by Anna Zaires
If they’re all alive, that is.
Taking a breath, I try to calm myself, to stop the tears from streaking down my frozen face, but the fear is too strong. I’m sick with it, poisoned by the surfeit of adrenaline. I’ve never known this kind of debilitating worry for another. My heart pounds violently in my ribcage, each beat marking another second of wretched waiting.
Peter has to be all right. He has to be.
One minute, two, three, ten… I stare at the tiny clock in the corner of the screen as Yan falls silent, joining me in waiting.
Twelve minutes.
Fifteen.
Eighteen.
I don’t move. I barely even breathe.
Twenty.
Twenty-two.
Yan’s posture changes, taking on a new alertness. Gripping the microphone, he speaks a few terse sentences in Russian, then removes the headphones and swivels to face me.
Ravages of stress still mark his features, but the tension I saw earlier is gone. “It’s over,” he says. “They’re in the air, on their way to Egypt. A bullet grazed Ilya’s skull, but they stopped the bleeding, and he’s already briefly woken up. With any luck, he’ll be okay.”
I grip the counter, bracing myself. “And Peter?”
“Bruised and a little bloodied, but not injured. Same goes for Anton.”
I exhale, dizzy with relief, and swipe at the wetness on my cheeks with the back of my trembling hand.
Peter is alive.
Bruised and bloodied, but alive.
I want to sink to the floor, the post-adrenaline slump hitting me like a bullet, but I steady myself against the counter, forcing my overloaded brain to function. “So why—” I clear my throat, chasing the hoarseness from my voice. “Why are they going to Egypt?”
“Ilya still needs medical attention, and there’s a clinic,” Yan explains, then gives me an arrested stare.
“What?” I ask, my heartbeat accelerating.
“You’re a doctor,” he says, cocking his head. “Aren’t you?”
“I… yes.” Doesn’t he know that? “I’m a licensed OB-GYN.”
“Do you know how to stitch a wound?”
I’m beginning to see where this is heading. “Yes, of course. I also did a rotation in ER during my residency, but—”
“Hold on.” He pivots to face the laptop and puts on the headphones.
“Wait, Yan. He needs a hospital,” I protest, but he’s already speaking into the microphone in Russian.
Frustrated, I wait for him to finish, and when he turns to face me again, I tell him firmly, “This is a bad idea. Your brother could have a concussion or internal bleeding. He needs a CT scan, antibiotics, proper medical equipment… He—”
“Has survived worse, believe me,” Yan interrupts, his face resolute. “What he needs is rest and recovery time, and we can’t give him that in the clinic—not with the authorities about to scour the African continent for us. We have antibiotics and basic medical supplies here—we stock that in all of our safe houses—and now we have a doctor too.”
I frown. “No, listen. It’s still not—”
“You should get some sleep, Sara,” Yan advises, reaching for his headphones. “You look tired, and we’ll need you sharp and rested when they land.”
28
Peter
Sara is standing by the helipad as we land, her slender figure small and fragile next to Yan’s solid frame. My chest squeezes at the sight, my longing for her painfully sharp, and it’s all I can do not to grab her as soon as our helicopter skids touch the ground. Instead, the first thing I do upon jumping out of the chopper is help Ilya out. The wound where the bullet grazed his skull is no longer bleeding, but he’s still weak from loss of blood and more than a little concussed.
If the banker’s mistress had used something other than a pearl-handled .22 revolver and had better aim, we’d be bringing him home in a body bag.
My overworked shoulder burns and my bruised ribs ache as Ilya leans on me—my bulletproof vest stopped two bullets during our escape—but I don’t complain. I’m lucky. Fuck, all three of us are lucky. The shit definitely hit the fan, and it was spectacularly shitty. Between the banker’s mistress finding the revolver under the mattress and some vigilant guard hearing the gunshot, our way out of the compound was as rough as the way in was smooth.
On a scale of one to ten, this job ended up as a seven—not as bad as some, but definitely worse than others.
“Here, I got him,” Yan says, stepping in to support Ilya, and I step aside, letting him help his brother. Anton is coming out of the chopper behind us, but I pay him no attention. He caught some shrapnel from the grenade in his arm and shoulder, but I know he’ll be fine. Instead, I focus on the one person I can’t live without.
Sara.
My beautiful little songbird.
The wind is blowing her chestnut hair around her face, the sun highlighting shades of red within the rich brown waves. Her gaze is solemn as she stares at me, her face devoid of all expression. Yet I sense her longing, feel it deep within my bones.
She might not admit it, but she needs me.
She feels our connection, too.
Five long strides, and I scoop her up, lifting her into my arms as I crush my mouth to hers. Behind us, Anton lets out a low wolf whistle, but I tune him out. I don’t give a fuck what the guys think, don’t care that they see my weakness. Nothing matters but the way her slim arms fold around me, and the sweet, hot burn as I taste her lips. The minty flavor of her breath, the slick glide of her tongue, her warm Sara scent—I absorb it all, filling the emptiness inside me, pushing the darkness of my world away.
I don’t deserve her, but I have her.
She’s mine to love and cherish, mine to hold.
I don’t know how long I kiss her, but by the time I lift my head, the others are already entering the house. Reluctantly, I lower Sara to her feet, but I can’t bring myself to let go of her.
“Did you miss me, ptichka?” I ask softly, my hands resting on her supple waist. “Did you worry when I was gone?”
The sun brings out the greenish flecks in her soft hazel eyes, highlighting the turmoil within them. “I…” She licks her kiss-swollen lips. “I didn’t want to see you dead.”
“So you’ve said. But did you miss me?”
She gives me a tortured look, then pushes at my chest, stepping out of my hold. “I have to go,” she says tightly. “Ilya’s head won’t stitch itself.”
Turning, she runs into the house, and I follow, both disappointed and encouraged.
She’s not yet ready to admit it, but sooner or later, I will break her.
I will make her love me, no matter what it takes.
Sara follows the Ivanov twins into Ilya’s room, and I go into our bedroom to take a shower before I crash. I washed up on the plane, but I still feel the urge to scrub off all the violence and death.
I don’t want the ugliness of my world to taint Sara in any way.
It takes me over twenty minutes to shower and change—with the numbing effects of adrenaline wearing off, my sore muscles and bruised ribs object to every movement—and by the time I get to Ilya’s room, Sara is halfway done with his stitches. I stop in the doorway and watch her work, enjoying the tiny frown of concentration on her face. I had cameras installed in her office at the hospital, so I’m intimately familiar with that expression. She’d often wear it when taking notes on her patients or reading some new study that had come out in her field.
“Hand me that gauze,” she tells Yan when she’s done, and I grin at her authoritative tone. My little bird is in her element, and for the first time in weeks, I see a hint of her former spark. Yan was right to suggest this; not only is having Sara take care of Ilya’s wound infinitely safer for us, but it’s good for her mood, too.
Her movements are quick and efficient as she bandages Ilya’s head, and my teammate closes his eyes, looking blissed out as the painkillers we gave him earlier kick in.
&nbs
p; “Any other injuries?” Sara asks, glancing over her shoulder at me and Yan.
“I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” Yan says. “I know Anton caught a little shrapnel, so you might want to take a look at him. I think he’s in his room.”
She nods and gets up. “What about you, Peter?”
I want her hands on me, so I shrug and promptly wince from the movement. “Just some scrapes and bruises,” I say, doing my best to sound stoic but in pain.
Yan, who’s seen me walk around with broken bones without a peep, gives me an “are you fucking kidding?” look, but is smart enough not to say anything as Sara frowns and comes up to me.
“Show me,” she orders, reaching for my shirt, but I catch her slender wrists before she can start an examination right then and there.
“How about we go to our room so I can sit down?” I suggest, ignoring Yan’s open eye roll. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”
Sara frowns up at me, apparently divining my agenda. “I still have to examine Anton. Here, sit.” Twisting her wrists out of my hold, she grabs my hand and leads me to a chair in the corner as Yan—the cock-blocking bastard—snickers quietly.
“Let me see,” Sara says, deftly pulling my shirt up over my head, and I wince for real as the movement pulls at my sore shoulder.
It’s all worth it, though, because in the next moment, Sara’s cool, gentle hands press against my torso, carefully feeling each rib for breaks. Her touch should hurt, but as her delicate fingers glide over my bruises, all I feel is a surge of warmth, mixed with an aching tightness in my groin.
“Does this hurt?” she murmurs as her hands move up to my shoulder, and I shake my head, mesmerized by the green striations in her soft hazel eyes.
“It’s just—” I clear my throat. “Just muscle soreness, I think.”
“Hmm.” Carefully, she lifts my arm and moves it in a circular motion. “No pain like this?”
“No.” I breathe in deeply, inhaling her sweet scent. “Just some soreness.”
“Okay.” She gently lowers my arm and, to my disappointment, steps back. “Looks like you’re right—it’s just some bruising.”
“I also scraped my back,” I say, turning to show her. “Might need to be bandaged.”
Sara leans in, her hands grazing my shoulders before moving down to mid-back, where I feel the faint stinging.
“This?” she asks, touching the wounded area lightly, and I nod, though the pain is barely noticeable.
“It looks like it’s already healing, so no bandage required,” Sara says as I turn back to face her. “I’m guessing someone already cleaned it?”
“Anton did that on the plane,” I admit grudgingly. For once, I wish my team and I weren’t so well versed in first aid. “Are you sure you don’t need to bandage it?”
“No. It will heal better like this. Anything else?”
I lift my hands to show her the scrapes on the bottom of my palms, and Yan bursts out laughing.
“What do you want her to do with that? Kiss it and make it better?” he says in Russian, ignoring my furious glare. “Seriously, man, you want to indulge in doctor-patient play, do it later. Let her finish treating actual wounds first.”
Sara frowns at us both before asking Yan, “What did you just say?”
“I told him that Anton needs your attention,” Yan replies, still grinning. “And that he shouldn’t hold you up with his kinky sex games.”
Sara’s face pinkens, and she turns away, grabbing the first aid kit to stuff the gauze and other supplies back in. “I’ll go take a look at Anton right now,” she says stiffly, and hurries out of the room without looking at either one of us.
I get up and put my shirt on. “I’m going to smash your fucking face into your skull at training tomorrow,” I tell Yan grimly. “As soon as I get some sleep, you’re going to be eating your own teeth.”
The asshole just laughs as I stalk out of the room, following Sara, and even Ilya seems to have a smile on his face as I loudly slam the door behind me.
Anton better not enjoy Sara’s ministrations as I just did.
I’ll kill that motherfucker if he does.
29
Sara
Anton has a few gashes and shallow puncture wounds where the shrapnel from the grenade got his arms, but otherwise, he’s okay. I change his bandages as Peter glowers from the other side of the room, and then I give Anton some instructions on how to take care of the wounds. Not that Peter’s teammate needs them; from what I can tell, these men are pros at treating basic injuries.
“Thank you, Dr. Cobakis,” he says when I’m done, and I smile at him.
Even scary-looking bearded assassins seem to respect the medical profession—when they’re injured, at least.
Peter says something sharp in Russian and crosses the room to stand next to me. “All done?” he asks irritably, glaring down at me, and I match his frown with one of my own.
“Yes, for now.” I have no idea what his problem is, but he’s been acting like a bear with a thorn in its paw ever since he entered the room.
If it weren’t so ridiculous, I’d think he’s jealous of my attention to his injured friend.
“Then let’s go.” Grabbing my hand, he leads me out, and my pulse jumps as I realize he’s bringing me to our room.
“Peter…” I feel myself getting breathless as I try to keep up with his long strides. “What are you doing? You need to rest.”
He gives me a sidelong glance but doesn’t stop. His jaw is tightly clenched, his grip on me so hard it’s almost painful. Towing me along, he enters our room and purposefully shuts the door behind us.
“Peter…” I back up as soon as he lets go of my hand. “You’re hurt. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you need to—”
My words end on a gasp, because Peter stalks after me, closing the distance between us in a few decisive strides before sweeping me up against his chest. Three seconds later, I find myself on the bed, with two hundred pounds of furious, aroused male sprawled on top of me.
“What are you—”
His mouth slants over mine, hard and hungry, and his hands tear at my clothes, literally ripping my shirt in half. I tense, startled by the violence, but he doesn’t stop, working my jeans down my legs with rough, jerky movements as he devours me with his brutal kiss. As he yanks down my underwear, I spare a moment’s thought for the sheets and the bloodied pad I’m wearing, but his fingers twine with mine, pinning my hands above my head, and I forget all about it, swept up in the savage storm of his lust.
It’s overwhelming, even frightening, yet the desire is still there, lurking underneath the fear. My muscles instinctively lock tight even as warm slickness lubricates my sex, the tension intensifying my arousal. I burn for him, craving the danger and the roughness, and as he plunges into me, I cry out from the shock of it, from the dark pleasure and stinging pain.
He pauses then, lifting his head to meet my gaze, and I remember our first time, the way he took me, losing all control. He hurt me then too, but unlike that time, there’s no hate in my heart today, no bitterness or stifling shame. The pain feels good, pushing away the remnants of my worry, reminding me that he’s alive.
Reminding us both that we’re alive.
“Sara…” My name is a hoarse exhale on his lips, his molten silver gaze holding me captive even as he throbs inside me, his thick cock stretching my inner tissues, filling me to the brim until I ache. “Ptichka, I need you so fucking much…”
“And I need you.” The words feel like they come from the very center of my being, torn out of me by the impossible fire burning in my veins. I can’t fight it any longer, can’t pretend I hate this beautiful, lethal man. It’s not love between us, nor anything resembling friendship, but our connection is undeniable, the bone-deep chemistry binding us together in coils of dark need and violent attraction. I want this from him: the roughness and the tenderness, the fear and the all-consuming heat.
He’s everything I never
knew I needed, and as his eyes darken at my admission, I realize what this means.
I am his, as terrifying as that thought may be.
Closing my eyes, I wrap my legs around his hips, taking him even deeper, and as he begins thrusting, his muscled ass flexing against my calves, I give in to the inevitable.
I give in to him.
Part III
30
Sara
By the time the second month of my captivity transitions into the third, I find my resentment slowly lessening, the desperate longing for my old life transforming into a kind of bittersweet ache. I continue to look for opportunities to escape, but someone’s always in the house, watching me, and as the days bleed into one another, I stop worrying about the impossibility of getting away and begin to enjoy some parts of my leisurely routine. The warm weather helps—we’re in the hottest month of summer now, and there’s a lot more to do outside—and so does the fact that outside of a few supply runs, Peter has been spending pretty much all his time with me.
“You haven’t had a job in a while,” I comment as we head down to a mountain stream where we’ve been swimming on particularly warm days. “Is it because of what happened to Ilya the last time, or you just don’t get clients that often?”
“We get contacted all the time, but we’re selective in the work we take on,” Peter says, raising a low-hanging branch to let me pass underneath. “The risk-reward ratio has to be just right, especially now.”
He doesn’t say why, but he doesn’t have to. From what he’s told me, and from what I’ve gleaned from my brief conversations with my parents, the authorities are intensifying their manhunt, throwing all their resources at the problem that is Peter. Partially, it’s because of my disappearance; even with my twice-weekly calls, my parents are convinced I’m in danger and spend their days harassing the FBI for updates. But the main issue is the last target on Peter’s list, a former US general who’s proving to be as elusive in his own way as Peter and his team.