Obsession Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 2)

by Anna Zaires

  “You know this had to happen, right?” my friend continues, as though oblivious to the rage simmering in my gut. “That suburban bullshit couldn’t continue forever. It’s a miracle they didn’t bust us sooner. If you want this girl long term—and you do, right?—this is the only way.”

  I clench my jaw so hard my molars ache. “Drop it, Anton. This is none of your fucking business.”

  “All right. Just reminding you of the facts. I know it sucks that she’s upset and all, but—” He stops, apparently realizing I’m half a second away from kicking his teeth in. Taking out his Swiss army knife, he slices through a netted bag of oranges and puts the fruit into a big wooden bowl on the counter. Then, eyeing the carton of eggs with interest, he asks, “What’s for breakfast?”

  “For you? Not a thing.” I crack five eggs into a mixing bowl, pour in a little milk, and add seasoning before stirring. “You and the twins can fend for yourself.”

  “That’s harsh, man,” Yan says, entering the kitchen. He’s carrying a huge box filled with more fruits and veggies, as well as bread and frozen meat—food supplies that our local contact loaded onto the chopper before sending it our way.

  “Ilya and I are starving, and you like to cook,” Yan continues when I don’t respond. “How hard is it to make some extra? I promise, I will keep my mouth shut about your pretty doctor.”

  Fighting the urge to snap at him, I crack a dozen more eggs into the bowl. I don’t usually feed the guys, but Yan is right: it would be petty to deprive my team of a good breakfast after such a long trip.

  I just need them to shut up about Sara, because if I hear one more word on the topic, I’ll rip their fucking heads off.

  Wisely, both Yan and Anton remain silent, unpacking the rest of the food as I cook the omelet, and by the time, Ilya walks in, I’m almost calm—if one doesn’t count the sporadic urge to put my fist through the white quartz countertop.

  Ilya sits down on one of the stainless-steel barstools and opens his laptop, reminding me that we have issues besides Sara to worry about.

  “What did the hackers say?” I ask when I see him frowning at the screen. “Any leads on that ublyudok?”

  “Nope.” Ilya’s face is grim as he looks up. “No credit card transactions, no attempts to contact any friends or relatives, nothing. The fucker is good.”

  My hand tightens on the handle of the frying pan, my fury returning. The last name on my list—one Walton Henderson III, aka Wally, of Asheville, North Carolina—is the general who was in charge of the NATO operation that went sideways and resulted in the deaths of my wife and son. It was he who gave the order to act without verifying the validity of the supposed lead on the terrorist group, and it was he who authorized the soldiers to use whatever force was necessary to contain “the terrorists.”

  I already killed all the soldiers and intelligence operatives involved in the Daryevo massacre, but Henderson—the one who has the most to answer for—is still at large, having disappeared with his wife and children as soon as rumors of my target list reached the intelligence community.

  “Tell the hackers to do a deep dive on all his friends and relatives, no matter how distant the connection,” I say as Yan walks over to sit down on the barstool next to his brother. “They should look for anything out of the norm, like large cash withdrawals, purchases of extra phones, out-of-town trips, property acquisitions or vacation rentals, anything and everything that could indicate they’re in league with that bastard. Someone has to know where Henderson went, and my bet is on some random cousin. If in a few months, there’s still nothing, we might need to start making in-person visits to Henderson’s connections, flush him out that way if need be.”

  “You got it,” Ilya says, his thick fingers flying over the keyboard with surprising agility and grace. “It’ll cost us, but I think you’re right. People have trouble breaking ties completely.”

  “Yan, do we have those camera recordings?” I ask when the other twin opens his own laptop. “The ones from Sara’s parents’ house? We need to see if the Feds spoke to them yet.”

  “Downloading them now,” he responds without looking up from the screen. “This satellite connection is slow as fuck. Says it’s going to take forty minutes to get the files off the cloud.”

  “All right, then let’s eat first,” I say, turning off the stove. “Anton, can you set the table for the five of us? I’m going to go get Sara.”

  My men keep their silence as I head toward the stairs, but when I’m halfway up the steps, I see Yan lean toward Ilya, whispering something in his ear.

  Sara is just emerging from the bathroom when I enter the room, her slim torso wrapped in a big white towel and her wet hair confined in a crooked bun on top of her head. Her pale skin is flushed, likely from the heat of the water, and her thick-lashed hazel eyes are red and swollen from crying.

  She should’ve looked pathetic, but she looks heartbreakingly beautiful instead, like a Disney princess down on her luck. Maybe the one from Beauty and the Beast, though I’m not sure I qualify as the Beast in that tale.

  Belle didn’t hate her captor nearly as much as Sara seems to hate me.

  “Breakfast is ready,” I say coldly, trying not to think about her earlier revelation. Knowing that Sara warned me to save my life shouldn’t bother me—after all, that’s confirmation that she doesn’t wish me dead—yet her words felt like a red-hot poker tearing through my chest. I suppose it’s because I convinced myself that she wanted to come along, that when she begged me to let her go, it was just cold feet.

  It hurt because I deluded myself into believing that one day, she’ll love me too.

  “Thanks. I’ll be right down.” She doesn’t look at me as she says this, just goes into the closet and emerges a minute later holding one of my long-sleeved flannel shirts and a pair of sweatpants.

  “Do you mind?” she says, setting the clothes on the bed, and I fold my arms across my chest, realizing she wants me to turn away while she’s changing.

  “No, not at all. Go right ahead.”

  She glances up at me. “I meant that—”

  “I know what you meant.” I keep my face impassive, even as anger continues to roil my insides. If she thinks I’m going to let her treat me like a stranger, she’s sorely mistaken. She might not love me, but she’s mine, and I’m not about to pretend I’ve never felt her orgasm on my cock. If there’s one thing we’ve always had, it’s this connection of the flesh, a mutual craving so intense it supersedes simple lust. I want Sara as I’ve never wanted another woman, and I know she’s not indifferent to me.

  She wants me, and I won’t let her deny it.

  The flush on Sara’s face deepens, her knuckles whitening as she picks up the pants. “Fine.” Glaring at me, she plops down on the bed and pulls the pants on with jerky movements, keeping the towel knotted around her chest until she’s got the pants pulled up to her waist and the pant legs rolled up. Then she stands and drops the towel. I catch a glimpse of gorgeous pink-tipped breasts as she pulls on the shirt with angry movements, and my cock stiffens in response, my body reacting to the sight of her nakedness with predictable swiftness.

  “Happy now?” She yanks at the drawstring in the waistband of the pants, tying it tightly to keep them from falling down to her ankles, and despite my dark mood, I can’t help thinking how adorable she looks in my clothes.

  If Anton’s jeans and T-shirt were big on her, my sweatpants and flannel shirt are huge. I’m a few centimeters taller and broader than my friend, and these clothes are meant to be loose on me. My young doctor looks like a kid trying on adult clothes—an impression further enhanced by her small bare feet and messy hair.

  Unable to help myself, I take a swift step forward, clasp her wrist, and draw her against me, ignoring the angry stiffness in her body as I mold her hips against mine. With my free hand, I gather her damp topknot in my fist, tilting her head back, and then I lower my head and kiss her.

  Her mouth is sweet and faintly minty, lik
e she just brushed her teeth. Her lips part on a startled gasp, and I inhale her warm breath, possessing her air like I want to possess everything about her. I want her body and her mind, her fury and her joy. And most of all, I want her love, the one thing she may never give me.

  My tongue invades her mouth, stroking the wet, silky depths, and her fingers dig into my sides under the jacket, her nails sharp through the cotton layer of my shirt. The tiny bite of pain jolts my nerve endings, sending more blood surging to my cock, and my balls tighten, the urge to fuck her so intense I almost tumble her to the bed and pull down those ridiculously baggy sweatpants. Only the knowledge that my men are waiting downstairs stops me from doing so.

  I want her too much for a two-minute quickie.

  With superhuman effort, I release her and step back, breathing harshly. Sara looks the same way I feel, her eyes heavy-lidded and her face flushed as she dazedly gulps in air.

  “Go down before the eggs get cold,” I say in a strained voice, unzipping my jeans to adjust the painful pressure in my pants. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She turns and flees before I finish speaking, and I close my eyes, taking deep breaths and thinking of Siberian winters to make my hard-on subside.

  7

  Sara

  When I get downstairs, Peter’s teammates are already sitting at the rectangular wooden table, their eyes fixed longingly on the large frying pan sitting in the middle. One of them—the one dressed all in black, with shoulder-length hair and a thick dark beard—looks up as I approach.

  “Where is Peter?” he asks, frowning. His Russian accent is only slightly more pronounced than Peter’s. “Food is getting cold.”

  “He’s coming,” I say, the heat in my cheeks intensifying as the bearded man’s eyebrows crawl up. He can probably tell what happened upstairs by my swollen lips, if not my shaky inner state. My knees were literally trembling as I walked down the steps, and I’m grateful that Peter’s shirt is loose and thick, concealing the hard points of my nipples.

  If my kidnapper had chosen to fuck me, I wouldn’t have been able to say no, and the knowledge fills me with burning shame.

  “Anton, you’re being rude,” a tall, brown-haired man says with a smooth smile. Unlike his bearded colleague, who could’ve stepped straight out of an action flick about assassins, this guy wouldn’t look out of place in a law firm. His short brown hair is fashionably cut, his face is clean-shaven, and I’d bet a hundred bucks that his subtly striped button-up shirt and gray dress slacks are custom made. Only his cool green eyes bely the neat corporate image; they’re hard and emotionless, untouched by the smile that curves his lips.

  “You forgot to introduce yourself,” the well-dressed man continues, speaking to Anton with a similarly slight accent. Turning toward me, he gestures at his bearded friend and says, “Sara, meet Anton Rezov. He used to fly anything with a motor at our old job, and he’s still occasionally useful now. And I’m Yan Ivanov. Oh, and this is my brother, Ilya.”

  I turn my attention to the third guy, Yan’s brother, and realize he’s the one who spoke to me earlier, explaining why this place makes a good hideout. He looks the scariest of them all, with a thick bodybuilder-like torso, a shaved skull covered by tattoos, and an oversize jaw that makes me think of a gorilla. But when he smiles at me, the corners of his green eyes crinkle, softening the harshness of his features.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cobakis,” he says with a slightly thicker accent and gets up to pull out a chair for me.

  “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too,” I say, sitting down in the chair. I should hate each of these men—after all, they’re accessories to my kidnapping and the murder of my husband—but something about the Russian’s genuine smile and the respectful way he addressed me makes it impossible to turn my anger on him.

  I’ll reserve it all for the man who’s coming down the stairs at this very moment, his handsome face dark and closed off.

  “Finally,” Anton says with relish when Peter reaches the table and takes a seat next to me. Reaching for the pan in the center of the table, Anton cuts out a chunk of the omelet and puts it onto his plate. “I’m so ready to eat.”

  “Help yourself.” Peter’s voice is filled with sarcasm that seems to go over Anton’s head. The Ivanov brothers display better table manners, waiting until Peter puts a portion onto my plate and then his own before splitting up the remainder.

  We eat in silence, demolishing the omelet in a matter of minutes, and then Peter gets up and slices up a few oranges. “Dessert?” he asks tersely, and the guys eagerly jump on the offer. I don’t say anything, but Peter brings me a bowl with a sliced-up orange anyway.

  “Thanks,” I say quietly. Even in this fucked-up situation, the rules of politeness drummed into me since childhood are hard to break. Reaching into the bowl, I fish out a slice of orange and bite into it, relishing the sweet, refreshing juiciness. I must’ve had low blood sugar on top of everything else, because now that I’ve eaten, I’m feeling a tiny bit better, the hollow feeling of despair dissipating enough to let me think.

  Yes, at first glance, my situation is not the best. As we were flying in, I didn’t see anything resembling civilization in the immediate vicinity of this mountain, just cliffs and thick forests, with snow still covering some of the mountaintops nearby. Even if I manage to escape from the four assassins, hiking out of here won’t be easy. I’ve gone camping exactly once in my life, and I’m far from a wilderness expert. Not to mention, if I do reach some farm or village nearby, I’ll still face the challenge of communicating my situation to people who might not speak a word of English.

  However, it’s not as hopeless as it could be. It sounds like Peter intends to let me contact my parents soon, and there’s a chance I might be able to communicate my location to them—and thus to the FBI. Also, I’m not tied up or otherwise restrained. From what I can tell, I have the freedom to roam around the house, which increases my odds of escape. If I’m smart and careful, I might even be able to steal some water and supplies, in case my mountain hike takes a couple of days.

  All is not lost. One way or another, I will fix my mistake and return home.

  In the meantime, I have to make sure I don’t make things worse by doing something stupid… like falling in love with my captor.

  After breakfast, I go up to the bedroom and promptly fall asleep, the time change combined with a food coma making me drowsy despite my long nap on the plane. I wake up when I hear the chopper start, and through the giant window, I see it take off from the helipad next to the house.

  A supply run? A work mission? I have no idea, but if Peter is gone with the chopper, that can only be a good thing.

  Unfortunately, I see him downstairs when I come down a few minutes later, having splashed some water on my face in order to fully wake up. He’s sitting on a barstool behind the kitchen counter, frowning at something on a laptop screen. As I approach, I see headphones in his ears.

  He’s listening to something on the computer.

  Noticing me, he takes out the earbuds and presses a button on the keyboard—probably to pause whatever he was listening to.

  “Is that the camera feed from my parents’ house?” I ask, and my heartbeat kicks up as Peter nods.

  “Yes. The FBI visited them.” His expression is carefully neutral.

  “And?” I sit down on a barstool next to him, my shoulders tensing. “What did they tell them?”

  “It’s… interesting.” Peter’s eyes gleam as he turns to face me. “Looks like the story we gave your parents is consistent with the Feds’ suspicions.”

  I stare at him, my pulse accelerating further. “They think I voluntarily went with you?”

  He closes the laptop. “That seems to be the assumption they’re operating under, especially now that your parents told them about your phone call. But I think Ryson suspected your involvement with me before that, probably because you didn’t tell Karen about me in the locker room.”

  My hands
knot together on my lap. This is both good and bad. I don’t want the FBI to think I’m in cahoots with one of their most wanted, but at the same time, I’m relieved. This is infinitely better than my family believing I’ve been abducted. “So how did my parents react? Were they worried? Upset? Was my dad—”

  “They took it well.” The hard line of Peter’s jaw softens a little. “They’re obviously shocked and disturbed that you’re involved with someone unsavory, but Ryson was very close-mouthed about who I am and why they’re after me. I think he’s worried about the story leaking out to the media.”

  That makes sense. The FBI, or the CIA, or whoever had concocted the lie about the mafia being after my husband—they wouldn’t want to expose what really happened in Daryevo. If Peter is right about the mistake that led to his family’s massacre, the parties involved would fight tooth and nail to keep the truth from getting out.

  The public tends to frown on the slaughter of innocent civilians.

  “So my dad is okay?” I press, pushing aside the memory of the horrifying pictures on Peter’s phone. “He didn’t look sick or anything?”

  “Both of your parents looked fine, perfectly healthy.” Peter’s expression warms further as his palms cover my tightly clenched hands. “They’ll be okay, ptichka. They’re strong, like you. And you’ll be able to contact them soon. Anton and Yan just left on a supply run, and when they return, we’ll have what we need to set up a secure connection. You’ll talk to your parents, reassure them, and they’ll be okay.” He squeezes my hands gently. “Everything will be okay.”

  I pull my hands away, my eyes prickling with a sudden onslaught of emotion. This, right here, is what makes things so confusing. A man who abducts you isn’t supposed to care about your family, much less give a damn about your feelings. What Peter did to me—everything he did to me—are the actions of a cruel, selfish monster, yet when he’s with me, looking at me like this, it’s easy to believe that he loves me, that in his own strange, overpowering way, he wants to make me happy.