Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  I’m done with my slice of bread and almost halfway through my bowl by the time I work up the courage to look up again. “Why were you waiting here for me?” I ask, recalling how dark the house was when I walked in. “I thought you’d be in bed or taking a shower or something.”

  “Because I’ve barely seen you in recent days, ptichka, and I’ve missed you.” His eyes gleam with that peculiar softness I’ve been seeing all week.

  My stomach flips, a knot forming in my throat. “You… you have?” He’s never told me this before; though we both know he’s obsessed with me, he’s never admitted to any kind of real feelings.

  “Hmm-mm. Here, have some more.” He pushes another slice of bread toward me. “You still look much too pale.”

  I pick up the bread and bite into it, looking down again to conceal my expression. The knot in my throat is expanding, my eyes prickling with irrational tears. Why does he have to choose today, of all days, to say these things to me? I need him to be awful to me, not nice. I need to remember that he’s a monster, a killer, a man who’s done things that would make Ted Bundy blanch.

  I need him to jolt me out of the fantasy so I don’t miss him when he’s gone.

  I manage to hold back the tears as I gulp down the rest of the soup while Peter watches me in silence. It’s unsettling, the way he can just stare at me without doing anything, as if the mere sight of me fascinates him. I’ve caught him doing this more than a few times; once, I even woke up to find him looking at me like this.

  It’s disconcerting and flattering at the same time, like his seemingly endless hunger for me.

  When my bowl is empty, I get up to put it in the dishwasher, but Peter takes it out of my hands.

  “I’ve got this,” he says softly, dropping a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Go up and start getting ready for bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I nod, blinking to hold back a fresh surge of tears, and go up without objections. He often does this too: freeing me from all chores, no matter how small, when I’m tired. He must realize that putting a bowl in a dishwasher would not strain me, but he still treats me like I’m an invalid instead of a doctor exhausted by long hours.

  He babies me and I love it, even though I shouldn’t. I should hate everything he does, because none of this is real.

  It can’t be.

  * * *

  I’m already done with my shower by the time Peter comes upstairs, and he corners me in the bathroom, trapping me against the counter just as I finish brushing my teeth. My towel is wrapped around me, but he pulls it off, dropping it on the floor, and the sight of us in the fogged-up mirror—me pale and completely naked while he’s fully dressed in his dark clothes—makes my heart pound with nervous excitement.

  He’s especially hungry tonight—and more than a little dangerous.

  Sure enough, he wraps one big hand around my throat, and though he doesn’t squeeze, I feel the darkness behind the thin veil of his control, the threat implicit in the controlling gesture. At the same time, his other hand cups my breast, the rough edge of his thumb rubbing over my taut nipple. His eyes hold mine in the mirror, and I see a strange hunger in the silver depths, lust mixed with possessiveness and that intense something that makes my knees go weak and sends hot chills down my spine.

  “Look at you,” he breathes in my ear, and I tear my eyes away from his hypnotic gaze to focus on the picture we’re presenting: him so big and lethally handsome, and me small and feminine, almost fragile in his dark embrace. “Look at how pretty you are, how sweet and soft and pure. That smooth skin of yours, so thin and delicate, so easily bruised…” He caresses my throat as I swallow, my pulse accelerating even more at his words.

  “You know what I wonder sometimes?” he continues softly, and I grip the edge of the counter as his hard fingers pinch my nipple, twisting it with cruel purposefulness. “I wonder if I should put a chain around this pretty neck, lock you to me and throw away the key. Would you cry then, ptichka? Would you rage?” He nips at my earlobe, his white teeth scraping across my skin as his hand moves down from my breast to cup my sex. “Or would you secretly like it?”

  I suck in a breath, trembling, so hot I could burst into flames. The picture he’s painting is both terrifying and arousing, as darkly erotic as the image in the mirror. With his arms around me, I can smell the leather of his jacket, feel the metallic zipper against my back, and a sense of acute vulnerability washes over me as his fingers part my wet folds and touch my clit, the sharp lash of pleasure exacerbating the feeling of helplessness, of being completely out of control.

  “Please.” My voice shakes. “Please, Peter…”

  “Please what?” His fingers push in and hook inside me, pressing against my G-spot as his teeth graze across my neck again. “Please what, ptichka? Please touch me? Please fuck me? Please go away?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please fuck me.” I’m past embarrassment, past denial. It feels like every cell in my body is pulsing with need, burning with the dark craving he awakens in me. Maybe under different circumstances, I’d stay strong, try to hold on to whatever passes for dignity, but I’m too exhausted—and too aware that this might be it.

  Tonight might be our last time together.

  “Open your eyes,” he growls, and I dazedly obey, fighting the drugging pull of pleasure.

  Peter’s gaze is dark and intense in the mirror, his face taut with violent need. And underneath, I sense that unsettling something, that softness I can’t quite define.

  “Tell me, Sara. Tell me how you want me to fuck you. Do you want it rough”—his fingers thrust viciously into me—“or gentle? Hard”—he grinds the heel of his palm on my sex—“or soft?” Tempering the pressure, he lowers his head to lick my earlobe, his warm breath heating my skin as he rasps into my ear, “Do you want flowers and pretty words, ptichka? Or would you rather have something raw and real, even if society deems it wrong… even if it’s not what you’ve always wanted?”

  My breath hisses raggedly through my teeth as his thumb circles my clit, the heat thrumming under my skin making it hard to think. My inner muscles tighten around those rough, invading fingers, and I don’t understand what he’s asking, what he wants from me. I need more of that pain-edged pleasure, and at the same time, I need relief from the tension winding me tighter and tighter.

  “Peter, please…” My heart is racing much too fast. “Oh God, please…”

  His grip on my neck tightens as his fingers curl inside me, pressing against my G-spot again. “Tell me, and I’ll fuck you.” His teeth scrape across my neck, making me shudder from the sensation. “I’ll give it to you exactly how you want it, fill your tight little pussy until you’re begging for more. Tell me what you need from me, and I’ll give it to you, Sara. I’ll give you everything and more.”

  “Hard,” I gasp out, my hands slipping off the countertop edge to grip the steely columns of his jean-clad thighs. My sex clenches around his fingers as I press my pelvis against his hand, desperate for firmer pressure on my clit. I don’t know what I’m saying, but I do know what I need. “Fuck me hard, Peter. Please…”

  His jaw tightens, and I catch a glimpse of the darkness in the gray shimmer of his eyes. Abruptly, he releases me and sweeps his hand over the countertop, knocking off the toiletries. Spinning me around, he picks me up and sets me down on the cold granite, thighs spread wide. I blink at him, startled, but he’s already unzipping his jeans and pulling me forward until my ass nearly hangs off the edge.

  “Peter—oh God.” I gasp as he spears into me, so thick and hard it feels like he’s bruising my insides. He hasn’t been this rough since our first time, but I’m so wet today the violent claiming doesn’t scare me, the threat of pain only adding to the pleasure. Instead of clamping up, I remain pliant and soft around his cock, and as he sets a hard, driving rhythm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my ass, I wrap my legs around his hips and wind my arms around his neck, clinging to him like he’s my anchor in a storm. And he
might as well be. He fucks me with such fury I feel like a sliver in a hurricane, overwhelmed by his violence, tossed about by the waves of his lust. It’s too much, too intense, but the helpless feeling only adds to the tension twisting inside me. With a scream, I come, clenching around him, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps going until I come again, and then once more.

  It’s only when I’m slumped against him, panting and dazed from my third orgasm, that he lets himself go. With one final hard thrust, he comes, his pelvis grinding against mine as a deep groan rumbles up his throat. I feel his cock pulse inside me as I cling to him, trembling, and my sex clenches one last time, squeezing one last shudder of pleasure from my over-sensitized flesh.

  Afterward, I’m so out of it I’m barely able to stand as he lifts me off the counter and sets me on my feet. Dimly, I realize I feel unusually wet between my legs—drenched, really—but it’s not until Peter steps back and I feel the wetness slide down my thigh that I understand where it’s coming from.

  “Oh God.” My eyes drop to his cock—still semi-hard and glistening with our combined moisture. “Peter, we—”

  “Forgot to use a condom? Yes.”

  He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. Instead, as I watch in horrified shock, he casually washes himself, tucks his cock back into his jeans, and zips up the fly. Then he wets a washcloth and gently wipes the semen off my thighs.

  “There, all set.” He drops the washcloth in the sink, his eyes gleaming as he turns toward me. “Don’t worry. You just had your period, so we shouldn’t be in the danger zone yet. And I’m clean; I always use condoms and get tested regularly. I assume the same is true for you?”

  “Right.” I stare back at him, shaken both by the occurrence and his attitude. Theoretically, we should be safe, but the mere fact that it happened, with him… My head resumes its painful throbbing, and my exhaustion returns, multiplied tenfold. How could I have been so negligent? With George, I’d always gone out of my way to remind him to use condoms, and during the so-called danger zones, we often skipped intercourse altogether, not wanting to chance the fifteen-percent condom failure rate until we were ready to have a baby. However, with my husband’s killer, I haven’t been nearly as careful, having sex at all times of the month. And now this…

  It’s like some sick part of me wants me to be tied to him, to perpetuate this mockery of a relationship.

  “We should be fine then,” Peter says, stepping closer to me. “Though…” He pauses, staring down at me with a speculative expression.

  “Though what?” I ask when he remains silent. My heart is hammering with a dull, fast rhythm. “Though what?”

  “Though I wouldn’t mind.” His words are light, casual, but there’s no trace of humor in his voice. “Not with you.”

  “You—what?” My headache intensifies, my skull feeling like it wants to implode. He can’t possibly mean what he’s saying. “Why wouldn’t you—? That makes no sense!”

  “Does it not?” A glimmer of amusement now appears in his eyes. “Why, ptichka?”

  “Because… because you’re you.” My voice is choked with disbelief. “You drugged and tortured me before killing my husband and forcing your way into my life. I don’t know what you’re imagining here, but we’re not dating. This is not some kind of love story—”

  “No?” His expression hardens, all hints of amusement disappearing. “Then what do you think it is that I feel for you? Why can’t I go a single hour without thinking about you, wanting you… fucking craving you? You think it’s lust that keeps me here, day after day, when the whole world is out for my head and my men are crawling up the walls from boredom?” He steps even closer, and my breathing speeds up as his palms slap against the counter on both sides of me, caging me against the sink. His eyes glitter fiercely as he leans in, his voice roughening. “You think I’m here instead of hunting down the last ublyudok on my list because I can’t get enough of your tight little pussy?”

  My face burns as I stare up at him, the vulgarity of his words intensifying my confusion. I don’t know what to say, how to take it all in. He sounds angry, yet what he’s saying makes it seem almost as though—

  “Yes, I see you understand.” His mouth curves in a dark, mocking smile. “It might not be a love story for you, ptichka, but as fucked up as it is, that’s precisely what this is for me. I started off hating you, but somewhere along the way, you’ve become the only thing that matters to me, the only person I still care about. And yes, that means I love you, as wrong as that may be. I love you, even though you were his… even though you think I’m a monster. I love you more than life itself, Sara, because when I’m with you, I feel more than agony and rage—and I want more than death and vengeance.” His chest expands with a deep breath, his expression turning somber as he says quietly, “When I’m with you, ptichka, I’m living.”

  I’m not aware that I’m crying until his face blurs in front of my eyes. My chest is too tight, my breaths too shallow. I’ve known that Peter is obsessed with me, but I’ve never imagined that in his mind, that obsession equals love, that he wants some kind of real future with me… one where we’re together as a family.

  A future where FBI agents aren’t about to storm through the door.

  “Don’t cry, ptichka.” His thumb strokes over my wet cheek, and I see the mocking smile return to his lips. “This doesn’t change anything. You can still hate me. Just because I love you, I’m not any less of a monster—and I’m not going to disappear from your life.”

  But you are. I want to scream out the truth, but I can’t. I can’t warn him, even though my heart feels like it’s tearing apart. I don’t love him—I can’t—but it hurts as though I do, as though losing him will be the worst thing ever. A choked sob rips from my throat, then another, and then I’m in his arms, clasped securely against his chest as he carries me out of the bathroom.

  When he reaches my bed, he sits down, holding me on his lap, and I cry, my face buried against his neck as he strokes my back, slowly, soothingly. He’s right; his confession of love shouldn’t change anything, but somehow, it makes things worse. It makes me feel like I’m losing something real… like I’m betraying him and us.

  How can a monster hold me so tenderly? How can a psychopath love?

  My skull feels like it’s being sawed open from the inside, my headache worsened by my crying, and I push at Peter’s chest, twisting out of his embrace—only to fall onto the bed, whimpering as I clutch my temples.

  He leans over me, concern darkening his features. “What’s the matter, ptichka?” he asks, stroking my arm, and I manage to mutter something about a headache before squeezing my eyes shut. What I’m feeling is more along the lines of a migraine, but I’m in too much pain to explain.

  The bed dips as he rises to his feet, and I hear footsteps as he walks out of the room. A couple of minutes later, he returns with Advil and a glass of water. I pry open my swollen eyelids long enough to swallow the medicine, and then I close my eyes again, waiting for the violent drumbeat in my skull to quiet to a manageable roar.

  I expect him to leave then, or to get in bed with me, or whatever he was planning to do, but instead, I hear the bathroom door open, and a minute later, a cool, wet towel covers my eyes and forehead, bringing with it a welcome sliver of relief.

  Once again, he’s taking care of me, giving me comfort when I need it most.

  The tears return, trickling out from under the towel as he tucks the blanket around me and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand slipping under my neck to massage the tense muscles in my nape. It’s torture of a different kind, this tender care of his. It soothes my headache but intensifies the searing pain in my chest. I’ve been fooling myself when I called what we have a sick fantasy. It might be sick, but it’s real, and when he’s gone, I will miss him, just like I missed him when he went to Mexico. It’s not love I feel for him—love can’t be this dark, this illogical and insane—but it is something.

  Something other than hate, somet
hing deep and disturbingly addictive.

  A dog barks in the distance, and I hear a car door slam. It’s most likely my neighbors on the next block over, but my heart still jumps, my stomach churning as I picture a SWAT team busting through my door and gunning down Peter at my bedside. It plays like a movie in my mind: the black-clad figures rushing in, the bullets tearing through the bedsheets, the pillows, his chest, his skull…

  Bile surges up my throat, my head all but exploding with agony.

  Oh God, I can’t do it.

  I can’t stay quiet and let it happen.

  “Peter…” My voice trembles as I ball my hands under the blanket. I know I will regret this in a thousand different ways, but I can’t stop the words from spilling out. “You’ve been spotted. They’re coming for you.”

  His hand on my nape stills mid-stroke, then resumes its gentle massage.

  “I know, ptichka,” he murmurs, and I feel his lips brush against my wet cheek as something cold and hard pricks my neck. “I know they are.”

  Lethargy rushes through my veins, and with strange relief, I realize that this is it.

  He knew about the FBI all along.

  He knew, and I’ll never be free again.

  45

  Peter

  * * *

  “Hurry,” Anton hisses from the passenger-side front window as I approach the SUV, carrying Sara’s blanket-wrapped body against my chest. “Did you not get any of my messages? They’re less than ten blocks out.”

  I tighten my grip on my human bundle. “I couldn’t leave until I learned what I needed.”

  “What’s that?” Yan asks, opening the back door from the inside. He scoots over, and I climb in, being careful not to bump Sara’s head as I bring her into the car.

  It’s bad enough she had a headache when I drugged her.

  Ignoring Yan’s question, I settle Sara’s unconscious figure between us and shut the door before catching Ilya’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “To the airport. Make it fast.”