them on our way to the safe house. Something is bugging me, but I can’t place my finger on what it is. Maybe it’s just that it’s too quiet, with no big jobs on the horizon and minimal progress with locating the North Carolina general who’s the last name on my list. The paranoid fucker disappeared along with his family, and he did such a good job of covering his tracks that even the hackers I retained are having trouble finding him.
I might have to go to North Carolina at some point, see what I can shake up in person.
“Tell them I want to review the next few reports myself,” I tell Ilya as we pull into the driveway of our safe house. “And tell them to expand the perimeter to twenty blocks, not ten. If anyone so much as sneezes in Sara’s neighborhood or around her hospital, I want to know.”
“You got it,” Ilya says, and I jump out of the car.
Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I can’t let anything fuck up what I have with Sara.
I need her too much to risk losing her.
* * *
She’s lounging on the couch with a heating pad and a tablet when I get home, her slender limbs gracefully arranged and her shiny chestnut hair caught in a messy knot on top of her head. Even dressed in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, my little bird looks like she could star in a black-and-white movie, the delicacy of her features accentuated by the loose tendrils of hair waving around her heart-shaped face.
My lungs tighten as she looks up, her soft hazel eyes locking on my face. Each time I see her, I want her, my need for her a clawing hunger in my chest. Over the past three weeks, I’ve had her so many times the craving should’ve diminished, but it’s only grown, intensifying to an unbearable degree.
I want her, and I want this—the quiet pleasure of sharing her life, of knowing that I can hold her in the middle of the night and see her across the kitchen table in the morning. I want to take care of her when she’s sick and bask in her smile when she’s well. And sometimes, when my grief wells up, I want to hurt her too—an urge I suppress with all my strength.
She’s mine, and I will protect her.
Even from myself.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, approaching the couch. I didn’t have a chance to fuck her this morning, and I’m semi-hard just from being near her. However, my lust takes a backseat to my need to make sure she’s healthy and well.
Sara won’t die from menstrual cramps, but I don’t want to see her in any pain.
“Better, thank you,” she answers, laying her tablet next to her. It looks like she was watching some music videos on there—something I’ve seen her do to relax.
“You can keep on doing that,” I say, nodding toward the tablet. “I have to make dinner, so don’t stop on my behalf.”
She makes no move to pick up the tablet, just tilts her head and watches me as I walk to the sink to wash my hands and take out the ingredients for tonight’s simple dinner: the chicken breasts I marinated last night and fresh veggies for a salad.
“You know, you never answered my question,” she says after a minute. “Why are you really doing this? What do you get out of all this domesticity? Doesn’t a man like you have something better to do with your life? I don’t know… maybe rappel down the side of a building or blow up something?”
I sigh. She’s back on that topic. My ambitious young doctor can’t grasp that I just like doing this—for her and for myself. I can’t turn back the clock and spend more time with Pasha and Tamila, can’t warn my younger self to forego work in favor of what matters because it could all vanish in an instant. I can only focus on the present, and my present is Sara.
“My wife taught me to make a few simple dishes,” I say, placing the chicken breasts in the frying pan before starting to chop up the salad. “In her culture, women tended to do all the cooking, but she wasn’t big on tradition. She wanted to make sure I could take care of our son if anything happened to her, so to please her, I agreed to learn a few recipes—and found I liked the process of preparing food.” A familiar pain tightens my chest at the memories, but I push the grief away, focusing on the sympathetic curiosity in the warm hazel eyes watching me from the couch.
Sometimes, I’m convinced Sara doesn’t hate me.
Not all the time, at least.
“So you started cooking for your wife?” she asks when I’m silent for a couple of m
oments, and I nod, scraping the veggies off the cutting board into a big salad bowl.
“I did, but I didn’t learn more than the basics until she was gone,” I say, and despite myself, my voice is rough, raw with suppressed agony. “Two months after the massacre, I was walking past a culinary school in Moscow, and on impulse, I walked in and took a cooking class. I don’t know why I did it, but when I was done and my borscht was simmering on the stove, I felt a tiny bit better. It was something different I could focus on, something tangible and real.”
Something that cooled the boiling rage inside me, enabling me to strategize and plan out my vengeance like a recipe, complete with steps and measures I would need to take.
I don’t say that last part, because Sara’s gaze softens further. I guess my little hobby humanizes me in her eyes. I like that, so I don’t tell her that I was in Moscow to kill my former superior, Ivan Polonsky, for participating in the massacre cover-up, or that an hour after the class was over, I slashed his throat in an alley.
His blood looked a lot like borscht that day.
“I guess you never know what you have until you lose it,” Sara muses, hugging the heating pad to her, and I feel a flicker of jealousy at the wistfulness in her tone.
I hope she’s not thinking of her husband, because as far as I’m concerned, he’s no big loss.
That sookin syn deserved everything he got and then some.
When the meal is ready, Sara joins me at the table, and we eat while I tell her about some of the cities where I’ve taken cooking lessons: Istanbul, Johannesburg, Berlin, Paris, Geneva… After describing the cuisines, I share a few stories about temperamental chefs, and Sara laughs, a genuine smile lighting up her face as she listens to me. To avoid spoiling the mood, I leave out all the dark parts—like the fact that Interpol found me in Paris and I had to shoot my way out of the building where the cooking school was located, or that I blew up a target’s car in Berlin before going in for my lesson—and we wrap up the meal on a companionable note, with Sara helping me clean up before I shoo her away.