by Anna Zaires
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry. Just got a stomachache,” I say in an almost steady voice. “I’m fine, though.”
Peter’s frown deepens. “Is it that time of the month?”
“No, just—” I stop and do some mental calculations. To my surprise, he’s right. My last period was nearly four weeks ago—which does explain some of what I’m feeling.
“Actually, yes,” I say, relieved to grab on to the excuse. “I didn’t realize that, but yes, that must be it.”
Some of the tension leaves Peter’s face. “My poor ptichka. Come here.” Reaching over, he pulls me into his embrace, and I wrap my arms around his waist, breathing in his warm scent as he strokes my hair. The worst of my panic is easing, the solid, muscular feel of him lessening my anxiety, but the dread about tomorrow refuses to go away.
What if he gets killed?
“Do you want to lie down?” Peter murmurs after a moment, pulling back to gaze down at me, and I shake my head. My chest is still too tight, and my stomach is cramping for real, but being alone with my worry would only exacerbate the situation.
Stepping out of his hold, I manage a small smile. “I’m okay. Sorry if I ruined dinner. Everything was delicious.”
There are still traces of worry in his gaze, but he nods, accepting my words at face value. “Do you want some dessert?” he asks. “It’s apple pie. I can bring it up here for you, if you’re not feeling up to—”
“No, I’ll come down. I have to take an Advil anyway.”
And taking a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom, determined to do whatever it takes to distract myself from thoughts about tomorrow.
24
Peter
When we get to the kitchen, Sara’s demeanor changes so suddenly it’s as if someone flipped a switch, turning on a different personality. A kind of frenetic energy seems to take hold of her, and after she gulps down two Advils, she starts rushing around the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and getting fresh plates for dessert with the speed of someone racing to catch a train.
“I got this, ptichka. Just relax,” I tell her, guiding her to her chair when she tries to grab the pie out of the oven without mitts. “You’re not feeling well, so just take it easy.”
“I’m fine,” she protests, but I ignore her, carefully taking the pie out of the oven myself and carrying it to the table while the guys watch the whole thing in bemusement.
Sara sits still for a few moments, letting me cut the pie into five pieces, and then she jumps up again. “Here, let me serve it,” she says, grabbing Ilya’s plate. Then, apparently realizing she doesn’t have the right utensils, she runs over to the kitchenware drawer and returns with a spatula.
This time, I let her do her thing, though I have no idea what’s come over her. Her eyes are too bright, feverish with some repressed excitement, and her face is still too pale. Maybe she’s coming down with something? But then she should be tired, not running around in a frenzy.
“Here,” she says, shoving the pie in front of Ilya. “Do you want anything else? Like whipped cream?”
“Um, no, thank you.” My teammate blinks at Sara. “I’m good.”
She gives him an uncharacteristically bright smile and grabs Anton’s plate next. Plopping down a slice of pie on it, she hands the plate to him, and then does the same thing for Yan and me before snagging a piece of pie for herself.
Sitting down, she stabs a fork into her slice and looks up, surveying our puzzled faces.
“So,” she says in a voice so cheerful I hardly recognize it, “do you guys have apple pie in Russia too, or is this more of an American thing? You know, as American as apple pie and all that?”
Yan recovers first. “We have apple pie,” he says with an amused grin. “It doesn’t look exactly like this, but we make pies and little pies—pirozhki—filled with apples and berries, as well as meat, potatoes, mushrooms, cabbage, green onions, and eggs.”
“Cabbage, green onions, and eggs?” Sara wrinkles her nose. “Really?”
“Well, not together,” Yan clarifies. “It’s eggs and green onions, or cabbage. Oh, and mushrooms can also be with onions and cheese.”
Sara cocks her head, regarding him with interest. “Oh yeah? What other kinds of baked goods do Russians like?”
“Oh, there are lots,” Anton says, jumping into the conversation. Unwittingly, Sara has touched on my friend’s biggest weakness—sweets and baked goods—and Ilya and I exchange exasperated looks as he launches into a long list of his favorite cakes and pastries, describing each one in drool-inducing detail.
“Wow,” Sara says when he pauses to catch his breath. “Peter, do you know how to make all of these?”
“Some,” I say, putting down my fork. “If you want, I can try my hand at the Napoleon when we return—that’s the Russian version of mille-feuille, the multi-layered custard Anton was telling you about.”
“Yes, please,” Anton replies, though I wasn’t addressing him. “How do Americans say it? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
Ilya and Anton laugh, but Sara’s face tightens for a fraction of a second. In the next moment, however, she joins them in laughter, and I have to wonder if I imagined it. Not that it matters—her behavior is strange enough as is.
As we eat dessert and drink tea—a Russian tradition the guys tell Sara all about—I watch her, trying to figure out the reason for her sudden animation. It’s as if a different person took over Sara’s body. She’s joking and laughing with my men, as though she has not a care in the world. Yet under the table, she’s shifting in her chair and holding her arm curled around her stomach—a clear sign of the cramps that plague her.
It bothers me, this puzzle, and when all of the apple pie is gone, I tell the guys to take care of the cleanup. Sara jumps up to help them, but I catch her wrist before she can start running around again.
“Come,” I say. “It’s time for bed.”
She doesn’t offer any objections, even though it’s barely nine o’clock, and when we get to the bedroom, she starts to undress without prompting, her eyes still gleaming with that feverish light.
My physical response is instant. As soon as she takes off her shirt and unclasps her bra, my cock goes rock hard and prickles of heat run over my skin. And when she lets the bra fall to the floor before shimmying out of her jeans, my heart starts slamming against my ribcage. What turns me on the most, though, is that she holds my gaze throughout, the feverish gleam in the hazel depths transforming into the seductive glow of desire.
Her thong is last, and then she comes toward me, her slim hips swaying with unconscious grace.
Impossibly, I harden even more, and it takes everything I have not to seize her as she stops in front of me, her slender hands reaching for the top button of my shirt.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well.” My voice is hoarse, filled with the lust pounding through me in savage waves. “Ptichka, you don’t have to—”
“Shhh.” Reaching up, she presses a delicate finger to my lips. “I don’t want to talk.”
My heartbeat roars in my ears as she lowers her hand and starts working on the buttons of my shirt. It’s the first time Sara’s initiated sex with me like this, and as her fingers brush against my skin, the heat inside me turns volcanic, the urge to fuck her so strong my hands curl into fists. She’s working with exquisite concentration, her sexy lower lip tucked between her teeth as her hair tumbles in thick, shiny waves around her face, and I literally shake with the need to reach for her, to grab her and take her, over and over again.
Yet I don’t move. I can’t. Her willing touch is a gift I didn’t expect tonight, didn’t even dare to hope for. I don’t know what’s going through her head or why she’s doing this, but I’m not about to protest.
Finishing with the buttons, Sara pushes the shirt off my shoulders and, glancing up at me through the dark fringe of her lashes, reaches for the zipper of my jeans.
Her touch is more hesitan
t now, almost wary, but it doesn’t matter. The blood rushing through my veins feels like lava. Her naked body is so close I can smell her, feel her… all but taste her sweetness on my tongue. Her nipples are tight and hard, the pale globes of her breasts swaying gently as she wrestles with the buckle of my belt, and a groan escapes my throat as she frees my throbbing cock and sinks onto her knees before me.
“Sara…” I can barely speak as she cradles my balls in her soft palm and wraps her other hand around my shaft. Leaning in, she licks it delicately from root to tip, sending heat rocketing up and down my spine. My balls draw up high and tight, and I know I’m seconds away from coming. Dragging in a breath, I try to think of something else, something to delay the explosive rise of tension, but she wraps her lips around me, taking me into her soft, wet mouth, and I lose all semblance of control.
Groaning, I clutch her head, tangling my fingers in her hair as I thrust all the way in, making her gag and choke as I hit her throat. It’s not what I wanted, not what I meant to do tonight, but the lust riding me is too violent, too potent to resist. On her knees, with her chestnut waves streaming over her slender back and her eyes watering as I fuck her face, Sara is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And knowing she’s there of her own accord…
“Fuck!” The expletive bursts out of me as her hand tightens on my balls, and the orgasm boils up, the pleasure spiking out of control. My muscles clench, my spine curving as ecstasy pounds through my veins, and with a hoarse shout, I come, my seed jetting straight into her throat.
She swallows every drop, sucking on my cock until it softens, and all the while, her hazel eyes stare into mine. It’s like she’s drinking in my pleasure, feeding on my need for her. It reminds me of the time I punished her, only tonight I don’t see the same dazed submission in her gaze. She’s doing this because she wants to, not because I broke her, and when the last of the rippling pleasure fades, I pull her to her feet and lead her to our bed, determined to make it right.
“Lie down,” I tell her, guiding her onto the bed, and she obeys, stretching out on her back. Her gaze is shadowed, her lids half-lowered as she watches me climb over her, and I know she’s still in the grip of whatever’s been driving her tonight.
The puzzle of it gnaws at me, but now is not the time to pursue it. I’m still breathing heavily with the aftershocks of pleasure, but I want more. I want to taste her as she comes, feel her slender arms wrap around me. More than a sexual need, it’s a compulsion.
With Sara, I can never get enough.
So I indulge myself. With my most urgent hunger sated, I take my time playing with her body, kissing and caressing every centimeter of her warm, sweet-scented flesh. She’s delicious, my Sara, her pale skin smooth and sleek, her delicate curves soft yet firm to the touch. Her moans, her breathy little gasps, her whimpers as I lick her—I’d give the world to stay like this forever, to keep hearing her cries as she unravels on my tongue.
Two orgasms, three, then four… I lose count after a while, consumed by her, addicted to her pleasure. I bring her to completion with my fingers and my mouth, and then take her gently, cognizant of her pre-period discomfort. She doesn’t object, clinging to me as I rock carefully back and forth, and after I come, I go down on her once more, tasting our combined wetness as I suck her clit. Her fingers clenching in my hair, her panting breaths and pleading groans—it’s like a drug I overdose on, binging on her scent and taste and feel. And when she’s lying there spent, glowing and exhausted, I take her in my arms, feeling her heart beat against mine as we fall asleep.
25
Sara
I wake up to a peculiar mixture of wellbeing and malaise, and it takes a solid minute to recall why.
Peter.
He left for Nigeria this morning after making love to me all night.
It feels surreal now, like a dream I’m waking up from. I can’t believe I came on to him like that, and then what followed… Groaning, I roll over onto my side and swing my legs off the bed. My stomach is cramping in full force, and when I get to the bathroom, I’m not surprised to discover that my period is starting. What does shock me is that we again forgot condoms last night, and no alarm bells rang in my mind.
It’s like I subconsciously want to get pregnant.
No. I shove away the horrifying thought. I definitely do not want a child like this. I just wasn’t thinking clearly last night. After listening to the men talk about the dangers they’ll face, I was so sick with worry, and so desperate to distract myself, I all but attacked Peter, seducing him despite how shitty I was feeling. I’m pretty sure he would’ve left me alone last night—he’s always considerate when I feel ill—but I needed a distraction, and that’s precisely what I got. By my second orgasm, I forgot all about Nigeria and not feeling well, and by the fourth, I could barely recall my own name.
I’m in desperate need of a shower, so I ignore the twisting discomfort in my stomach and step into the stall to wash from head to toe. Then I towel off, brush my teeth, and trudge back into the bedroom to get dressed. To my surprise, I discover a glass of water and Advil on the dresser—Peter must’ve left them there for me this morning.
Feeling pathetically grateful, I swallow the medicine and lie down, waiting for the worst of the discomfort to pass. It’s stupid, but I already miss my captor… miss his attentiveness and care. I know it’s just because I’m feeling low, but I want him here to rub my belly, to hold me and make me feel like I’m the center of his world.
I want him here and not halfway around the world, where bullets fly and bombs explode.
No. No, no, no. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. The anxiety I thought I banished returns with a toxic blast, the panic tightening my chest and throat. It’s stupid, utterly irrational, but I don’t want to see my tormentor dead. I can’t even imagine it. His impact on my life is so absolute, so all-encompassing, I can’t picture it without him.
I don’t want to picture it.
My chest squeezes even tighter, and I focus on my breathing, trying to relax my tense muscles and slow my wildly beating pulse. I tell myself that Peter will be fine, that he can handle whatever comes his way. Danger is his comfort zone, assassinations his chosen profession. There’s no reason to think that something will go wrong, no reason to imagine he will not return.
Except he got hurt on that Mexico job.
No. Breathing deeply, I force away the insidious reminder. It’s stupid to worry just because of a one-time slip. Over the years, Peter has done plenty of dangerous jobs without getting hurt.
In fact, he killed my husband and his three guards without getting so much as a scratch.
My stomach roils, worsening my cramps, and my throat fills with bile at the recollection. How could I have let myself forget, even for an instant, what kind of man Peter is and what he’s done? Up here on this mountain, my old life may seem less real, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
It doesn’t mean the husband I loved did not exist.
Closing my eyes, I focus on George and the happy memories we had together. There were so many: our first dates, the trip to Disney World, the barbecues at my parents’ house… My parents loved him, thought the world of him, and for years, so did I. We laughed and cried together, went out and stayed in. He was there for my college graduation, and I was there for his. Then things got tough: my med school and my residency, his never-ending trips abroad. And still, we were together, our love bolstered by the knowledge that our lives were just beginning, that we were young and could withstand it all.
Of course, that was before the drinking and the moods… before his secrets destroyed our marriage and brought Peter to our door.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the now-familiar pain of betrayal. I wish I could forget that part, to pretend that everything Peter told me is a lie, but I can’t deny the facts.
The boy I met in college wasn’t the man I married, and for years, I had no idea why.
Spy, not journalist. It st
ill seems so impossible to believe. Would George have ever told me? If the tragedy at Daryevo and all the things that followed hadn’t happened, would I have ever learned about his real job? Or would he have kept me in the dark our entire lives, lying to me with a smile?
Realizing my thoughts are veering toward bitterness, I try to focus on the happy times, but it’s useless. What George and I had might’ve been good once, but it wasn’t toward the end, and I can’t forget that. I can’t wipe away the pain and the guilt, the shame and the despair I battled as our marriage slowly fell apart, crushed by the weight of his addiction. I lost my husband long before the accident that broke his skull, before Peter showed up with his deadly plans of vengeance.
I lost him when Peter lost his family; I just didn’t know it at the time.
My stomach is still cramping, but the pills are starting to kick in, so I get up and start getting dressed. I can’t bear to think about George any longer, because even the happy memories are now tainted by the knowledge that it was all a lie, that I never truly knew the man I married.
The man whose killer I’m worrying about now.
Desperate to suppress a fresh swell of anxiety, I grab the iPad Peter gave me and turn on a music video, singing along with Ariana Grande as I put on my clothes and brush my hair. The music lifts my mood slightly, and by the time I go downstairs, I’m able to greet Yan, who’s sitting behind the counter with a laptop, with a normal-sounding, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replies, looking up from the screen as I start making myself coffee. As always, Ilya’s brother is dressed as though for work at an investment firm, his brown hair neatly styled and his face smoothly shaven. He’s smiling at me, but his green gaze remains cool as he says, “Peter left oatmeal for you on the stove.”
“Oh, thanks.” My chest squeezes with unsettling warmth as I walk over to the stove and ladle the oatmeal into a bowl. I should be used to it by now, but it still amazes me how Peter never seems to tire of taking care of me. This morning, of all days, he must’ve had so many more important things on his mind, yet he thought of me, leaving me Advil and now this breakfast.