by Anna Zaires
The gorgeous woman in those photos doesn’t look old enough to have a teenage son.
“Here we are,” Kent says as we enter a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom and another big window overlooking the sea. “Towels are in the bathroom, and sheets are already on the bed. If you need anything else tonight, talk to Yulia.”
“Yulia?” I ask.
“My wife,” Kent clarifies as Peter walks over to stand by the window. “She knows where everything is, not me.”
“Got it,” I say, doing my best to hide my sudden amusement. In Japan, I’ve become so used to Peter and the guys handling all the domestic chores that I’ve forgotten most men aren’t like that. My dad still asks my mom where he can find the ice cream scooper, and George didn’t know how to make anything except barbecue and cheese sandwiches.
At the unexpected recollection, my chest tightens, my mood darkening as I realize that I once again compared my dead husband to his killer. It’s something I’ve caught myself doing more often lately, and each time, I feel ashamed and angry with myself. The comparisons are rarely flattering to George, and that’s not fair. What George and I had was a regular relationship, with liking, respect, and a normal kind of attraction. My husband wasn’t in any way obsessed with me, and I didn’t feel for him even a fraction of the contradictory emotions Peter stirs up in me.
And that was a good thing, I tell myself as I go into the bathroom to freshen up. What I have with Peter is too intense, too overwhelming. What he’s willing to do to have me is terrifying, as is my inability to resist him despite the awful things he does. The very idea of us together is wrong on every possible level. And if I needed further proof of that, those photos on the walls today provided it. Even our host, the illegal arms dealer, seems to have a happy marriage—something I’ll never have with Peter.
I doubt Lucas Kent was ever cruel enough to keep his beautiful wife captive, much less kill her husband.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Kent is gone, and Peter is sitting on the bed, waiting for me. “Dinner is almost ready,” he says, standing up as I approach. “Lucas said to come as soon as you get changed.”
“Okay.” I grab the bag Peter packed for me and change out of my travel-worn clothes while Peter disappears into the restroom. By the time he returns, I’m dressed in one of my nicer summer dresses and have even managed to swipe on a lipgloss—a recent Yan purchase I remembered to slip into the bag.
“I’m all ready,” I say as Peter comes toward me, his metallic gaze oddly intent. “Should we go so they’re not—oh!”
Before I can do more than gasp, I find myself bent over the bed, my skirt flipped up, exposing my thong. One hard tug from Peter’s fist, and the flimsy piece of fabric tears, leaving me bare to the waist. My heartbeat jumps, my insides clenching with a mix of fear and anticipation, and then Peter is on me, bending over me as his cock presses against my folds.
His entry is rough, borderline violent. One big hand grips my throat, forcing me to arch my back as he thrusts into me, while the other one delves underneath, finding my clit. I’m not wet enough at first, and the savage thrusts burn, his thick cock like a battering ram inside me. Before long, however, his fingers find the right rhythm, and a familiar tension starts to coil in my core. His grip on my throat restricts my breathing, and my nerve endings thrum in agonized pleasure-pain, the lack of oxygen heightening all sensations. It’s too much, too intense, and I drag in shallow, gasping breaths, clutching fistfuls of blanket as he continues to hammer into me, fucking me so hard it feels like I might shatter.
And then I do, the tension cresting in a sizzling wave. White-hot pleasure explodes through every muscle in my body, making my heart feel like it’s bursting in my chest. Shaking, wheezing for air, I collapse onto the mattress as soon as Peter lets go of my throat, and I hear him groan as he pulses deep inside me in release.
For a minute, I can’t think, can only pant weakly into the blanket as he withdraws from me and steps back, but then the significance of the wetness trickling down my thighs dawns on me.
Peter didn’t use a condom again.
Scrunching my eyes shut, I silently curse myself, then Peter, and then myself again. Every other time we’ve slipped up has been at a minimally fertile time, which is why we’ve avoided consequences so far. Right now, though, I’m just about mid-cycle—and most likely ovulating.
“Can you please hand me a tissue?” I ask stiffly, opening my eyes but not moving lest I mess up the new dress. I only brought a couple of outfits with me for this trip, and I can’t afford to get one dirty the first night.
Peter walks toward the nightstand by the bed and returns with a tissue. “Here you go,” he murmurs, patting at the wetness between my legs, and I snatch the tissue from him, finishing the job myself before heading to the bathroom again. My sex is swollen and sore, and my legs are not entirely steady, but all I can focus on is that I might’ve gotten pregnant.
Pregnant with Peter’s child.
I wash myself as thoroughly as I can, even though I know it’s futile. All it takes is one sperm, not the millions that are still inside me. Fighting the urge to cry, I smooth my hair, make sure my dress still looks presentable, and step out of the bathroom.
“Sara…” Peter gets up from the bed where he was sitting again. His jaw is tight, his eyebrows drawn into a frown as he reaches for me, his fingers gently encircling my upper arms. “Ptichka, are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” I frown up at him.
“Did I hurt you?” he clarifies, his face darkened with concern. “I didn’t mean to be so rough. You just looked so beautiful and sexy that I—” He grimaces. “Well, the truth is, I lost control.”
My despair gives way to sudden anger, and furious heat climbs up my cheeks. Beautiful and sexy? Is that his excuse for this?
“Lost control?” Jerkily, I pull out of his hold. “Really? What about every other time you did this? Did you ‘lose control’ then, too?”
His silver gaze fills with remorse. “I did hurt you. I’m sorry, my love. I was rough, and I didn’t mean to be—not tonight, at least.”
“You didn’t hurt me!” My hands curl at my sides. “I mean you did, but I don’t care about that—I came, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m talking about the no-condom thing.”
His features smooth out, his expression turning carefully opaque. “I see.”
“You see what?” I glare up at him, stepping closer until I’m almost treading on his toes. He’s a head taller than me, and much, much bigger, but I’m too furious to care. “Just admit it,” I hiss. “You’re trying to get me pregnant. This was no accident, and neither was every other time we ‘forgot.’”
For a moment, I’m certain Peter will deny it, but he captures my hand in his and presses it against his chest, his eyes glittering like dark glass.
“Yes,” he says softly. “You’re right, Sara. I am trying to get you pregnant.”
41
Sara
I don’t register anything else about Kent’s house as Peter leads me to the dining area, nor do I pay attention to Peter’s men as they join us in the living room and follow us to the table. I’m still processing Peter’s admission, my anger swiftly transforming into suffocating panic.
This is not a total surprise, of course. I suspected this, knew it on some level. My kidnapper already admitted that he wouldn’t mind a child with me, and a man like Peter—someone meticulous enough to plan impossible assassinations and account for dozens of unforeseen variables—wouldn’t leave off a condom out of forgetfulness. Not repeatedly, at least.
I was right to want to run. If I don’t escape soon, I may never find a way out—and I must. If not for myself, then for my future child.
I can’t have a baby with a criminal on the run, a man whose life is steeped in violence and danger.
“There you are. I was beginning to think you decided to take a nap before dinner.” The beautiful blonde from the photos—Yulia—greets us with a dazzling smile as
we enter the dining area. In person, she’s even more stunning, with impossibly long legs, bright blue eyes, and model-perfect features. Like her husband, she’s dressed casually, in a pair of jean shorts and a light-colored T-shirt, but the simple outfit only highlights her natural beauty. She looks to be a few years younger than me, somewhere in her early to mid-twenties. Her tall, slender body is curved in all the right places, and her pale skin glows with a golden undertone that contrasts prettily with the white-blond highlights in her long, thick hair.
If I met her on the street, I would’ve been sure she was a model or an actress.
Realizing I’m gaping at her as though she’s a celeb, I shove all thoughts of Peter and pregnancy aside and give her a warm smile. “Hi. I’m Sara. You must be Yulia?”
I have no idea if Kent’s wife knows about my situation or not, but if she doesn’t, maybe I can explain my predicament to her and recruit her to my cause. First, though, I need to get to know her a bit, get a read on what she’s like.
“I am indeed.” Beaming, Yulia comes over and gives me a very European kiss on the cheek. “So pleased to meet you.” Turning to Peter and his men, she smiles at them. “Hello. Pleasure to meet you all.”
As the men introduce themselves, I realize that Kent’s wife also speaks perfect American English, with no detectable accent. However, her name makes me think that she’s from somewhere in Eastern Europe—a guess that’s confirmed when Yan says something to her in Russian and she responds in the same language, grinning widely.
“Yan just asked if the food is going to be as good as at her restaurants,” Peter translates for me. “Yulia has three of them so far, and Yan has apparently been to the one in Berlin.”
“Oh.” I take back my earlier thought; maybe the food will taste as good as it smells. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Yulia says, her smile brightening even more. “It’s a lot of work, but I love it.”
“What do you love?” Kent asks, walking in. Going straight to Yulia, he pulls her to him, draping a proprietary arm around her waist. His hard face is expressionless, but his pale eyes glitter dangerously as he surveys Peter and his men, his posture a silent warning to keep their hands—and eyes—off his wife.
“Running my restaurants,” she explains, smiling up at her big, dangerous-looking husband without a trace of fear. Reaching up, she smoothes her hand over the back of his short hair. “Yan here has apparently been to my Berlin branch and enjoyed it.”
“And why shouldn’t he?” Kent’s expression softens as he gazes at Yulia. “Your recipes are amazing, sweetheart.”
Her color heightens, and for a moment, they seem oblivious to our presence. The look that passes between them is so tender, so intimate that my own face heats up even as a bittersweet ache pierces my heart.
Kent’s marriage is indeed a happy one—and I can’t help envying that.
“Food?” Anton says plaintively, and we all laugh as a blushing Yulia extricates herself from her husband’s hold and hurries into the kitchen. Our host goes after her, and they return a minute later with delicious-smelling dishes that they set on the table. Peter and I go into the kitchen to help them bring out the rest, and a few minutes later, we’re sitting down to a gourmet meal that outstrips the fanciest dishes Peter’s ever made for me.
“Does everyone in your part of the world cook like this?” I ask, amazed. Not only are there two different kinds of roast chicken and marinated lamb, there’s also smoked fish, five different types of salads, puff pastries and crepes stuffed with a variety of mouthwatering toppings, and so many dips and little side dishes I can only hope to have the stomach room to try them all. And everything is arranged so beautifully that each plate resembles a work of art.
“No, you just got lucky with me—and we all got lucky with Yulia,” Peter says, smiling. His expression is relaxed, his steely gaze warm as he looks at me. If he didn’t tell me five minutes ago that he intends to force a child on me, it would’ve been easy to pretend that we’re a normal couple having a nice dinner with a group of friends.
Everyone digs into the food, complimenting Yulia with every bite, and it’s not until we’re halfway to being stuffed that the discussion turns to business. As it turns out, Peter knows quite a bit about illegal arms dealing, including all the key players, and I listen in fascination as he and our host discuss deals in which insane sums of money trade hands—some to the tune of billions.
I had no idea arms dealing was so lucrative, or that my own government was sometimes involved.
“Did you ever figure out that manufacturing constraint with the undetectable explosive?” Peter asks, reaching for a puff pastry stuffed with a shiitake-camembert mix—one of the most popular dishes among his men. “That was quite in demand, as I recall.”
“It still is, and no,” Kent replies as Yulia ladles a spoonful of crab salad onto his plate. “The base material is so unstable you have to have highly trained chemists supervising the manufacturing process every step of the way. And even if we could amp up the production, Uncle Sam doesn’t want that. As you can imagine, the Americans are quite content buying up every batch we produce, whenever we produce it.”
“Of course.” Peter snags another pastry for himself before the Ivanov twins can decimate the entire platter. “Frank still there for you guys?”
“He retired a few months back,” Kent says and reaches over to play with Yulia’s hand, interlacing his big, sun-browned fingers with her slender ones. “We have a new CIA contact now—Jeff Traum. He’s tough, though. Hates Esguerra’s guts and only works with us under duress.”
“How come?” Yan asks, looking keenly interested. “You guys do something to him?”
Kent shrugs. “Not really. We threw the Israelis a bone with some intel a couple of times, so I think that played a role. And that thing with Novak didn’t help.”
Peter’s eyebrows rise. “The Serbian arms dealer?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Kent releases Yulia’s hand, his mouth tightening. “He’s been interfering with our business, and we had to retaliate. Unfortunately, the CIA was in the middle of a sting operation when we struck, and we blew up a few agents. Not on purpose, mind you. But Traum is still pissed, because that operation was his baby.”
“You know, I heard something about that,” Peter says thoughtfully. Turning to Anton, he says, “Remind me… the shit show that our hackers were talking about in August—was that in Belgrade?”
“That’s right,” Anton says, nodding. “Two warehouses full of C-4, fifteen armored trucks, and a factory near that village. Was that your doing, Kent?”
Our host’s smile is sharper than a blade. “Indeed. We had to impress our seriousness on Novak. Undercutting us on prices is one thing, but breaking into our Indonesian facility and killing all the staff? That crossed a line.”
Listening in horrified fascination, I steal a glance at Yulia to see how she’s reacting to all this. Could one get used to dinner conversation revolving around staff killings and blowing up of factories?
Sure enough, Kent’s wife is eating calmly, seemingly unruffled. She either has no problem with her husband’s violent business, or she’s an excellent actress. For some reason, I suspect it’s a little of both, which makes me wonder about Yulia’s background. Has she always been in the restaurant industry, and if not, what did she do before? How did she and her husband meet?
In general, how does one encounter a man from this world if one’s husband doesn’t have the misfortune to be on an assassin’s revenge list?
Driven by curiosity, I get up to help when Yulia starts clearing away the dishes. She tries to wave away my assistance, but I insist on helping her carry everything into the kitchen, leaving the men to discuss whatever went down in Belgrade. It’s important that I get close to Kent’s wife, and not just because I want to learn more about her.
If I’m to stand a chance of getting away before Peter returns, I’ll need her help.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask as she takes several desserts out of a restaurant-sized fridge. “You speak perfect English, but your name…”
“It’s Ukrainian,” she explains, smiling. “Though it could just as easily be Russian. The name is common in both countries. If it’s hard for you to pronounce, you can call me Julia—that would be the English equivalent.”
I smile back and start rinsing dirty dishes. “I think I can pronounce the real thing. Yu-lee-yah, right?”
She looks pleased. “You got it. Some Americans have trouble, which is why I’ve been letting them do the Julia bit. Your pronunciation is really good, though—better than most.”
“Thank you. It should be—I’ve had a lot of exposure to the Russian language lately,” I say, stacking the rinsed plates in the dishwasher. I’m hoping she’ll ask about that, but Yulia merely smiles and carries the first set of desserts out into the dining room before returning to the kitchen for more.
I don’t get a chance to talk to her again, because she keeps going back and forth, getting everyone tea and coffee to go along with dessert. Frustrated, I go back to the table, where the men are now discussing the situation in Syria and the continued turmoil in Ukraine. I try to follow their conversation, but they might as well be speaking Russian. Every other word is a place or name I don’t know, alongside strange initials like UUR. The only thing I learn is that Kent’s business thrives on conflict of all kinds, from small-scale rivalry between drug cartels to full-blown wars between nations.
Every man at this table contributes, in one way or another, to death and suffering around the globe.