by Anna Zaires
I don’t tell my parents about the foot rubs—despite my sarcastic query, I’m not comfortable discussing anything remotely sexual with them—and I also keep quiet about the more intimate ways he takes care of me, like brushing my hair and washing me in the shower. It’s like I’m his human doll, something between a child and a sex toy. He did that back home as well, but I worked so much it was more of an occasional thing. Now, however, it’s a daily occurrence, and though I should probably find that kind of attention disturbing, I enjoy it too much to object.
I’ve been self-sufficient and independent for so long it feels good to let Peter baby me.
Of course, no amount of pampering can make up for losing my life and the job that defined me. I went from working upward of eighty hours a week to total leisure, and I have no idea how to fill that extra time. Peter takes up some of it—now that I’m always within his reach, he fucks me two or three times daily—and with the fresh mountain air, I sleep more, at least nine or ten hours a night. I also share leisurely meals with Peter and his men, and weather permitting, I go on long walks with him or whoever he assigns to guard me.
It’s not a bad routine, and we do have books and movies, but three weeks in, I’m ready to climb walls.
“Don’t you feel cooped up?” I ask Peter during one of our morning walks. The air is chilly, but fortunately, it’s neither rainy nor windy, as was the case for the last few days—another reason for my aggravation. “I mean, I know you work on your laptop, but still…”
Peter shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’m enjoying this downtime. It’s rare, so my guys and I take advantage while we can. We have a big job coming up, so we won’t be resting for long.”
“What kind of job?” I ask, driven by a dark curiosity. “Another assassination?”
He stops and gives me an even look. “Do you really want to know?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yes. I do.” It’s not as if I’m ignorant of what Peter is or what he does. I experienced his lethal skills firsthand the night we met. If some drug lord paid him and his team an obscene amount to take out another dangerous criminal, I might as well hear all about it.
If nothing else, it might be entertaining, in a horror flick/James Bond thriller kind of way.
“There’s a banker in Nigeria who’s stepped on some toes,” Peter says, reaching over to take my hand as he resumes walking. “One of those toes hired us to take care of the problem.”
“A banker? That doesn’t sound like someone who’d require your particular skillset.” Or like the ruthless crime lord I pictured. Not that I delude myself that Peter’s job is something noble. Still, some naïve part of me must’ve been hoping that most of his targets are at least somewhat deserving of what comes their way.
“This particular banker has a small army and pretty much owns the little town he lives in, as well as most of the local law enforcement,” Peter explains as we head toward a narrow trail I never noticed before. “By all indications, he’s one of the richest men in Nigeria, and he didn’t get there by making car loans.”
“Oh.” I readjust my mental image of the man. “So he’s not a nice guy?”
A humorless grin flashes across Peter’s face. “You could say that. At last count, he’s murdered over a dozen of his opponents and tortured or maimed at least fifty more, not counting their families. The man who hired us is a cousin of one of the victims; his daughter was gang-raped to teach his family a lesson.”
Horror constricts my throat, and I’m suddenly savagely glad Peter is going after this monster.
Glad and irrationally worried, because this is far more dangerous than I thought.
“How will you…?” I stop, not knowing how to phrase it.
“Get to him?”
I nod, glancing up at his coolly amused face. “Yes.”
“The usual way. We’ll find out everything we can about his security, learn his routines, and when the time is right, we’ll strike.”
I push down the irrational bubble of fear in my chest. Peter and his guys are highly trained, and in any case, it’s stupid to worry about the safety of the assassin who abducted me. Instead, I focus on what’s most relevant to my situation. “So you’re going to be gone for a while?”
“No, not unless something goes wrong. Anton and Yan will fly over there next week for reconnaissance, but Ilya and I will only get involved in the final stages of the operation. I’m guessing that will be in a week or two, and I shouldn’t be gone for more than a couple of days.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “What about me? Are you going to leave me here while you go to Nigeria?”
“Yan will stay behind with you,” Peter says, turning off the trail toward a clearing as I try to hide my disappointment. Despite what he told me the day of the storm, I haven’t completely given up on the idea of escape. Yes, he showed me that one cliff, and during our walks, I’ve seen a few more, but that doesn’t mean the entire mountain is impassable. There might be a way down that Peter doesn’t want me to know about, and given enough time and freedom, I might find it. What I would do afterward—how I would stay out of Peter’s clutches even if I made it back home—is a different matter, but I need to focus on one problem at a time.
I have to have some hope, or the despair will swallow me whole.
“Don’t you need your entire team?” I ask, doing my best to sound only mildly interested. “I thought you guys operated as a unit.”
“We do, but we’ll adjust.” Peter shoots me a sardonic look as we enter the clearing. “Don’t worry, ptichka. We won’t leave you stranded here alone.”
I don’t respond, because there’s no point—and because we’ve reached our destination: a cliff with a magnificent view of the lake below.
“Wow.” I exhale, taking in the stunning scenery as we stop a few feet from the cliff’s edge. “How gorgeous.”
After the rain of the past few days, the air is crystal clear, and the sky is a perfect pale blue, without a cloud in sight. In the absence of wind, the lake below us is so still it looks like a giant mirror, reflecting the majestic mountains surrounding it.
If I weren’t here against my will, I’d think it’s the prettiest place on Earth.
“Yes, gorgeous,” Peter agrees, his voice unusually husky as his hand tightens on mine, and I turn to see his metallic gaze burning with hunger. My heart skips a beat as answering heat ripples through my body, chasing away the high-altitude chill.
It’s always like this now. One look, one touch, and I’m a goner. Even when we’re just holding hands, my heart beats a little faster, and when he looks at me like this, my bones turn soft and liquid, my body quickening with arousal.
Flushing, I pull my hand out of his grasp and step back to avoid swaying toward him. We had sex less than two hours ago, and I’m still sore. It’s disturbing how much I want him and how little control I have over my response. The chemistry between us has always been explosive, but ever since that blowjob, there’s something different about my desire, something that seems rooted in the very wrongness of it all.
No. I force the thought away, refusing to give in to it. Peter was wrong. I don’t want to be his captive. This isn’t a sexual game we’re playing; it’s my life, my future. Everything I’ve worked for is gone, stolen by the man looking at me with those burning silver eyes. Whatever twisted cravings he’s awakened in me, I’ll never be okay with this forced relationship.
I can’t be.
Yet as he reaches for me, drawing me back toward him, I don’t resist. I don’t fight as he bends his head and crushes his lips against mine. The fire sweeping through my veins burns away all reason, all morality and common sense. My fingers tangle in his hair, my body molding against his, and as he backs me up against a tree, I give in and embrace the darkness, letting my own inner monster roam free.
22
Peter
As the preparations for the Nigeria job ramp up, I find myself reaching for Sara with increasing desperation, my need for her bl
azing out of control. When I’m not training with my men or working on the logistics for the mission, I’m either with her or thinking about her. It’s like an addiction, this craving that never goes away, and the worst part is that no matter what I do, I can’t get Sara on board.
I can’t get her to accept her life with me.
It’s not that she fights me physically. On the contrary, she responds whenever I touch her, and in her eyes, I see the same hunger, the need that’s burning me alive. She might deny it, but she likes it when I’m rough in bed, even more than when I’m gentle. When I take control, it sets her free, easing the torment of her guilt and shutting off her overactive brain. Our desires complement each other, our connection sizzling with dark heat, yet even as her body embraces mine, I feel the chill of her mental distance, the attempts to keep herself from me.
On some level, I understand it. I took her from her life, from her family and the job she loved. It bothers me, that last part, because I know how much of Sara’s identity was tied up in being a successful doctor. Music might’ve been her passion and medicine the pragmatic, parent-approved choice, but she still enjoyed her occupation. I saw it every time she came home, tired yet exhilarated by the challenge of bringing life into this world and healing her patients’ ills. Now she seems lost, broken in some indefinable way, and I hate it.
My ptichka loves helping people, and I took that away from her.
To cheer her up, I decide to get a couple of musical instruments and recording equipment on the next trip out, so Sara can record herself singing along to some of her favorite pop songs. I also enlist Ilya to help me convert a portion of the open living room area downstairs into a dance studio, in case Sara wants to take up salsa or ballet again.
“What are you doing?” Sara asks when she sees us putting up the wall, and I explain my idea to her. She doesn’t seem overly excited, but then again, she rarely does these days.
It’s as if some of her inner spark has gone out, and I don’t know how to bring it back.
“This is fucked up, man,” Ilya mutters as Sara goes upstairs after yet another call with her parents, her shoulders stiff and her hazel eyes filled with tears. “Seriously, that girl doesn’t deserve this.”
I shoot him a dark look, and he shuts up, but I know he’s right.
I’m destroying the woman I love, and I can’t stop.
No matter what, I can’t let her go.
By the time Anton and Yan return from their reconnaissance mission, the dance studio needs only mirrors, and I resolve to get those on the return flight from Nigeria, along with the musical instruments and the recording equipment. I also download thousands of popular music videos onto an internet-disabled iPad and give it to Sara—something she thanks me for, though again, with muted enthusiasm.
It’s getting to the point where I’d almost rather she actively fought me, like in the first couple of days after I took her.
Not for the first time, I think about the morning-after pill I gave her and the condoms we’re continuing to use. Maybe it was a mistake to listen to the remnants of my conscience and give in to Sara’s pleas in this regard. When her period came two weeks ago, I felt like I lost something, and no matter how hard I try to force the idea of Sara with child out of my mind, I can’t stop dwelling on it.
I can’t stop wanting it.
My little bird, pregnant. I can picture it so clearly when I look at her—the swollen belly and the full, ripe breasts, the glow of life developing inside her… Her pretty nipples would get extra sensitive, her slim body lush and soft, and when the child would be born, she’d love it.
She’d care for our baby, the way my birth mother never cared for me.
It’s tempting, and the desire gnaws at me more each day. Up here, Sara is completely in my power. If I left the condoms off, there’d be nothing she could do, no morning-after pill she could get from somewhere on her own. She’d have my child and she’d love it, and then someday, she’d grow to love me too.
We’d be a family, and I’d finally truly have her.
She’d be mine, and she’d never want to leave.
The night before Ilya and I depart for Nigeria, I make a special dinner for Sara and the team, whipping up each person’s favorite dishes, along with a couple of Japanese recipes I’ve been itching to try out.
“Why don’t we eat like this every day?” Anton complains, scooping up a second serving of vinegret—a traditional beet-based Russian salad. “Seriously, man, you’ve got to step it up. All we had yesterday was rice and fish.”
I give him the finger, and the Ivanov twins laugh before tucking into their favorite dish—lamb kebobs done the Georgian way, complete with a spicy dipping sauce. Even Sara smiles as she loads her plate with a little bit of everything, including my attempt at tempura vegetables.
As we eat, the guys and I discuss some of the job’s logistics, and Sara quietly listens, as is her habit during mealtimes. The distance she keeps from me extends to my men; she rarely talks to them, at least when I’m around. The only one she seems to like is Ilya, and even with him, she’s reserved, her manner polite but far from warm. I think she feels uncomfortable around my teammates; either that, or she hates them for being my accomplices.
I don’t mind her attitude toward them. In fact, I prefer it. Over the past six weeks, I’ve caught all three eyeing Sara with varying degrees of interest, and I’ve barely stopped myself from slitting their throats. I know they don’t mean anything by looking—any red-blooded male would appreciate Sara’s trim, graceful beauty—but I’m still tempted to kill them.
She’s mine, and I don’t share. Ever.
In any case, I’m glad it’s Yan who’s staying behind. Of the four of us, he has the coolest head, and though I trust all three of my teammates, I have the greatest confidence in Yan’s self-control. He wouldn’t touch Sara, no matter the temptation, and that’s precisely what I need.
I have to know she’s safely guarded, so I can focus on the job.
“So what about the townspeople?” Yan asks as Ilya outlines our escape route after the hit. We’re all speaking English out of deference to Sara, and to my surprise, I see her face whiten as I explain about the bombs we’re planning to set off as a distraction.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s worried for us.
We go through more of the bombing logistics and are in the middle of discussing contingency plans when Sara abruptly stands up, her chair scraping across the floor.
“Please excuse me,” she says in a shaky voice, and before I can stop her, she runs to the staircase and disappears upstairs.
23
Sara
I feel sick, literally ill with anxiety. My stomach is cramping, and it feels like a truck drove over my chest. Ever since Peter told me about the Nigerian banker, I’ve been trying not to think about the danger, but tonight, listening to the men talk about the insane security at the banker’s compound and what they’ll do in case one of them gets injured or killed, I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Tomorrow, Peter and his teammates will go up against a monster in his heavily guarded lair, and there’s no guarantee they’ll come out alive.
Locking myself in the bathroom, I hurry to the sink and splash cold water on my face, trying to breathe through the suffocating tightness in my throat. It feels like a panic attack, only the fear I’m feeling has nothing to do with my own situation—a situation that could, in fact, be resolved by Peter’s death.
A bullet to the brain or the heart—that’s what he once told me it would take for him to leave me be. And I know it’s true. For as long as my tormentor is alive, I’ll never be free of him. Even if I somehow managed to escape, he’d come after me. So I should hope he gets killed—shot or blown apart by one of those bombs. Then his teammates might return me home, and my old life could resume.
I could have it all back if he were dead.
It’s what I should want, but instead, dread and anxiety consume me. The thought of Pet
er hurt in any way is unbearable, even more so today than the night he stole me. Over the past six weeks, I’ve done everything I can to rein in my emotions, to respond to him in physical ways only, but I’ve clearly failed.
Whatever messed-up feelings I developed for my husband’s killer are still there; if anything, they’ve grown during my captivity.
Feeling increasingly ill, I grab a towel and rub it over my wet face. My stomach is a giant knot, and I can feel the blood pulsing in my temples as I drag shallow breaths into my tightening ribcage. The face reflected in the bathroom mirror is chalk white, with red splotches where I rubbed too harshly with the towel.
Tomorrow, Peter could be killed.
“Sara?” A knock on the door startles me, and I drop the towel, pivoting to face the doorway.
“Ptichka, are you okay?” Peter’s deep voice holds a note of worry.
My lungs are still not functioning properly, but I manage to gulp in a breath and choke out, “I’m fine. Just one sec.”
Grabbing the towel from the floor with shaking hands, I throw it into the laundry hamper in the corner and smooth my palms over my hair, trying to calm down. My panic attacks have all but subsided in recent weeks, and I don’t want Peter to know that I unraveled just from hearing about the dangers he’ll face.
Taking several deep breaths, I walk over to the door and unlock it. Peter immediately steps in, a worried frown creasing his forehead as his gaze rakes me over in search of injuries.