Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  “Go relax,” I tell her. “Take a shower and get in bed. I’ll be up soon.”

  Her expression turns wary. “Okay, but just so you know, my period started.”

  “So what? You think I’m grossed out by a little blood?” I grin at the look on her face. “I’m kidding. I know you’re not feeling well. We’ll just cuddle, like the good old days.”

  “Ah, gotcha.” An answering smile, genuine and warm, flashes across her face. “In that case, I’ll see you up there soon.”

  She hurries out of the kitchen, and I stand there, unable to breathe, feeling like I just got knifed in the gut.

  Fuck, that smile… That smile was everything.

  For the first time, I understand why I feel this way around her.

  For the first time, I realize how much I love her.

  43

  Sara

  * * *

  By Sunday morning, I feel better and decide to go see my parents. I’ve visited them only once since Peter’s return, as I’ve been busy with my stalker and worried about exposing them to danger. However, I’m now increasingly convinced that Peter wouldn’t arbitrarily hurt them. He values family too much to do that to me.

  As long as I comply with his demands, my parents should be safe.

  My mom is ecstatic when I call her, and we make plans to go out for a sushi lunch. When I inform Peter about that, he nods absentmindedly and types something on his phone.

  “What are you writing?” I ask warily.

  “Just telling my guys that I’ll be in today, after all,” he says, putting the phone away. “Why? Did you want me to join you?” His gray eyes gleam as he looks at me.

  I laugh. “No, I think the bit where the FBI storm the restaurant to capture one of their most wanted might be a bit of an appetite spoiler.”

  Peter doesn’t smile back, and I realize he’s serious.

  “You… you’d come out with me in public?”

  “Why not?” He lifts his eyebrows coolly. “I met you at Starbucks, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yeah, but that was before. I mean—never mind.” I take a breath. “I guess you’re not afraid of being seen in public?”

  “I wouldn’t parade in front of your local FBI office, but I can go out for an occasional lunch or dinner if the place is scoped out beforehand, and I can make sure there are no cameras.”

  “Oh.” I chew on the inside of my lip as I pick up my bag. “Well, maybe we can go out for dinner later this week…”

  “But not today,” he says, and I nod, feeling awkward but not knowing what else to do. There’s no way I’m introducing George’s killer to my parents.

  It’s bad enough I just offered to go out to dinner with him.

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you when you get back,” he says, and I slip away before he can suggest anything else—like matching tattoos or a beach wedding.

  This is total madness, and the craziest part is that it’s starting to seem normal.

  I’m getting used to having Peter in my life.

  * * *

  At lunch, I inform my parents that I decided not to sell the house. I already told them two weeks ago that the lawyers’ offer fell through, so they’re not particularly surprised to hear about my decision. In fact, they’re quite pleased, given that the house is only a twenty-minute drive from them while my new apartment would’ve been at least forty-five minutes away.

  “It’s a lovely house,” Dad says, pouring himself a little platter of soy sauce. “I think the whole apartment thing was an overreaction. You’re young, but years go by fast, and at some point soon, you might want to think about starting a family. You know, get out there and meet a man—”

  “Oh, stop it, Chuck,” Mom snaps at him. “Sara has plenty of time.” Turning toward me, she says in a softer voice, “You take as long as you need, darling. Don’t let your dad push you into anything. We are glad you’re keeping the house, but that doesn’t mean we expect you to produce grandkids anytime soon.”

  “Mom, please.” It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes like I’m still in high school. My parents are doing the good cop/bad cop thing with me, likely in the hopes of planting the “go out and meet a nice man” suggestion in my mind. “If I’m on the verge of producing grandkids, I promise you and Dad will be the first to know.”

  Mom gives Dad a beatific smile. “See? She’ll go out there when she’s ready.”

  “Right.” I busy myself with prying apart my wooden chopsticks. “When I’m ready.” Which, given what’s happening in my life, might be never. Or at least not until Peter gets bored with me—something that looks increasingly unlikely to happen soon. If anything, I think he’s even more fixated on me now, his gray eyes watching me with a peculiar light that sends warm shivers down my spine.

  Before I can analyze why that is, the waiter brings out our sushi boat, and my parents ooh and aah over the artfully arranged fish, sparing me from more of their not-so-subtle machinations. I wish I could tell them the truth, but there’s no way I can explain Peter without terrifying them out of their minds.

  I’m still not sure how I’m dealing with the whole thing myself.

  * * *

  By the end of the week, my period is over and I’m back in the swing of things, with two on-call shifts early in the week and a three-hour stretch at the clinic on Wednesday on top of my usual office hours. I’m working so much I’m barely home, but Peter doesn’t object, though I can sense he’s less than pleased with the situation. Despite my period, we’ve had sex over the last few days—he wasn’t lying about his lack of squeamishness—and each time, he’s been unusually hungry, his touch unrestrained and borderline rough.

  It’s as if he’s afraid of somehow losing me, as if he hears the ticking of some clock.

  On Friday, I spend most of the day in my office, seeing patients, but just as I’m about to head home, I get an urgent message that one of my patients has gone into labor. Suppressing a weary sigh, I hurry to the locker room to scrub up and run into Marsha, who’s coming off her shift.

  “Hey,” she says with a sympathetic grimace. “Just getting started?”

  “Looks like it,” I say, stuffing my clothes into the locker. “Are you girls going out tonight?”

  “Nah. Andy can’t make it, and Tonya is busy with that cute bartender. Remember him?”

  I pull my hair into a ponytail. “The one from the club we went to?” At Marsha’s confirming nod, I ask, “Yeah, why? Did they hook up?”

  “You guessed it.” Marsha grins. “Anyways, I see you’re in a rush, so I’ll let you go. Call me if you want to do anything this weekend. Andy is having a barbecue tomorrow night, and I’m sure she’d love for you to come.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call you if I can make it,” I say and hurry out of the locker room. I know I won’t be calling her, and this time, it’s not because I’m afraid for my friends.

  As tempting as the barbecue sounds, what I’m most looking forward to this weekend is quiet time at home.

  With Peter.

  The man I’m finding hard to hate.

  * * *

  Several hours later, I trudge back into the locker room, exhausted. My patient’s uterus ruptured, and I had to perform an emergency C-section to save her and the baby. Fortunately, both made it through okay, but I have a splitting headache from hunger and extreme tiredness.

  I can’t wait to get home, heat up whatever Peter might’ve prepared for dinner, and, if I’m lucky, get a massage as I’m falling asleep.

  “Dr. Cobakis?”

  The female voice sounds vaguely familiar, and I spin around, my pulse jumping. Sure enough, I see Karen, the FBI agent/nurse who was with Agent Ryson when I woke up after Peter’s attack. Like the last time, she’s dressed in nursing scrubs, though I know she doesn’t work in this hospital.

  She must be trying to blend in.

  “Karen?” I try not to betray my nervousness. “What are you doing here?”

  She approaches me and stops a couple of fee
t away. “I wanted to talk to you someplace we wouldn’t be spotted, and this seemed as good of an opportunity as any.”

  I glance around the locker room. She’s right: we’re the only ones here at this time. “Why?” I turn my attention back to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “A couple of months ago, you reached out to Agent Ryson,” she says quietly. “You said you felt you were being watched. At the time, we dismissed your concerns, but we’ve since received some new information.”

  My throat cinches tight. “What… what new information?”

  “It has to do with Peter Sokolov, the fugitive who assaulted you in your home.”

  “Oh?” My voice is an octave too high.

  “He was spotted in the area, just a few blocks away from this hospital. A hidden traffic camera caught his face at an angle, and our facial recognition program flagged the photo.” She cocks her head to the side. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, Dr. Cobakis, would you?”

  “I…” My heartbeat is roaring in my ears, my thoughts racing in panicked circles. This is it, the opportunity to get help without Peter knowing I spoke to anyone. The FBI are already aware he’s here, and they won’t rest until they find him. I can improve the odds of their success, tell them he’s most likely at my house, and if they succeed in capturing him and his men, it’ll be truly over.

  My life will be my own again.

  “It’s okay, Dr. Cobakis.” Karen lays a gentle hand on my arm. “I know this is all very stressful for you, but we’ll make sure you’re safe. Just please think back to the past few weeks. Any chance someone might’ve been following you? Have you had any instances recently when you felt like you were being watched?”

  All the time—because I am being watched. I want to tell her that, but the words won’t come; instead, my breathing speeds up until I’m all but hyperventilating.

  Peter won’t go quietly when the agents come for him; he’ll fight, and people will get killed. He could get killed. Nausea rises in my throat as I picture his powerful body riddled with bullet holes, his intense metallic eyes dull and faded with death. It should be an image that brings me joy, but I feel sick instead, my ribcage squeezing painfully tight as I try to picture what my life will be like without him in it.

  How free—and how alone—I’ll be again.

  “I… No.” I take a step back, shaking my head. I know I’m not thinking clearly, but I can’t bring myself to say it. My mouth simply won’t form the words. “I haven’t noticed anything.”

  A frown creases Karen’s forehead. “Nothing? Are you sure? To the best of our knowledge, you and your deceased husband are his only link to this area.”

  “Yes, I’m positive.” It’s as though a stranger is speaking these lies. My headache intensifies until it’s a beating drum inside my skull, and I feel like I’m on the verge of throwing up. My thoughts skitter from one alternative to the next, my mind like a rat inside a maze. I don’t even know why I’m lying. It’s over. One way or another, it’s over—because now that they know Peter is in the area, they will come for him, no matter what I say. And if they don’t succeed in killing or capturing him, he might think that I betrayed him and make good on his threat to take me away, maybe even punish people close to me to teach me a lesson.

  I should help the FBI.

  It’s my best chance to be free.

  “All right,” Karen says when I remain silent. “If you think of anything, here is my number.” She hands me a card, and I take it with numb fingers as she says, “We don’t want to spook him in case he is watching you for whatever reason, so we’re not going to take you into protective custody right now. Instead, we’ll put a discreet protective detail on you, and if they see anything—and I do mean anything—out of the ordinary, they will act fast to ensure your safety. In the meanwhile, please carry on with your normal activities and rest assured that the man who killed your husband will pay for what he’s done.”

  “Okay. I’ll—I’ll do that.” Hanging on to my composure by a thread, I grab my bag from the open locker and slam it shut, then hurry out of the room.

  I’m already next to my car when I realize I’m still wearing my scrubs.

  Thanks to Karen’s ambush, I forgot to change back into my clothes.

  * * *

  Heavy metal blares from the speakers as I pull out of the parking lot, castigating myself for my stupidity. Even with my headache, the music is somehow soothing, the violent beats more orderly than the mad jumble of my thoughts. I can’t believe I didn’t confide in Karen and beg for the FBI’s help when I had the chance. Now I have no idea what to do, how to act or even where to go. Do I go home with the FBI watching me? And if I do, will they realize that Peter is there, or will the precautions he takes—such as not parking on my driveway—ensure they remain oblivious to his presence? Maybe I should go to my parents’ house or a hotel instead, or simply crash somewhere in the hospital. But then what about Peter’s men who always follow me around? They’d realize something is wrong, and Peter might come after me, and who knows what could happen then? In general, will the FBI spot my bodyguards, or will they spot the agents first and warn Peter? If I come home, will I find him already gone, having evaded the authorities once again?

  How badly did I fuck everything up?

  My hands are white-knuckled on the wheel as my mind spins through my conversation with Karen, going over it again and again. God, I had so many opportunities to tell her the truth, to explain the full complexity of the situation and let the experts handle everything. Why didn’t I do so? How could I have been so stupid? After I realized I forgot to change, I went back to the locker room, telling myself that if Karen is still there, I would do the right thing, but she was already gone.

  She was gone, and I was relieved—because deep inside, I knew I wouldn’t do it.

  Even with Peter’s threat looming over my head, I can’t bring myself to hasten the confrontation that could result in his death.

  With Metallica screaming in the background, I drive on autopilot, so caught up in my thoughts I don’t realize my subconscious already chose my destination. Only when I turn onto my street does it dawn on me where I’m going, and by then, it’s too late.

  I’m home.

  44

  Sara

  * * *

  I’m shaking as I enter the house from the garage, my throat tight with anxiety and my heart pounding in sync with the throbbing in my head. It’s well past midnight and all the lights are off, but I can smell the appetizing aromas of whatever Peter made earlier. My stomach rumbles, my body demanding fuel despite the adrenaline shredding my nerves. I’ll have to eat something soon, but first, I need to figure out where Peter is and whether he knows what’s happening.

  “Hungry?”

  The familiar deep voice startles me so much I jump, a panicked squeak escaping my throat.

  A light comes on, illuminating Peter’s figure on the couch in the family room. Despite the comfortable temperature, he’s wearing his leather jacket, his tall, powerful body arranged in a casual pose that reminds me of a predator’s lazy sprawl.

  “Um, yeah.” Oh God, does he know? Why is he sitting here in the dark? “One of my patients went into labor, and I missed dinner.”

  “You did?” Peter rises to his feet in a fluid motion. “That’s not good. Come, let’s feed you before you pass out.”

  I follow him into the kitchen on unsteady legs. The fact that he’s here—and heating up food for me—must mean that his men didn’t spot my FBI tail. Does that mean the reverse is true as well? Could the FBI agents assigned to my protective detail have missed whoever Peter has following me?

  My hands and feet are icy from stress, and I know I must look like death warmed over as I wash my hands and sit down at the table. I’m hoping Peter will ascribe my paleness to exhaustion rather than the fact that the FBI might storm my house at any moment.

  He puts a bowl of hearty vegetable soup and a slice of crusty sourdough bread in front
of me, then sits down across the table at his usual place, his face expressionless as he watches me pick up my spoon and dip it into the soup. My hands are trembling slightly—a fact he can’t miss, but hopefully chalks up to my tiredness as well. If not—if he suspects something—then things could go south, quickly. He could have me trussed up and on the way to some international hideout faster than my FBI watchdogs could call for reinforcements.

  Fuck, why am I taking this kind of risk? Why didn’t I just tell Karen everything?

  Yet even as I kick myself, I know the answer to that question. It’s sitting in front of me, his gray eyes trained on me with an intensity that both chills and warms me inside. I should want to be free of my tormentor, should do everything in my power to have him disappear from my life, but I can’t. I’m not insane enough to warn him and risk getting kidnapped, but I can’t bring myself to accelerate the moment when justice catches up with him, and he’ll have to either run or fight.

  It will happen anyway; all I have to do is survive it.

  “You work too much,” Peter murmurs, tilting his head as he studies me, and I exhale a shaky breath.

  Thank God. He is ascribing my anxiety to tiredness.

  “You should ease up, ptichka, take it easy on occasion,” he continues, and I nod, looking down at my bowl to escape the intensity of his gaze.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I take a bite of the bread and swallow a spoonful of soup, focusing on the savory flavors to quiet the mental clamor in my head. I’m only partially successful, but it’s enough to enable me to eat another spoonful and then another.