by Anna Zaires
Her eyes telegraph her intent half a second before her arm swings back, and I duck as the plate hits the wall directly behind me, shattering into a thousand pieces. Shards of ceramic rain onto the bed around me, mixing with crumbs of bread.
As if realizing what she’s done, Sara inches to the left, toward the door, her eyes locked on me with the same wary expression she wore after she slapped me. I forgave her then, because I knew she was shocked and overwhelmed, but I’m not going to put up with this any longer.
If Sara wants to make me into a villain, I’m happy to oblige.
“You will clean this up.” My voice is ice hard as I rise to my feet, brushing shards of broken plate off my sleeves. “This room is going to be perfectly clean again, do you understand me?”
She stares at me, defiance warring with self-preservation in her gaze. Common sense tells her to back down and do as I say, but she doesn’t want to give in too easily. Sure enough, her chin comes up. “Or what? Are you going to waterboard me? Threaten me with a knife? Kidnap me? Oh, wait, you’ve already done all that.”
Despite the bravado of her words, her hands visibly tremble as she stuffs them into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. If I were a better man, I’d back off at this point, let her have this small victory. But she’s not the only one angry today; the rage inside me feels like a living beast, dark and potent, fueled by her rejection and the knowledge that I may never get what I truly want from her.
If I can’t have her love, I’ll settle for her hate.
“Oh, ptichka…” I come toward her, enjoying the glimmer of fear in her eyes as she instinctively moves toward the door. Before she can take more than a step, I stop in front of her, cutting off her retreat. Lifting my hand, I brush her hair back from her face and lean in, inhaling her sweet scent as I dip my head and murmur into her ear, “Haven’t you learned not to play these games with me?”
I hear her swallow, and when I raise my head to look down at her, I see that her chest is rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. She’s scared, my Sara, and for a good reason.
Even I’m not sure how far I’ll go today.
Her lips part, as if to offer a rebuttal, and I bend my head again, possessing that soft, quivering mouth with all the violent hunger she arouses in me. My hands slide into her hair, holding her head still, and I swallow her protesting gasp as her arms come up, her slender fingers curling around my wrists in a futile effort to tug them away.
As usual, she’s delicious, the inside of her mouth like warm wet silk. Her slender body arches against me as I back her up against the dresser, grinding my erection against her flat stomach, and her plush breasts press against me, her nipples pinched into hard little peaks. I can hear her breathing quicken, and I know that if I were to slide my hand into her pants, I’d feel her growing slick for me, wanting me.
Her body, at least, is drawn to me.
It takes all my willpower to lift my head and step back, to release her instead of devouring her on the spot. But I do—because we need to settle this once and for all.
“You want to know what else I can do to you, ptichka?” My words come out low and hoarse, coated with the lust and anger incinerating my insides. “You want to know what will happen if you push me too far?”
Sara’s eyes are wide, her chest heaving as she attempts to catch her breath, and I step closer again, capturing her delicate face between my palms as I gaze down at her. “You want me to explain to you the reality of your situation?” I continue.
She swallows again, and I feel the tremor in her hands as she grips my forearms. “Y-yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but there’s still a hint of defiance in her hazel gaze. “Yes, I do.”
My lips curve, and even I can feel the darkness in that smile. “Oh, ptichka, where should I begin?”
10
Sara
Caught. Trapped.
Even as I hold Peter’s gaze, resisting the urge to look away from the hypnotic silver depths, I can feel my strength fraying, my resolve to fight depleting. I’ve never felt more his prisoner than I do at this moment, have never been so acutely aware of my vulnerability. He’s not hurting me, his big palms cradling my face with exquisite gentleness, but those metallic eyes tell a different story.
I’m at my tormentor’s mercy, and he has none to spare.
“Let’s start with the basics,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes as he lowers his head, brushing his lips across my forehead before raising his head to look at me again. Under normal circumstances, the tender kiss would be disarming, but my nerves vibrate like a finely tuned fork as he lowers his hands to my shoulders and says softly, “Your old life is gone, Sara. I let you live it as long as I could, but it’s over now. You’re going to have to accept that. And the transition can be easy for you… or hard. It’s up to you.”
My pulse jumps violently. “What do you mean?”
“Tonight’s phone call with your parents, for instance.” His hands are gentle on my shoulders, even as his eyes gleam darkly. “It doesn’t have to happen, you know. Nor does any further contact with anyone from your old life. You could just disappear, make a clean break. That might be even better in some ways. You’d adapt faster if you didn’t have constant reminders of what you lost, and—”
“No.” The word bursts out of me as my stomach twists in panic, the sandwich I just ate threatening to come back up as I imploringly grip his shirt. “Please, Peter, don’t do this. I have to talk to my parents. I have to reassure them. They’re too old to worry like this. My dad’s heart can’t take it—you know that.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Do I? I let you speak to them on the plane, and maybe that was a mistake. You insist I kidnapped you, took you against your will. If that’s the case—if you’re my captive and nothing more—why should I take the risk of letting you contact anyone? If you’re just my prisoner, why would I go to the trouble and expense of reassuring your family?”
I stare up at him, my breathing shallow as my hands fall limply to my sides. I understand what he wants now—what he’s always wanted from me—and I know that once more, I have no choice but to comply.
“You said—” My voice breaks as acidic tears burn the back of my eyes. “You said that I’m your woman, that you love me. So I’m not just your prisoner, right?”
Peter’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know, Sara. That’s up to you.” He releases my shoulders and steps back. “I will let you think about it as you clean up. The vacuum and the cleaning supplies are in the pantry downstairs.”
And turning, he leaves the room.
The guest room is spotless by the time I’m done with it, the bed perfectly made up and clear of the tiniest bits of crumbs and broken ceramic. Housework is not something I enjoy, partially because it takes me forever due to my perfectionist tendencies, but the end result is usually a good one.
In another life, I would’ve made a decent housewife.
When I’m satisfied with the cleanliness of the room, I bring the vacuum downstairs and go looking for Peter. It’s strange, but I feel a bit calmer after his ultimatum. We’re back to where we were when his threat to kidnap me was hanging over my head, except it’s even simpler now.
No matter what Peter says, I am his prisoner, and I only have one choice.
Play along and give him what he wants until I can escape.
I find my captor outside, sparring with Ilya on a small clearing near the house. Despite the chilly weather, both men are shirtless, their broad, muscular torsos gleaming with sweat as they circle around the clearing, occasionally lashing out at each other with a lightning-fast strike. Their movements remind me of martial arts, though I can’t pinpoint any specific style. Whatever it is, though, it’s savagely beautiful, and I stop, mesmerized despite myself as Peter ducks under Ilya’s swinging fist and launches a furious counterattack, moving so fast I can barely follow with my eyes.
They must’ve been just warming up before, because what follows is a blur of nonstop
action. I’m pretty sure Peter lands a hard kick to Ilya’s ribcage, and I catch Peter using his forearm to block a blow from Ilya that could’ve felled a bear. Other than that, the fight progresses at such a furious pace that I can’t discern each individual movement, much less figure out who’s winning or losing. All I see are two powerful male animals, their muscles coiling and rippling as violence heats the air around them.
After about a minute, they stop and spring apart, panting as they circle each other, and I see blood trickling down Ilya’s cheekbone. I can’t spot any blood on Peter, so I guess that makes him the winner of that insane round. I’m not surprised. Even though Ilya is built like a tank, he lacks Peter’s lethal grace, that certain something that makes my captor so deadly. I have no doubt the bald-headed Russian can kill as well as anyone—just one well-placed strike from that huge fist would probably do it—but Peter comes across as more dangerous, more ruthless.
In a fight to the death, my money would be on Peter any day of the week.
I debate saying something to alert the men to my presence, but before I can do so, Peter glances in my direction and stops in his tracks. “Sara?”
“Um, yeah.” I take a breath to calm my racing heartbeat. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was just wondering if you could put the videos of my parents up on that TV for me. Whenever you’re done here, I mean—no rush.”
I’m being extra polite to make up for my earlier outburst. The truth is, I’m dying to watch those videos and make sure my parents are okay, but I won’t gain anything by making demands. If there’s anything I learned in that guest room, it’s that Peter Sokolov still holds all the power in this fucked-up relationship of ours. Even when I think I have nothing left to lose, my tormentor finds a weakness, a way to manipulate me without hurting me outright—physically, at least.
Emotionally, he’s destroyed me ten times over.
“It’s fine,” Ilya says and gives a wide grin that exposes blood on his teeth. “I think we’re done for today, anyway.”
Peter doesn’t so much as glance at him; all his focus is on me. “Did you clean the room?” he asks, slicking back his sweat-dampened hair. His muscles flex as he lowers his arm, and I catch myself staring at the droplet of sweat running down his flat, ridged abdomen.
Stop it, Sara. Do not ogle your kidnapper.
With effort, I bring my gaze back to Peter’s face. “All done.” I keep my voice calm despite the clear provocation in his words. “You can check it if you want.”
He stares at me for a second, then nods. “All right then. Let’s go.”
He comes toward me, and I flush as Ilya grins at the possessive way Peter grips my arm. It’s irrational, but what Peter and I share feels private, like some kind of secret between the two of us. Obviously, Peter’s men are fully aware of the twisted nature of my relationship with their boss—they helped him stalk and kidnap me, after all—but some part of me still cringes at the knowledge that they’re seeing me like this. Maybe it’s my aversion to airing dirty laundry in public, but I’d almost rather they thought I was Peter’s girlfriend, here of my own free will.
Ignoring his sparring partner, Peter leads me toward the house, keeping his restraining hold on my arm. He’s still angry with me, I can feel it, and I’m relieved he’s carrying out his promise about the videos.
With any luck, by the time the rest of his men return from their supply run, he’ll cool down enough to let me talk to my parents.
When we get to the living room, he releases my arm and goes straight to his laptop. Two minutes later, the videos are on the big TV screen in front of me.
“Enjoy,” he says curtly and disappears up the stairs.
By the time he returns, I’m halfway through the recording. It’s just as Peter told me: for the most part, the FBI agents questioned my parents and avoided answering their questions in return. I can tell that both my mom and dad were stressed and upset, but neither one looked physically ill, at least on the grainy video feed.
“Tell me again how Sara explained stopping the house sale,” Agent Ryson says to my mom as Peter sits down on the couch next to me, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He must’ve showered after his brutal workout, because I smell a faint hint of soap as he reaches across the couch and picks up my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine.
It takes everything I have not to react to that small intimacy and keep my focus on the video. Partially, it’s because I don’t even know how to react. Should I be glad that he seems to have forgiven my infraction in the guest room? Or should I be upset that the gesture, as simple as it is, makes my chest ache with the same dangerously warm feeling that landed me in this predicament?
“So she never told you that the sale actually went through?” Ryson presses after my mom recounts our sushi lunch conversation almost word for word. “She never explained how it was that she was able to stay in her home after a shell corporation from South Africa purchased the house from the original buyers for double the market price?”
My parents launch into frantic denials mixed with questions and possible explanations, and I watch with a sick feeling in my stomach as my dad’s face turns purple before my mom forces him to sit and calm down.
“He’s going to be fine,” Peter says, his deep voice reassuring, and I realize I’m squeezing his hand so hard my fingers are going numb. I must be hurting him too, but he’s not pulling his hand away. The harsh expression he’s been wearing all afternoon is gone, his gray eyes regarding me with a warm light as he adds quietly, “I saw the rest of this video, and I promise you, he’s fine.”
I nod, pathetically grateful for the reassurance, and turn my attention back to the video feed, where the agents have returned to the topic of my phone call, drilling my mom about the exact words I used to talk about my trip. It’s clear they suspect I’ve been lying to the FBI all along, though I have no idea if they consider me simply brainwashed or Peter’s accomplice from the very beginning.
“How bad is it?” I ask, turning to face my captor when the video ends with my dad consoling my crying mom in the kitchen after the FBI agents leave. It feels like burning needles are stuck in my heart, even though like Peter said, my parents are okay, relatively speaking.
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand my question. “It’s… not good. Now that they know where to look, they’ve uncovered more evidence of our relationship, starting with our meeting in the nightclub. And of course, there’s the fact that you’d been living in the house I own and didn’t say a peep to the FBI when they told you I’d been spotted. Between that and the phone call to your parents, they have a pretty strong case for us collaborating. There’s also—” He stops.
“There’s also what?” I pull my hand away to ball it tightly on my lap. “Tell me.”
Peter sighs. “They went through your filing cabinet and found your divorce papers, signed by you but not your husband, dating back to the day before your husband’s accident.”
“What?” I blink at him, a trickle of dread snaking down my spine. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Peter lays a comforting hand on my knee. “It’s not the main theory they’re working off,” he says gently, “but they are considering the possibility that you might’ve had some involvement in your husband’s death—that our relationship might’ve predated our initial encounter in your kitchen.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!” I jump up, my throat tightening with shock. “They can’t possibly believe that. They know that you tortured and drugged me, and threatened me with a knife. They know that; they’ve seen the aftermath. Or do they think I made up the drugs in my system and the knife cut on my neck? And the bruises that covered my back for weeks? How can they—”
“It’s just one angle they’re considering, ptichka.” Peter stands up and captures my icy hands in his big, warm palms. There’s something almost like remorse on his harshly handsome face. For what he did to me at our first meeting, perhaps? In the next moment, however
, his features smooth out and he says, “Don’t stress about this. Once they investigate further, they’ll realize the truth. Their job is to consider all possibilities, no matter how unlikely, and the fact that you were on the verge of divorcing your dead husband is something they have to latch on to. Haven’t you seen any cop shows? The spouse is always the prime suspect, especially if there’s reason to believe there was marital discord.”
“Marital discord?” A hysterical laugh escapes my throat. “You’re kidding, right? This isn’t a fucking murder mystery.” I yank my hands out of Peter’s grasp and step back, my chest heaving. “You killed George. You broke into my house, waterboarded and drugged me to get his location, and then you blew his brains out—what he had left of them after the accident, anyway. Or do they think I caused that accident and then hired you to finish the job?” My voice jumps an octave higher. “I mean, that accident was my fault, in a way, and you do kill people for hire, so maybe they’re on to something, maybe we were secretly in cahoots all along and—”
“Stop it, Sara.” Peter steps up to me and catches my wrist, pulling me toward him. It’s not until he encloses me in his powerful arms, drawing me against his chest, that I realize I’m so cold I’m trembling from head to toe. Rage and shock are buffeting me like waves in a hurricane, and I close my eyes against the sting of tears as Peter murmurs into my hair, “It’s going to be okay, ptichka. This will all blow over. The agents aren’t stupid; they’ll figure out the truth soon enough. Just give them time.”
“What truth?” I wedge my hands between our bodies and push on his chest, opening my eyes to meet his gaze. I feel like I’m crumbling inside, the rage and shock transforming into bitter despair. “The one where I slept with my husband’s killer for weeks and then got myself kidnapped by warning him that the FBI were coming? Or the one where I lied to my parents so they’d think I’m in love with said killer?”