by Anna Zaires
Peter’s face darkens. “Yes, that truth, Sara. Where you are my victim. That’s what you want to be, isn’t it?” Releasing me, he steps back, and my body mourns the loss of his heat and the comfort his deadly embrace provides.
With effort, I pull myself together. We can’t slide back into that argument, not when I still have to convince him to let me call my parents. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not what I meant. In fact…” I stop, then force myself to say it. “You were right. Earlier, when you said that I was lying to myself, you were right. I did know what I was doing when I warned you, and it wasn’t just because I didn’t want to see you dead.”
His jaw flexes and his fingertips twitch, as if he’s about to reach for me. “What are you saying, Sara?”
“I’m saying…” I take a breath and wrap my arms around myself, feeling like I’m about to fly apart. Even though I’m doing this to manipulate him, everything I’m saying is the truth, and dredging it up is tearing me open. “I’m saying the agents aren’t entirely wrong with where they’re casting blame.”
Peter’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about? You had nothing to do with that bastard’s death.”
“No, but I have been sleeping with you—with his killer.” My voice shakes as tears sting my eyes anew. “And I didn’t tell the FBI about you. I didn’t ask for their protection, even when I had the chance. So here we are, in this fucked-up situation, and it’s all my fault. So I guess on some level, I must’ve wanted this, right? To lose my freedom and be with you no matter what the cost? I had a choice, and I made the wrong one. I made all the wrong choices, and that’s why I’m here instead of in the FBI’s protective custody, why I’m with you instead of leading a normal life.”
As I speak, the hard silver of Peter’s gaze darkens, and then he does reach for me, one arm looping around my back as his other hand slides into my hair, arching me against him. “Oh, ptichka,” he mutters thickly, and my insides clench at the savage hunger on his face. “You couldn’t be more wrong. You think you had a choice? You think there was a chance in hell I would’ve let you go?”
My throat swells with something indefinable, the tears in my eyes threatening to spill over as my hands come up to clutch his sides. “You wouldn’t have?”
“No.” His eyes glitter darkly as his fingers tighten in my hair. “I’d have come after you. There’s no place on Earth they could’ve hidden you from me. You’re mine, Sara, and you’re going to stay mine no matter what it takes. No matter what I have to do to keep you.” He bends his head, and I feel the warmth of his breath on my lips as he whispers, “No matter who I have to kill to retrieve you.”
I shudder in his grasp, my lids drifting shut as his lips touch mine. What he’s saying is horrifying, psychotic, yet my body aches at his nearness, my sex filling with liquid heat as his hard cock presses against my stomach. It’s as if some perverse part of me wants this from him, as if it revels in the depths of his obsession.
Just like, on some level, I felt relieved when the needle pricked my neck.
Peter deepens the kiss, his tongue invading my mouth, and I let him. I let him because the fire burning inside me is too strong to fight. I tell myself I’m giving in because I have to, because the phone call with my parents is at stake, but deep inside, I know the truth.
I’m giving in because I want to.
Because in some ways, my sickness is as far gone as his.
11
Sara
Peter carries me upstairs, and I hide my face against his shoulder as Ilya walks into the kitchen below. I don’t want to know what Peter’s colleague thinks about this madness, don’t want to think about anything at all. I bared my soul to my captor because I wanted him to forgive me, but now that I have, I feel raw and broken, a mess of shame and need, rage and desire. I hate myself for what I’m feeling, and at the same time, I can’t stop myself from clinging to him, from wanting him as much as he wants me.
When we get to the bedroom, he deposits me on the bed and begins to undress, and I watch him through half-closed eyelids. I feel strangely out of it, as if I’m still drugged, but I know it’s just the need he awakens in me, the dark, potent desire he evokes in my body. My yearning for him is all-consuming, stealing away all reason and common sense. I want him to hold me and touch me, to take me and possess me. I want his darkness and his twisted love, and most of all, I want him.
I want everything from him, no matter how much it terrifies me.
He’s coercing you into this. It’s a tiny voice of sanity whispering in my mind, reminding me that I’m doing this so Peter wouldn’t cut me off from contact with my parents, that I opened up to him for that same reason. My tormentor is too perceptive; he would’ve known if I’d lied to him or pretended to have feelings I don’t have. The truth, in all its pathological complexity, was my best bet, only now I can’t shut the spigot off, can’t cover up its ugliness with the opaque veil of denial.
It’s true that I don’t have a choice, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that.
Peter’s shirt comes off first, and I watch with bated breath as the muscles in his abdomen flex when he reaches for the zipper of his jeans. He has a warrior’s body, lean and hard, with powerful, clearly defined muscles and tattoos covering his left arm from shoulder to wrist. Like the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, most of the scars on his torso are faded, but the one across his stomach is fresh; it’s where he was knifed a few weeks ago on the job in Mexico. Those scars are a reminder of what he does, of what he is, and my heart constricts as I reflect again on the fact that I’m sleeping with a killer.
My husband’s killer.
He’s blackmailing you into this.
It’s the truth, and it somehow makes it better when he steps out of his jeans and comes toward me naked, his long, thick cock curving up to his navel. It’s fucked up, but I don’t want to have a choice in this, not when the desire incinerating me is a betrayal of everything I hold dear. Like this, I can tell myself that I’m doing this for a reason… that I’m not completely lost.
“You are fucking gorgeous,” he whispers roughly, bending over me, and I close my eyes, unable to bear the intensity in his metallic gaze as he undresses me. The feel of his hands, so strong yet so gentle, makes my body pulse with need, even as my heart bleeds for everything I lost, for everything those cruel hands have taken from me. The tears I’ve been holding back leak out, trickling down my temples, and I shudder as he kisses them away, his lips soft and warm on my damp skin.
He kisses my lips next, then the tender spot behind my ear and the sensitive column of my throat. It’s not until his mouth travels down to my breasts that I realize I’m already naked, my clothes removed while I battled confusing thoughts. His lips close over my nipple, the hot, wet suction making me arch off the bed, and I find my hands buried in his soft, thick hair as my hips shimmy against him, seeking relief from the tension growing inside.
Stop. Please stop.
The desperate cry reverberates in my mind, but I don’t voice it. I can’t. Not because he wouldn’t listen, but because I couldn’t bear it if he did. Maybe if I hadn’t given in before, it would be easier. If I didn’t know what it feels like to have him in me, I might’ve found the willpower to resist. But I do know, and my body wrestles with my mind, undermining my efforts to control my response, to hold back even as I give him everything.
“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes against my nipple as his fingers part my folds and find me slick and swollen, so aroused I can scarcely stand it. “Let me have you, ptichka. Let me give you what you need.” His callused thumb circles my clit as his middle finger pushes into me, and I moan as my inner muscles clench around the digit, my body craving more of the invasion.
Peter obliges, pushing in a second finger, and the moan turns into a gasping cry as he resumes sucking on my nipple, the dual stimulation making my spine curve and my heart gallop in my chest. I’m close to an orgasm, I can feel it, and when the tension fi
nally crests, I come so hard I cease to breathe for a few vision-dimming seconds. My whole body shudders from the relief of it, the explosion of pleasure rippling down to my toes as Peter’s fingers move in and out of my body, stretching me, preparing me for what’s to come.
I’m still in the throes of orgasmic aftershocks when he moves up, his knees parting my thighs as he laces his fingers with mine, pinning my hands next to my shoulders.
“Look at me,” he orders hoarsely, and I dazedly obey, opening my eyes to meet his burning gaze. His heavy weight presses me down, his masculine scent filling my nostrils as his cock brushes against my inner thigh, hard and massively thick. With my hands pinned to the bed, I’m helpless, completely at his mercy, and there’s something perversely exciting in that, something as dark as the need boiling in my core.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His tone is harsh, his expression almost violent. “Lie to me, and I’ll stop.”
My chest heaves convulsively as I hold his gaze, my lungs working overtime. I don’t know why he’s saying this, but I do know what I want, and it has nothing to do with being able to call my parents.
“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
I don’t know if I say the words out loud, or if I merely mouth them, but Peter’s nostrils flare, his starkly beautiful face twisting with fierce hunger. His fingers tighten between mine, nearly crushing in their strength, and my eyes squeeze shut as he bends his head, claiming my lips in a possessive kiss. At the same time, the broad head of his cock pushes into the nook between my legs, sliding between my folds until it finds the wet, aching entrance to my core.
He penetrates me with one deep thrust, his thick length stretching me to the edge of pain, and my gasp is swallowed by his lips as his tongue pushes into my mouth, filling me, devouring me, surrounding me with his scent and taste and feel. His possession is rough, his hunger barely controlled, and as he sets a hard, driving pace, the tension inside me spikes again, climbing toward a new peak. It’s too much, too overwhelming, and I wrap my legs around his hips, needing to regain a measure of control, but there’s none to be had.
There’s only Peter and the violent need consuming us.
I don’t know who comes first, or if we get there together. All I know is that by the time the swell washes over me, he’s groaning my name, his pelvis grinding against mine as his cock jerks inside me. The pleasure seems to go on forever, sizzling through my nerve endings, and when it’s over, he rolls off me, gathering me in his arms as I break down and cry, trembling from the intensity of it all… and the guilt that tears at me.
Once again, I gave in to the man who destroyed my life.
It’s only later, when my tears have stopped and Peter is leisurely stroking my back, that something occurs to me, making my blood freeze in my veins.
For the second time, we didn’t use a condom.
12
Peter
I know the exact moment Sara realizes the lack of a condom. Her entire body stiffens, and she lifts her head from its resting place on my shoulder, her eyes wide with horror as she meets my gaze.
“We didn’t—”
“I know.”
It’s the second time—the first was the night I stole her—and though I didn’t omit protection on purpose either time, I can’t say I’m sorry. The thought of Sara growing round with my child doesn’t frighten or repel me; in fact, it fills my chest with a soft, warm glow, one I’ve only known once before.
With Pasha, my son.
A familiar ache pierces my chest, the pain of loss as sharp as ever. The image of Pasha’s body, his little fist clutching the toy car, is carved into my mind with the brutal precision of an assassin’s blade. For years, it was the first thing I thought about each morning and the last each evening. It was the nightmare that woke me up at night and the ghost that tormented me during the day. Avenging him and Tamila, my wife who was killed in the same massacre, was my reason for living, and it wasn’t until I met Sara that I found a new purpose in life.
Her.
My little songbird, who’s now my everything.
At my admission about the condom, Sara looks even more horrified. Grabbing a tissue, she scoots back on the bed and wipes frantically between her legs before clutching the blanket to her chest. Her hazel eyes are huge in her pale face as she says in a choked voice, “Are you trying to get me pregnant?”
“No.” I get up before I’m tempted to fuck her again. Even with my body humming with post-orgasm relaxation, the idea of Sara pregnant is making me harden again, and I have some urgent emails to answer before dinner. “It just happened. There wasn’t a lot of thought involved. But as I told you before, I wouldn’t mind—not that it’s likely at this time of the month for you. Right?”
Sara nods, but her death grip on the blanket doesn’t let up. “It’s not likely, but not impossible either,” she says in a slightly calmer tone. “A lot of things can throw off a woman’s cycle, so you can’t assume it’s safe based solely on the calendar. Besides, my cycle is on the shorter side, and my period ended a couple of days ago.” She takes a breath, then says bluntly, “I need the morning-after pill. Can you get it for me?”
I stare at her, struck by the notion. “Maybe,” I say slowly. “What kind of pill is this, and where would I get it?”
I know what she’s talking about, of course, but I pretend ignorance to give myself a moment to think. Though I didn’t consciously intend for this to happen, now that it has, everything inside me rebels at the idea of reducing the odds of Sara’s pregnancy.
It’s a new level of fucked up, but in this moment, I realize I do want a child with her. I want to tie her to me in every way possible, make her mine so completely she’d never be able to leave.
“There are several brands sold in the US,” Sara says. “Plan B, Next Choice, My Way, ella… I don’t know what’s available in Japan, but I’m sure there must be something. These pills work by stopping the release of the egg, preventing fertilization, or stopping the implantation in the uterus. So it’s not an abortion pill; it’s just emergency contraception. I’m sure if you go into any pharmacy in Japan and explain what you need, they’ll give it to you.”
She’s looking at me with such desperate hope that I can’t bring myself to say no.
“All right,” I say, doing my best to hide my reluctance. “Let me see if I can reach Anton before they start heading back. Maybe they’ll be able to pick it up on the way.”
Sara’s entire countenance brightens. “Yes, please. The sooner it’s taken, the more effective it is. Within the first twenty-four hours is best, and if I take it tonight, we’ll still be within the seventy-two-hour window for the last time.”
“Got it,” I say and head into the bathroom to wash up. “I will call them as soon as I get downstairs.”
I keep my promise to call Anton, procrastinating only by the amount of time it takes me to answer an urgent email from our hackers. They located a Henderson family friend who recently booked tickets to Croatia and are asking for a payment to pursue the lead further. I transfer another five hundred grand into an agreed-upon account in the Cayman Islands, and then I contact Anton through our secure satellite phone.
To my relief, they’re only minutes away from our mountain retreat. “What do you need?” Anton asks, his words barely discernible over the roar of the helicopter in the background. “The jet lag is kicking my ass, but if it’s something urgent, we can turn around and go get it.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say, suppressing an unwelcome spurt of guilt. “By the time you fly back there, all the pharmacies will be closed anyway.” Or at least that’s what I’m going to tell Sara and hope it doesn’t occur to her that something as simple as a locked door is no obstacle for my team.
We can obtain anything at any time, locks and legalities be damned.
“All right.” Anton must indeed be tired, because he doesn’t react to my strange statement. “We’ll see you in ten.”
He hangs up, and
I go upstairs to tell Sara the bad news.
I will get her that pill, but not today.
Tomorrow will be soon enough.
13
Peter
Sara takes the news well, probably because I inform her at the same time that we have what we need to make the secure call to her parents. While Ilya and Yan set it up, I instruct Sara on what to say.
“Not a word about our location or how many of us there are,” I tell her as I lead her downstairs. “Nothing about how long it took us to get here or how we got here. And if you try to hint about sushi or mountains or helicopters or to plant any other clue, I’ll know, and this will be the last time you contact your family. Understand?”
Sara’s face is pale, but she nods. “What can I say, then?”
“You can tell your parents you’re with me—the Feds know that much. You can say you’re happy and in love, and that they shouldn’t worry about you. Keep it brief; the idea is not to answer their questions but to reassure them that you’re alive and well. The less you say, the better for all concerned.”
“Okay.” Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “I’m ready.”
The call goes through two dozen relays, bouncing off satellites and cell towers all over the world before showing up as a blocked number on Sara’s mother’s cell. I know for a fact that all phones connected to Sara’s parents are tapped by the FBI, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way they’ll be able to trace the call. The main danger is Sara saying something she shouldn’t, but hopefully, she’s smart enough to avoid that.
I don’t bluff when I make threats.
Lorna Weisman, Sara’s mother, is quick to pick up the phone. “Hello?” Her voice is tense as it comes through the speaker.