Obsession Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 2)

by Anna Zaires

  “How did you find me?” she asks, recovering from the shock of seeing me. Her voice is strained and a touch breathless, but she holds her chin high, facing me without flinching. “How long were you following me?”

  “Since late morning,” I say, straightening away from the tree. “You have more endurance than I thought. I would’ve expected you to take a break long before now.”

  Her hazel eyes narrow. “Is that why you let me get this far? To show me how weak I am and how fast you can catch me?”

  “No, ptichka.” I come toward her. “To show you something else.”

  She takes a step back, then stands her ground, likely figuring it’s pointless to run. And it is. I would catch her in a heartbeat. And then I would punish her, as the monster inside me demands.

  I would ensure she never ran from me again.

  It takes all my willpower to suppress that urge, to keep from giving in to that dark desire. It makes perfect sense for Sara to attempt her escape, to try to return to the life she’s always known. She wouldn’t be who she is if she didn’t try, and I know that. I accept it—rationally, at least.

  On a more visceral level, I want to subjugate her and make her love me, to clip her wings so she’ll never, ever leave.

  “Come,” I say, reaching out to take her cold, trembling hand when I stop in front of her. “It’s just a little farther this way.”

  And leashing the simmering rage within me, I lead her down the trail.

  17

  Sara

  Peter’s expression is unreadable as we walk together down the trail, yet I can sense the anger within him, the lethal volatility that’s as much a part of him as those steel-gray eyes. Despite that, his grip on my hand is gentle, his big hand shielding my palm from the cold air even as it prevents my escape.

  “How did you find me so fast?” I ask, concealing my anxiety. At this point, I’m almost certain Peter wouldn’t physically hurt me, but that still leaves a number of ways he can make me pay.

  “Ilya followed you,” he says, glancing at me. The chilly breeze reddened his high cheekbones and the tip of his nose, and with the sporty parka he’s wearing, he looks like one of those hardcore athletes who scale Mount Everest for fun. “Did you think he wouldn’t know you left the house?”

  Of course. I should’ve known it was too easy.

  “Why didn’t he stop me then? Why just follow me?”

  “Because I told him to.”

  I dig in my heels, forcing him to stop. “Why? Are you trying to teach me a lesson? Is that it?”

  “No, Sara—though it is a bonus.” A glimmer of amusement appears in his eyes.

  “What, then?” I demand. “Why let me get this far?”

  “So I can show you this,” he says, and tightening his grip on my hand, he leads me to a thin patch of trees a little farther down the trail.

  I’ve been walking cautiously this whole time, but I still almost miss the sudden disappearance of ground under our feet. If it hadn’t been for Peter yanking me to a stop, I might’ve tumbled down.

  Gasping, I step back, holding on to Peter’s hand with all my strength as I gape at the sheer drop below us. By some fluke of nature, the trees go right up to the edge of the cliff, some roots even extending beyond it. It gives the illusion that there’s solid ground where there’s none, and I remember Ilya talking about this phenomenon yesterday, when he mentioned the landslide.

  “Is this from the earthquake?” I ask when I get over my shock.

  “Yes.” Peter tugs me back, away from the cliff’s edge. When we’re sufficiently far, he releases my hand and says, “This is what I wanted you to see. I know Ilya told you yesterday that this mountain is all cliffs, but you must not have believed him, so I wanted you to see it with your own eyes. This was the only slope that was gradual enough to walk or drive on before the earthquake, and it’s not usable anymore. The only way off this mountain is with the chopper, ptichka.” He smiles, his eyes gleaming like polished silver.

  I stare up at him, my stomach filled with ice. I must’ve tuned out when Ilya was talking about this, because I don’t remember him mentioning this at all. No wonder my captors have been so unconcerned about my escape; they knew I had nowhere to go.

  “This whole mountain is ringed by cliffs? On all sides?”

  I must look as crushed as I feel, because Peter’s expression inexplicably softens. “Yes, my love. You didn’t understand that yesterday?”

  I shake my head dejectedly. “I must not have been listening too closely.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just takes my hand again, and we walk together up the trail, back toward the house. My steps are slow, the exhaustion from my morning hike hitting me like a wrecking ball. And it’s not just physical weariness. Emotionally, I’m wrung out, so tired I feel numb inside.

  I don’t know why I placed such hopes on this escape. Even when I was back home, with my family and the FBI just a phone call away, I knew there was nowhere I could run to avoid Peter’s reach. I was his prisoner then, just as I am now, and I don’t know what made me think that escaping from this mountaintop was going to make things better.

  Why I imagined I could be free if I made it down.

  Peter would’ve come after me. Even if, by some miracle, I escaped and made it to the supposed safety of the FBI’s protection, I would’ve never been truly safe. I would’ve had to look over my shoulder every hour, every day, and eventually, he would’ve been there, standing with that cruel smile on his handsome face.

  There’s no way out of this for me, and in my panic, I forgot that.

  Despair is a crushing force on my chest, constricting my breath and coloring the world around me gray. I know I need to regroup, to come up with some new plan, but the hopelessness of my situation is too encompassing, too absolute. My legs feel like lead as I take each step, and the ice inside me is spreading, the chill wrapping like chains around my heart.

  There’s just no way out.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Sara,” Peter says quietly, and I look up to find him watching me, his gaze oddly sympathetic. It’s as if he understands, as if he empathizes on some level. Except if he did, he wouldn’t do this.

  He wouldn’t destroy my life to satisfy his obsession.

  “Not like this?” I ask hollowly, stopping in front of a fallen tree. We need to climb over it, and I lack the energy to do so. “Then how? How do you envision this working?”

  His lips twist as he releases my hand and turns to face me. “You can just give in, ptichka. Accept what is between us.”

  “And what is that?”

  “This.” He lifts his hand to stroke my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his touch, seeking the magnetic warmth of his fingers.

  Feeling the perverse need pulsing in my core.

  I should pull away, jerk out of his reach, but I’m too tired to move. Too tired to protest as he bends his head and presses his lips to mine, his kiss soft and gentle, so tender it makes me want to weep.

  He kisses me like I’m something precious, something rare and beautiful. Like he wants me more than life itself. My eyes drift shut and my hands come up, clutching at his shoulders as he deepens the kiss, inhaling my air and feeding my need.

  What if you do give in?

  It doesn’t seem so wrong in this moment. Not when I’m so weary and lost, so utterly devoid of hope. He’s the cause of my despair, yet everything is warmer and brighter with his touch, more bearable with his affection.

  What if you do accept it?

  The question circles through my mind, taunting me, teasing me with possibilities. What would it be like if I stopped fighting? If I let go of my old life and embraced my new? Because at this moment, it doesn’t seem so crazy that he could love me, that we could share something meaningful and real.

  That if I let myself forget the things he’s done, I could maybe love him too.

  “Sara,” he breathes, lifting his head, and in his heated gaze, I see the future we could hav
e. The one where we’re not enemies, where the past doesn’t paint our present in shades of black.

  I see it and I want it—and that’s what terrifies me most.

  “Let me go.” Somewhere, I find the strength to pull away, to reject the dark lure of his affection. “Please, Peter, stop.”

  His gaze cools and hardens, molten silver turning to cold steel. Without another word, he takes my hand and resumes leading me up the mountain, back to my prison.

  Back to our new home.

  We walk up the trail for another hour and a half before I begin stumbling over every root and stone, my legs so heavy with exhaustion I literally can’t lift my feet. Going up is ten times more difficult than going down, and after pushing myself to the limits earlier today, I can’t keep up any longer.

  Gulping in icy air, I sink down on a big rock. “I need… a break,” I wheeze out, bending in half. There’s a sharp cramp in my side, and my lungs burn like I just ran ten miles. “Just a… few minutes.”

  “Here, drink.” Peter sits down next to me, looking as cool and fresh as if we’ve been leisurely strolling all this time. Unzipping his jacket, he hands me a new water bottle and says, “I know you’re tired, but we can’t slow down. A storm is expected tonight, and we need to be home before then.”

  I gulp down most of the water before giving him back the bottle. “A storm?”

  “Rain and sleet, mixed with snow at higher altitudes.” He finishes off the water and stuffs the empty bottle back inside his jacket. “We don’t want to get caught in that.”

  “Okay.” I still haven’t caught my breath, but I force myself to stand. “Let’s go.”

  Peter rises to his feet, studying me with a faint frown. Then he turns around and says, “Climb onto my back.”

  An incredulous laugh bubbles up my throat. “What?”

  “I said, ‘Climb onto my back.’ I will carry you.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t carry me that distance. We still have a solid three hours of hiking—maybe four or five, since we’re going uphill.”

  “Stop arguing and get on my back.” He gives me a hard look over his shoulder. “You’re too tired to walk, and this is the easiest way to carry you.”

  I hesitate, then decide to do as he says. If he wants to exhaust himself by giving me a piggyback ride, who am I to argue? “Okay.” With the last of my strength, I clamber onto the rock and from there onto his broad back, gripping his shoulders as I circle his waist with my legs.

  “Hold on tight,” he says, and looping his arms under my knees, he starts walking, covering the ground with long, steady strides.

  18

  Peter

  I set a brisk pace, determined to get back to the house quickly. Already, the sky is darkening on the horizon, the air cooling and thickening. The storm is coming faster than predicted; we have maybe a couple of hours before it hits, and I can’t ping the guys to pick us up. After dropping me off, Anton took the helicopter to pick up a few supplies in Tokyo, and he wouldn’t be back in time.

  I should’ve chosen some other day for this demonstration.

  Oh, well. No point in worrying about it now. As we get to a flatter part of the trail, I pick up the pace further, and Sara shifts her grip on me, looping her arms around my neck as she leans forward.

  “Is this okay?” she murmurs in my ear, and I nod.

  “Fine. Just don’t choke me,” I tell her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to let me down? Because I’ve rested now and I can walk—”

  “You’ll slow us down.”

  My tone is brusque, but I’m not inclined to waste my breath on speaking. Not because my little bird is heavy—at barely fifty kilos, she weighs less than the packs I jog with when I train—but because I can’t afford to go any slower. The wind is gusting up, blasting us with an icy chill, and though we’re both warmly dressed, I want to get Sara indoors before the weather worsens.

  The first drops of sleeting rain hit when we’re less than a half hour from the house. “Let me down,” Sara demands, and this time, I listen. I’ve been carrying her for over three hours, and by now, she is sufficiently rested. We’ll move faster if she’s on her own feet.

  Gripping her hand, I begin to jog, towing her behind me as the sky opens up and the wind starts driving icy water into our faces.

  “Oh, thank God,” Sara gasps out as the house comes into view. The sleet is now mixed with snow, and the wind feels like it’s cutting through our bones. My jeans are soaked through, my legs are numb with cold, and I can no longer feel my face. I can only imagine how miserable Sara must be. Unlike me, she’s never been trained to divorce herself from pain and discomfort, has never known what it’s like to focus solely on survival. If I could shield her from this storm with my body, I would, but the most important thing right now is to get her inside, where it’s warm and dry.

  Another hour of this, and we’d run the risk of hypothermia.

  When we’re less than thirty meters from the house, Sara stumbles, tripping over a branch, and I pick her up, carrying her clasped against my chest as I cover the remaining distance. Getting to the door, I knock with my boot, and as soon as Yan opens the door, I carry my half-frozen burden straight to our bathroom upstairs.

  Putting her down, I turn on the shower, making sure the water is warm but not too hot, and then I strip us both, removing our wet, icy clothes before ushering her under the spray. Sara’s lips are tinted blue, and she’s shivering so hard she can barely remain upright. I’m not in much better shape, so I wrap my arms around her in a full-body hug, and for a few minutes, we just stand under the water, shaking as its warmth soaks into our frozen skin.

  “We c-could’ve died.” Sara’s teeth are still chattering as she pulls back and meets my gaze. Her hazel eyes are almost black in her white face, her dark lashes spiked with wetness. “P-Peter, we could’ve d-died out there.”

  “Yes.” I tighten my arms around her again, pressing her against me until I can feel every shallow breath she takes. “Yes, ptichka, we could have.”

  Another hour or two in that storm, and she wouldn’t have made it. I didn’t let myself think about it before, didn’t let my focus waver from the task of getting her home, but now that we’re here—now that she’s safe—the realization that she could’ve died hollows out my stomach and wraps my heart with ice. I’ve only known fear like this once before, when I saw those methheads threatening her with knives. That time, I could eliminate the threat—and I did—but I couldn’t protect her from this storm.

  If it had come two hours sooner, I could’ve lost her.

  The thought is terrifying, unbearable. When I lost Pasha and Tamila, it felt like my world had ended, like I would never know anything but rage and agony again. The fury that drove me was absolute—because that was the only way I could get through each day, the only way I could eat and breathe and function.

  The only way I could live long enough to find those responsible and make them pay.

  It wasn’t until Sara that I began to feel alive again, to want something more than brutal vengeance. She became my new focus, my new reason for existing.

  I can’t lose her.

  I won’t lose her.

  “You will never do this again.” My voice is low and hard as I grip her shoulders and pull back to meet her startled gaze, the fear inside me swamped by fierce determination. “You will not run from me, Sara. Ever. There’s nobody out there who can help you, no place you can hide from me. And if you try this futile stunt again, you’ll regret it—I give you my word on that. You think you know what I’m capable of, but you haven’t even scratched the surface. You have no idea of the lengths I’ll go to, ptichka, no clue what I’m willing to do to have you. You’re mine, and you’re staying mine—now and for as long as we’re both alive.”

  I can feel her muscles tensing as I speak, and I know I’m scaring her. It’s not what I want, but I have to keep her from these escape attempts.

  I h
ave to keep her safe.

  “Peter, please…” Her soft hazel eyes fill with tears, her palms coming up to press against my chest. “Don’t do this. This isn’t love. Even you must realize that. I’m sorry for everything you’ve lost, for what George did to your family. And I know—” She swallows, holding my gaze. “I know there’s something between us, something that shouldn’t be there… something that doesn’t make any sense. You feel it, and I feel it too. But that doesn’t make this right. You can’t stalk someone into loving you, can’t intimidate her into caring. For as long as you’re keeping me here, I’m your captive, no matter what you make me say… no matter what you coerce me into. Whether I run or not, I’m not yours—and I never will be. Not like this.”

  Every word she speaks is like a knife puncturing my liver. “How then?” My words come out harsh and desperate, violent in their intensity. “Tell me, Sara. How can I have you? What other way can we be together when I’m a wanted man?”

  Her gaze mirrors my torment. “We can’t,” she chokes out, her delicate nails scraping over my skin as her hands curl into fists against my chest. “This isn’t meant to be, Peter. We’re not meant to be. Not with the past we share—not with who and what we are.”

  “No.” My rejection is visceral, instinctive. “No, you’re wrong.”

  Realizing I’m gripping her shoulders with biting force, I release her and step back, then turn away to turn off the water, using the small task to regain some control. Now that I’m no longer freezing, my body is starting to respond to her nakedness, my hunger for her sharp and dark, aggravated by the volatile brew of anger and frustrated longing. If I don’t calm down, I will take her, and I will hurt her.