by Anna Zaires
Pushing the dangerous thought away, I rein in my unruly emotions and focus on the topic at hand. “But what exactly did the FBI say? And how did my parents respond to what they told them? They must’ve had a ton of questions—”
“They did, but all Ryson told them is that they’re looking for the man who’s with you, and they can’t disclose why. For the most part, he and the other agents questioned your parents, drilling them about the specifics of your phone call, whether you did or said anything unusual in the past few months, why you stopped the house sale, and so on.”
“Right.” Because they now suspect me. They think I’m having an affair with my husband’s murderer—which, in a way, I am. An unwilling affair, sure, but that doesn’t change the facts. I could’ve gone to the FBI at any time, explained the situation and asked for their protection, but instead, I convinced myself that it would be safer for my parents if I handled my lethal stalker on my own. And who knows? Maybe I was right. Given the authorities’ inability to protect the others on Peter’s list, he might’ve found me and my parents if we’d tried to disappear. And then more people could’ve gotten hurt—if not my family, then the agents assigned to protect us.
The three guards who watched over George did end up with bullets in their heads.
“Can I watch the video myself?” I ask, pushing away the awful recollection, and Peter nods.
“If you want. I’ll set it up for you on the TV later today.” He waves toward the large flatscreen hanging in the living room. “In the meantime, I have to catch up on some work, so feel free to walk around and explore.”
I blink, unable to believe it could be so easy. “Okay, I will,” I say, trying to conceal my excitement.
If I’m allowed to explore on my own, I can escape as soon as today.
Recalling my bare feet, I glance down and wiggle my toes. “Do you think I can borrow some shoes?” I ask as casually as I can.
“Yan is buying you everything today, but you can try wearing my sneakers for now. If you lace them tightly enough, they shouldn’t fall off.”
“All right, I’ll try that, thanks.” I slide off the barstool and hurry toward the stairs, anxious to get on with my exploration.
“Oh, and Sara?” Peter calls out when I’m almost by the staircase. When I turn to look at him, he says, “If you go outside, take Ilya with you. You don’t know the area, and there are cliffs everywhere. You don’t want to fall.”
And oblivious to my deflating excitement, he opens the laptop, his attention on the screen once more.
8
Sara
Bundled in Peter’s thick sweatshirt that goes down to my knees, and with my feet sliding around inside Peter’s giant sneakers, I step carefully through the woods, Ilya at my side. He’s talking to me, telling me something about local vegetation, but I only half-listen, focusing on memorizing the way to the trail I spotted to the west. It’s wide enough to let a vehicle through and appears to lead down the mountain.
“—but was blocked by the landslide,” Ilya rumbles, and I snap to attention, realizing he’s telling me something useful.
“A landslide?”
His shaved head bobs. “Yes, from the earthquake. It had a big impact here, completely changed this mountain.”
“Changed it how?” I ask, hugging myself to draw the sweatshirt closer to my body. It’s less windy here among the trees than by the house, but it’s still cold from the high elevation. We’ve been walking in wide circles around the house for almost an hour, and I’m ready to head back inside, where it’s warm.
With the Russian assassin dogging my heels, I won’t escape today anyway, and when I do, I’ll have to make sure I’m properly dressed.
“Other than blocking the road, you mean?” Ilya asks, and I nod, frowning. I hope he doesn’t mean the trail I just saw. So far, it’s the only thing I noticed that resembles a road. If it’s blocked, I’ll have to hike down through the woods—a much iffier proposition.
Ilya stops and points at a cliff on the opposite side of the lake below us. “See that? It was a gradual slope before. And there are many like that on this mountain too. Very dangerous. The forest goes right up to the edge of some of these cliffs, so if you don’t look where you’re going…”
“Right. Dangerous. Got it.” That only reinforces my conviction that I need to be well prepared before attempting my escape. The last thing I want is to fall off a cliff. I’ll have to take a couple of days to get to know the area, explore it some more so I can know where I’m going. Maybe find out more about this region and learn which way is the closest settlement or whichever place would let me call the U.S. Embassy.
Either way, I have to be smart about my escape, so I don’t lose what little freedom I possess.
By the time we return to the house, I’m shivering and the tips of my ears feel like icicles. Peter is nowhere to be seen, so I go upstairs and run a hot bath for myself, figuring that should warm me up.
The tall white tub is unusually shaped: square and narrow but deep, with a built-in step inside. I can’t lie down in it like in my oval tub at home, but I can sit on the step and have the water cover me up to my neck. It’s actually more comfortable this way, I decide, closing my eyes as the heat of the water seeps into me, chasing away the chill and the tension in my muscles. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe my current state as relaxed, but I’m definitely feeling better.
If I weren’t here against my will, I’d almost consider this a vacation.
“You like the Japanese tub?” a familiar deep voice murmurs behind me, and my eyes snap open as strong hands descend on my shoulders, massaging my slick skin. Instantly, my pulse jumps, the relaxed feeling giving way to the confusing mix of anger, longing, and fear that I always experience in Peter’s presence.
Twisting around, I wrap my arms around my torso as I pull out of his reach. He’s seen me naked a hundred times, but I’m still conflicted about this intimacy between us, still acutely aware of the sheer wrongness of it all. Because if our relationship was twisted before, it’s doubly so now that my stalker—the man who waterboarded me at our first meeting—is my captor.
I’m completely in his power, and we both know it.
He stands by the tall tub, his big, sun-bronzed hands resting on the porcelain edge. The sleeves of his thermal shirt are rolled up, exposing the tattoos decorating his left arm. The ink goes from the wrist all the way up to his shoulder, the intricate designs flexing with each ripple of his well-defined muscles. His thick dark hair is mussed, as if he just ran his fingers through it, and his hard jaw is shadowed by a hint of stubble.
He looks all kinds of dangerous, and so uncompromisingly male that my insides tighten. Sexy is too weak of a word to describe Peter Sokolov; what he possesses is pure animal magnetism, a raw, harshly masculine appeal that speaks to something disturbingly primitive within me.
With effort, I shut the mental door on that thought and scoot back as far as the tub allows. “Please go away. I’m bathing.”
“I can see that.” His gaze travels over my body before returning to my face, his metallic eyes dark with hunger. “So what?”
“So leave me alone.” I do my best to hold his stare without flinching. “Unless privacy isn’t something your prisoners are allowed?”
His eyes narrow, his fingers tightening on the edge of the tub. Silkily, he says, “My prisoners aren’t allowed many things, baths included. My woman, however, can do what she wants—as long as she understands one simple fact.”
“And what’s that?”
“That she’s mine.” He steps back, and before I can respond, he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor before taking off his socks. Then he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans.
I suck in a breath, my arms tightening around my breasts. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He pushes down his jeans and steps out of them, then does the same thing with his briefs, revealing a thick, hard cock that curves up to h
is ridged abdomen. The sight floods me with adrenaline even as unwelcome heat gathers between my legs.
I can’t do this with him. Not again.
“I’m not having sex with you.” Water sloshes over the rim of the tub as I stand, no longer caring that he’s seeing me naked.
I have to get out, get away.
Peter catches my arm before I can swing my leg over the rim, and then he steps into the tub, his big body crowding me in the small square space as he pulls me back down into the water. More water sloshes over the rim, displaced by his weight, and I gasp as I find myself ensconced on Peter’s lap, my back pressed against his chest and his erection nestled between my ass cheeks. Panicked, I begin struggling, and he loops an arm around my ribcage, holding me in place.
“Oh, ptichka…” His voice is gently mocking in my ear. “Who said anything about sex?”
His teeth graze over my earlobe, and his free hand cups my breast, his thumb stroking possessively over my hard, aching nipple. I freeze, clutching at the muscled band of his arm as my heart drums against my ribs. I’m not afraid of him as much as I’m terrified of my own reaction, of the way my body melts and softens at his touch. And this is so much more than touch. Peter’s cock is like a steel pole between my ass cheeks, his balls are pressing against my sex, and his thumb is torturing my nipple as his tongue invades my ear, making me shiver with helpless pleasure.
We might not be having sex by the strict definition of the word, but the net effect is just as devastating.
“Peter, please…” I resume struggling, desperate to get away before I lose sight of what matters. The water makes our bodies slippery, enhancing the erotic sensation of skin rubbing against skin as I tug futilely at his arm. “Please, stop.”
“Stop what?” His breath heats my neck as his hand leaves my breast and travels lower, to where my muscles are coiled tight, my flesh pulsing and aching for his touch. “This”—he licks the outer shell of my ear, sending goosebumps down my side—“or this?” His callus-roughened fingers part my folds and press against my clit as his middle finger dips into me, pushing in to the first knuckle. My nails dig into his forearm, my inner muscles clenching greedily at the shallow intrusion, and he chuckles as a faint moan escapes my lips. I want to tell him to stop all of it, but my mind goes blank as his fingers move farther back, past my sex. Oh, God, surely he’s not—
His finger finds the tight ring of muscle between my cheeks and presses on the tiny opening. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs, his voice dark and sinfully soft as I tense at the stinging pressure. “Maybe it’s this you want me to stop. Am I right, ptichka?” The pressure on my anus eases as his finger rubs the tightly clenched flesh, as if soothing the attempted violation. “Are you a virgin here, my love?”
The endearment confuses me nearly as much as the foreign sensations rocketing through my body. Something almost like sympathy warms his deep, crooning voice, yet I can hear the lust in it too, a hunger tinged with dark possessiveness. He likes it, the possibility that he’d be my first in this, and the knowledge intensifies the coiling tension inside me, the treacherous heat that thrums low in my core. I shouldn’t find this intriguing, shouldn’t want it in any way, but I can’t deny a certain perverse curiosity. At one point, when George and I were still dating, I brought up the idea of anal sex, but George seemed disinterested and we never discussed it again.
I am a virgin in this regard, but if I admit that to my captor, I probably won’t be for long.
Gathering the crumbling pieces of my willpower, I yank at his tormenting hand with all my strength. “Just stop.”
To my surprise, Peter complies, withdrawing his hand and lifting his other arm. “Go then.” His voice is tight. “Get out.”
I scramble out of the tub, my legs shaking. My wet feet slide on the cool tile as I rush out of the bathroom, barely pausing to grab a towel on the way, and it’s not until I’m standing in the bedroom, fully dressed and with the towel wrapped around my wet hair, that my heart slows its frantic beating.
He let me go. I should be glad for the reprieve, but I feel strangely unsettled, frustrated in more ways than one. Once again, my tormentor is pretending like I have a choice, like this is a normal relationship where I can say no. And maybe I can—for a while, at least. So far, he’s never physically forced me. But I don’t delude myself. He can do whatever he wants with me, and eventually, I will end up in his bed, either through more subtle forms of coercion or my own lack of willpower.
I’d almost rather he forced me—because then I could pretend too.
I could imagine I’m normal and sane, a woman who hates the man who ruined her life instead of craving him.
9
Peter
Sara avoids me until lunchtime, which is just as well. My self-control is fraying, the darkness clawing to the surface. I want to fuck her, and at the same time, I want to subjugate and punish her, make her understand that she is mine.
I want to take her to the edge and bring her over, no matter what it might do to her.
“Don’t do it, man,” Ilya says quietly as I finish slapping together Sara’s sandwich. He’s making his own sandwich next to me. “Whatever you’re thinking about, you’ll regret it.”
I bare my teeth in a humorless smile. “Really? You’re a fucking psychic now?”
“No, but I don’t think you’re thinking straight. She doesn’t deserve this.” He dips a butter knife into a jar of mayonnaise. “The least you can do is give her a little time.”
I picture grabbing the knife and crushing Ilya’s trachea with it. It’s too dull to slice his throat, but it would do a great job of choking him to death. Luckily for my teammate, he doesn’t say anything else, and I stride out of the kitchen with Sara’s plate.
I find her upstairs, going through a dresser in one of the empty guest bedrooms. Silently, I stop in the doorway and watch her, fascinated by the sight of her lithe, graceful body bending and twisting as she pulls out and closes the drawers one by one. There’s nothing in that dresser, but Sara doesn’t stop until she’s checked every drawer.
Only then does she turn around—and jump up with a startled gasp.
“Peter.” She presses her hand to her chest, as if her heart is in danger of bursting out. “I didn’t see you there.” Her voice is breathless, even as she makes a visible attempt to compose herself. “What are you—”
“I brought you lunch.” I step into the room, holding the plate. “I figured you must be hungry.” My tone is cool, unlike the fire raging in my blood. Just seeing her like this, still dressed in my overly large clothes, makes me want to pin her against the wall and fuck her so hard we’d both end up raw and bleeding.
Cautiously, she takes the plate from me and steps back, as if sensing the violence simmering within me. As she does so, she nervously bites her lower lip, and I picture myself doing the same, tearing the tender pink flesh with my teeth as I claim that soft mouth, tasting her, consuming her until I satisfy the lust scorching me alive.
“You’re not eating?” she asks warily, putting the plate on the dresser, and I shake my head, my eyes tracking her every move. I’m probably scaring her with the intensity of my stare, but I can’t help it. I feel like a predator on edge, the hunger inside me so savage and dark it barely resembles something as basic as a sexual urge. It’s more of a compulsive need to possess her, to bend her to my will and make her mine so completely she’d never think of looking for things to aid in her escape.
“I ate already,” I answer, and though my voice is slightly rough, it doesn’t reflect even a fraction of what I’m feeling. Rationally, I know that Ilya is right, that I have to give Sara time to adjust and accept her new life with me, but everything inside me demands that I grab her and make her admit she needs me… that despite everything, she loves me too.
I push the thought away, but not before it fills me with agonizing longing. Because that’s what it comes down to, what I want from her the most. Beyond the frustration of unfulfilled lust, beyond
the sting of her rejection, it’s that acute, irrational craving that tears me up inside and prods at the monster within me.
I want Sara to love me, and I don’t know how to make that happen.
“Okay. Um, thanks.” Her gaze flicks from me to the plate and then back to my face. “I’ll just bring it down when I finish then, right?”
That’s my cue to leave, but fuck that. She’s uncomfortable with me after what happened in the bathtub, and all of a sudden, I’m glad about that. Some sadistic part of me wants her to squirm, to wonder if I’m going to finally cross that line and claim her over her feigned objections.
“It’s all right.” My tone is exaggeratedly pleasant as I walk over to the bed in the middle of the room and sit down on the edge, crossing my legs at the ankles. “I can wait.”
Sara blinks, then appears to take herself in hand. “Really? You’re just going to sit there? Don’t you have something better to do, like torturing some innocents?”
“That’s on the schedule for later in the afternoon.” I give her a sharp smile. “For now, it’s just you.”
Her face tightens, but she reaches for the plate and picks up the sandwich. Biting into it, she chews and swallows way too quickly, then tears off another large chunk with her straight white teeth.
“Don’t choke,” I advise lightly when she further accelerates her pace on the third bite. “We don’t have a doctor on hand, you know. Well, except for you, but that wouldn’t help much if you’re the one turning purple.”
Sara’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t slow down. She demolishes the rest of the sandwich at the same furious pace, then picks up the empty plate and thrusts it toward me. “Here. I’m done.”
“Good. Now bring it here.” I pat the bed next to me.
Her jaw clenches; then an unexpectedly sweet smile curves her lips. “Oh, you want this plate over there?”