by Anna Zaires
“There,” he says, eyeing his handiwork with satisfaction. “That should suffice for the flight, and then I’ll get you a brand-new wardrobe.”
I close my eyes, shutting him out. I can’t bear to look at his exotically handsome features, can’t tolerate the warmth in those steel-gray eyes. It’s all a lie, an illusion. He doesn’t care for me, not really. Obsession is not love, and that’s what he feels for me: a dark, terrible obsession that ruins and destroys.
That has already destroyed my life in so many ways.
I hear him sigh before his big hands wrap around my cold palms.
“Sara…” His deep, softly accented voice feels like a caress over my skin. “We’ll make it work, ptichka, I promise. It won’t be as bad as you’re imagining. Now tell me… do you want to call your parents, explain everything to them?”
My parents? Startled, I open my eyes to gape at him. Then I realize he mentioned this before, only I didn’t register it. “You’re letting me call my parents?”
My captor nods, a small smile curving his sculpted lips as he remains crouched in front of me, his hands gently clasping mine. “Of course. I know you don’t want them to worry, with your dad’s heart and all.”
Oh God. My dad’s heart. My headache intensifies at the reminder. At eighty-seven, my dad is remarkably healthy for his age, but he had a triple bypass surgery a few years back and has to avoid stress. And I can’t imagine anything more stressful than— “Do you think the FBI spoke to them already?” I gasp in sudden horror. “Did they tell my parents I was kidnapped?”
“I doubt they would’ve had the time.” Peter squeezes my hands reassuringly, then releases them and rises to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a smartphone and hands it to me. “Call them, so you can give them your version of the story first.”
“My version of the story? And what version is that?” The phone feels like a brick in my hand, its weight magnified by the knowledge that if I say the wrong thing, I could literally kill my dad. “What can I tell them that will make this in any way okay?”
My tone is caustic, but my question is genuine. I can’t imagine what I can say to lessen my parents’ panic over my disappearance, how I can explain what the FBI is about to tell them—especially since I don’t know how much the agents will reveal.
The plane chooses that moment to hit a pocket of turbulence, and Peter sits down next to me. “Tell them you met a man… a man you fell in love with.” He covers my knee with his warm palm, his metallic gaze mesmerizing in its intensity. “Tell them that for the first time in your life, you decided to do something crazy and irresponsible. That you’re fine, but for the next few weeks, you’ll be traveling around the world with your lover.”
“The next few weeks?” A wild hope blooms inside me. “Are you saying that—”
“No. You won’t be back in a few weeks. But they don’t need to know that yet.”
The hope withers and dies, the crushing despair returning. “I’ll never see them again, will I?”
“You will.” His hand squeezes my knee. “At some point, when it’s safe.”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”
“We?” A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Are you under the impression that this is some kind of partnership? That we kidnapped me together?”
Peter’s gaze hardens. “It can be a partnership, Sara. If you want it to be.”
“Oh, really?” I push his hand off my knee. “Then turn this fucking plane around, partner. I want to go home.”
“That’s impossible, and you know that.” His bristle-darkened jaw flexes.
“Is it? Why? Because you love to fuck me? Or because you fucking love me?” My voice rises as I jump to my feet, hands balled at my sides. I can see his men in the seats behind us, their faces stony as they stare out the window, pretending not to listen, but I don’t care. I’m past embarrassment, past shame; all I feel is rage.
I’ve never wanted to hurt a living person as much as I want to hurt Peter at this moment.
My tormentor’s gaze is dark, his expression hard as he stands up. “Sit down, Sara,” he says harshly, reaching for me as the plane hits another bump and I grab at the window wall to steady myself. “It’s not safe.” He takes my arm to force me back into the seat, and my other hand acts of its own accord.
With the phone still clutched in my fist, I take a swing at him—and don’t miss, because at that moment, the plane dips again, throwing us both off-balance. With an audible thud, the phone crashes into Peter’s face, the impact of the hit jarring my bones and snapping his head to the side.
I don’t know who’s more shocked that I managed to land a blow, me or Peter’s men.
I can see their incredulous stares as Peter slowly, and very deliberately, releases my arm and wipes at the blood trickling down his cheekbone. The metal shell of the phone must’ve cut his skin; that, or the unexpected turbulence lent momentum to my blow, intensifying the force behind it.
His eyes meet mine, and my heart jumps into my throat at the icy rage shimmering in the silvery depths. Warily, I back away, the phone slipping out of my numb fingers to hit the floor with a metallic thunk.
I haven’t forgotten what Peter is capable of, what he did to me when we first met.
I can only take two steps before my back presses against the wall of the pilot’s cabin, ending my retreat. I have nowhere to run on this plane, no place to hide, and fear tightens my stomach as he steps closer, his furious gaze holding mine captive as he braces his palms on the wall on both sides of me, caging me between his muscular arms.
“I…” I should say that I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean it, but I can’t bring myself to voice the lie, so I clamp my lips shut before I can make it worse by telling him how much I hate him.
“You what?” His voice is low and hard. Leaning in, he bends his head until his lips graze the top of my ear. “You what, Sara?”
I shiver at the damp heat of his breath, my knees going weak and my pulse accelerating further. Only this time, it’s not entirely from fear. Despite everything, his nearness wreaks havoc on my senses, my body quivering in anticipation of his touch. Only hours ago, he was inside me, and I still feel the aftermath of his possession, the inner soreness from the hard rhythm of his thrusts. At the same time, I’m painfully aware of my hardened nipples poking through the borrowed T-shirt and the warm slickness gathering between my legs.
Even clothed, I feel naked in his arms.
He lifts his head, staring down at me, and I know he feels it too, the magnetic heat, the dark connection that vibrates the air around us, intensifying each moment until milliseconds feel like hours. Peter’s men are less than a dozen feet away, watching us, but it feels like we’re all alone, wrapped in a bubble of sensual need and volatile tension. My mouth is dry, my body pulsing with awareness, and it’s all I can do not to sway toward him, to remain still instead of pressing against him and giving in to the desire burning me up inside.
“Ptichka…” Peter’s voice softens, taking on an intimate edge as the ice in his gaze melts. His hand leaves the wall to cup my cheek, the rough pad of his thumb stroking over my lips and making my breath catch in my throat. At the same time, his other hand clasps my elbow, his grip gentle but inescapable. “Come, let’s sit down,” he urges, pulling me away from the wall. “It’s not safe to be up and about like this.”
Dazed, I let him shepherd me back to the seat. I know I should continue fighting, or at least put up some resistance, but the anger that filled me is gone, leaving numbness and despair in its wake.
Even after what he did, I crave him. I want him just as much as I hate him.
My sock-clad feet are chilled from walking on the cold floor, and I’m grateful when Peter grabs the blanket from the table and tucks it around my legs before sitting down next to me. He pulls the seatbelt over me, buckling me in, and I close my eyes, not wanting to see the warmth that now fills his gaze.
As frightening as the darker side of Peter is, the man who’s doing this—the tender, caring lover—is the one who terrifies me most.
I can resist the monster, but the man is a different story.
Warm fingers brush across my hand, and cold metal presses into my palm. Startled, I open my eyes and look at the phone Peter just handed to me.
He must’ve picked it up from where I dropped it.
“If you want to call your parents, you might want to do so now,” he says softly. “Before they hear anything on their own.”
I swallow, staring at the phone in my hand. Peter is right; there’s no time to waste. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my parents, but anything is better than what the FBI agents are likely to say.
“How do I call?” I glance at Peter. “Is there some special code or anything I need to use?”
“No. All my calls are automatically encoded. Just put in their number as usual.”
I take a deep breath and punch in my mom’s cell. She’s more likely to panic at getting a call in the middle of the night, but she’s nine years younger than my dad and has no known heart problems. Holding the phone up to my ear, I turn away from Peter and watch the night sky through the window as I wait for the call to connect.
It rings a dozen times before going to voicemail.
Mom must be sleeping too deeply to hear it, or else she has the phone turned off for the night.
Frustrated, I try again.
“Hello?” Mom’s voice is sleepy and disgruntled. “Who is this?”
I exhale in relief. It doesn’t sound like the FBI got to them yet; if they had, Mom wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me, Sara.”
“Sara?” Mom instantly sounds more alert. “What’s wrong? Where are you calling from? Did something happen?”
“No, no. Everything is fine. I’m perfectly fine.” I take a breath, my mind racing as I try to come up with the least worrisome story. At some point soon, the FBI will contact my parents, and my story will be exposed for a lie. However, the very fact that I called and told such a story should reassure my parents that, at the time of the call at least, I was alive and well, lessening the impact of whatever the agents will tell them.
Steadying my voice, I say, “Sorry to call so late, Mom, but I’m going on a last-minute trip, and I wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t worry.”
“A trip?” Mom sounds confused. “Where? Why?”
“Well…” I hesitate and then decide to go with Peter’s suggestion. This way, when my parents learn of the kidnapping, they might think I went with Peter of my own free will. What the FBI will think is another matter, but I’ll save that worry for a different day. “I met someone. A man.”
“A man?”
“Yes, I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t know that much about him, and I wasn’t sure how serious it was.” I can sense Mom is about to launch into an interrogation, so I quickly say, “In any case, he had to go out of the country unexpectedly, and he invited me to come along. I know it’s completely crazy, but I needed to get away—you know, from everything—and this seemed as good of an opportunity as any. We’re going to be traveling the world together for a few weeks, so—”
“What?” Mom’s voice rises in pitch. “Sara, that’s—”
“Insane? I know.” I grimace, grateful she can’t see my pained expression. Between lying to her and the continued headache, I feel like absolute shit. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want you to worry, but it’s something I had to do. I hope you and Dad understand.”
“Wait a minute. Who is this man? What is his name? What does he do? Where did you meet?” She fires off each question like a bullet.
I turn to look at Peter, and he gives me a small nod, his face impassive. I don’t know if he can hear my conversation, but I interpret that nod to mean I can tell my parents a few more details.
“His name is Peter,” I say, deciding to stay as close to the truth as possible. “He’s a contractor of sorts, works mostly abroad. We met when he was in the Chicago area, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. I wanted to tell you about him at our sushi lunch, but it didn’t seem like the right time.”
“Okay, but… but what about your work? And the clinic?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll get it all settled, don’t worry.” I won’t, of course—this kind of bullshit won’t fly with my hospital-based practice even if Peter lets me call them—but I can’t tell Mom that without making her worry prematurely. She’ll have a panic attack soon enough, when the agents show up on her doorstep. Until then, she and Dad might as well think I’ve gone crazy.
A daughter belatedly acting out is infinitely better than a daughter kidnapped by her husband’s killer.
“Sara, darling…” Mom sounds worried regardless. “Are you sure about this? I mean, you said yourself you don’t know much about this man, and now you’re leaving the country with him? This is not like you at all. You didn’t even tell me where you’re going. Are you flying or driving? And what is this number you’re calling from? It’s showing up as blocked, and the reception is all weird, like you’re—”
“Mom.” I rub my forehead, my headache worsening. I can’t answer any more of her questions, so I say, “Listen, I have to go. Our plane is about to take off. I just wanted to give you a quick update so you wouldn’t worry, okay? I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”
“But, Sara—”
“Bye, Mom. Talk to you soon!”
I hang up before she can say anything else, and Peter takes the phone from me, his mouth curved in an approving smile.
“Good job. You have a real talent for this.”
“For lying to my parents about getting kidnapped? Yes, a real talent, for sure.” Bitterness drips from my words, and I don’t bother toning it down. I’m done being nice and agreeable.
We’re no longer playing that game.
Peter doesn’t appear fazed. “You told them something that will allay the worst of their worry. I don’t know how much the Feds will disclose, but this should reassure your parents that you’re alive and well as of today. Hopefully, it will be enough until you contact them again.”
That was my thought process as well, and it bothers me that we’re on the same wavelength. It’s a small thing, reasoning alike in this one instance, but it feels like a slippery slope, like a step toward that partnership Peter mentioned. Toward the illusion that there is a “we,” that our relationship is in any way genuine.
I can’t—I won’t—fall for that lie again. I’m not Peter’s partner, his girlfriend, or his lover.
I’m his captive, the widow of a man he killed to avenge his family, and I can’t ever forget that fact.
Fighting to keep my voice even, I ask, “So I will have a chance to contact them again?” At Peter’s affirmative nod, I press, “When?”
His gray eyes gleam. “Once they hear from the FBI and have a chance to digest everything. So in other words, soon.”
“How will you know whether they hear from—? Oh, never mind. You’re watching my parents too, aren’t you?”
“I’m monitoring their house, yes.” He doesn’t look the least bit ashamed. “So we’ll know what the agents tell them and when. Then we’ll figure out what you should say and how to contact them again.”
I press my lips together. There’s that insidious “we” again. As if this is a joint project, like interior decorating or choosing a bottle of wine for a family gathering. Does he expect me to be grateful for this? To thank him for being so nice and thoughtful with the logistics of my kidnapping?
Does he think that if he lets me alleviate my parents’ worry, I’ll forget that he stole my life?
Gritting my teeth, I turn away to stare out the window, then realize I still don’t know the answer to one of my mom’s questions.
Turning back to face my kidnapper, I meet his coolly amused gaze. “Where are we going?” I ask,
forcing myself to speak calmly. “Where exactly are we going to be figuring all this out from?”
Peter grins, revealing white teeth that are slightly crooked on the bottom. Between that and the small scar on his lower lip, his smile should’ve been off-putting, but the imperfections only highlight its dangerously sensual appeal.
“We are going to be figuring it out from Japan, ptichka,” he says and reaches across the table to gather my hand in his big palm. “The Land of the Rising Sun is our new home.”
3
Sara
I don’t speak to Peter for the rest of the flight. Instead, I pass out, my brain turning off as though to escape reality. I’m grateful for that. The headache is relentless, the drummers beating inside my skull every time I try to open my eyes, and it’s only when we start our descent that I wake up enough to drag myself to the restroom.
When I return, I find Peter in the seat next to mine, working on a laptop. I think he might’ve been there throughout the flight, but I’m not sure. I do remember falling asleep while he held my hand, his strong fingers massaging my palm, and I recall him tucking the blanket around me at some point when the cabin got extra chilly.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, looking up from the laptop as I step around him and sit down in my plush leather seat. Now that the initial shock of the abduction has passed, I realize the jet is quite luxurious, though not very big. Toward the back of the plane, there are two more rows of seats besides ours, each seat big and fully reclining, and in the middle is a beige leather couch with two end tables attached to it.
“Sara,” Peter prompts when I don’t answer, and I shrug in response, not inclined to soothe his conscience by admitting that I feel better after my long nap. The effects of the drug must’ve fully worn off, because the nausea and the headache that tormented me are gone.
I am hungry and thirsty, though, so I reach for the bottle of water and the bowl of peanuts sitting on the small table between our seats.
“We’ll have a real meal soon,” Peter says, pushing the bowl toward me. “We weren’t expecting to leave the country so suddenly, and this is all we had on board.”