Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 4)

by Anna Zaires

  “Also the man who tortured and kidnapped you,” I remind her wryly, even as tender warmth fills my chest. I hadn’t doubted Sara’s love, not really, but some part of me must’ve still thought that she’d embrace the opportunity to free herself—that if it came down to a choice between me and her regular life, she’d want the latter.

  Her eyebrows snap together. “Really? We’re going there now?”

  “No, my love.” Suppressing a delighted grin, I pat the bed next to me. I shouldn’t find her outrage so adorable, but I can’t help it. “Come here.”

  She doesn’t move, just glares at me with arms crossed.

  “Okay, then, I’ll get up and come to you.” I move as if to sit up again, and with a frustrated huff, she plops down on the bed next to me.

  “Lie still,” she snaps, pushing me down. “You’re going to tear those stiches. Again.” Despite her sharp tone, her hands are gentle as she leans over me to inspect my bandages, and as I breathe in her sweet, warm scent, my body stirs, reacting to her nearness as always.

  “Ptichka.” There’s a husky note to my voice as I clasp her slim wrist. “My love, look at me.”

  Her hazel eyes meet mine, and I see her pupils dilate as I cup her skull from the back and pull her face down toward me.

  “Wait, you’re not yet—”

  I swallow her breathless protest with a kiss. Her soft lips part on a gasp, and I invade her mouth, gorging on her addictive taste and feel. It’s not the best time or place, but I can’t stop myself, the hunger surging through my veins, heating my skin to a boil.

  She loves me.

  She chose me.

  She abandoned her life to save me.

  It feels like the fever is upon me again, only there’s no pain attached. I burn with the need to have her, to feel those gentle hands on my skin. She’s mine, now without reservations, and as I guide her hand under the sheets, the last shackles of our dark past fall off, leaving us joined in the present.

  Together, no matter what.

  38

  Sara

  I grin as I stride down the hallway, my lips swollen and tingling from the blowjob I just gave Peter. I suppose I should’ve expected something like this, given my husband’s superhuman libido, but he still caught me by surprise.

  In my mind, bed-bound patients and sex don’t mix.

  Not that Peter is a typical patient. From the moment we brought him in and hooked him up to an IV, he’s been exceeding all expectations—mine and the clinic staff’s. It’s like all of his iron will has been redirected toward healing. Within hours of our arrival, his fever broke, and if the doctors hadn’t sedated him to promote rest and recovery, he would’ve regained consciousness then.

  A nurse passing me in the hallway smiles and says hello, and I respond with the same.

  I like the staff here. They’re nice, even though their patients are some of the worst criminals known to mankind. Not that I have a lot of room to judge.

  I’m now a criminal too.

  I shot a man in cold blood.

  I haven’t been able to process that yet, just as I haven’t been able to think about my parents—or what it means that we’re fugitives, our pictures all over the news. I’ve been focusing on the positives instead, rejoicing that we’re both here, alive and free.

  That I still have Peter and our baby.

  It helps to take it moment by moment, to move from one task to another. When I stay busy, I don’t notice the fraying of those dangerous edges, or the growing pressure of grief. I’m even able to smile, though a part of me remains numb inside.

  It’s almost like when I pulled that trigger, I killed something within me.

  By taking a life, I lost a piece of myself.

  “Hello, Dr. Sokolov,” Dr. Jart says as I walk into his office. “How’s your husband?”

  “Better.” I smile at the older man. “Much better.”

  His bushy gray eyebrows rise. “Oh? He’s awake?”

  “Definitely. Though I might’ve… worn him out. When I left, he was sleeping again.”

  “He’ll be doing that a lot,” Dr. Jart says. “His body needs sleep for healing.” He stands up and walks around his desk. “But I’m sure you know that.”

  “I do,” I admit, watching as he takes out a huge book from his bookshelf. With his grouchy exterior, he reminds me a little of my boss Bill, though personality-wise, Dr. Jart is much friendlier.

  I had briefly met Dr. Jart a year ago, when I’d spent two weeks here after the car crash, and when he came in to check on Peter’s wounds the other day, he recognized me and we got to talking. Upon learning that I’m an OB-GYN, he invited me to assist with a patient in labor—which I did gladly, once I made sure Peter was stable and resting.

  “How’s Maria doing?” I ask, referring to said patient—the teenage mistress of a Mexican drug lord who’d given birth to twins yesterday. “Did she go home already?”

  “She’s recovering nicely, but no.” Dr. Jart sighs. “Gomez wants her to stay here for at least a week, and since he’s paying…” He shrugs, walking back to his desk.

  “I see.” Unlike a traditional hospital that relies on insurance payments and adheres to strict guidelines in regard to the length of stay, this clinic caters to the ultra-wealthy of the underworld, and it’s the patients—or whichever wealthy criminal the patients are affiliated with—who decide when they’re sufficiently healed.

  “So, Dr. Sokolov…” The doctor sits down and regards me with piercing dark eyes. “The reason I asked you to come by is I wanted to discuss something with you.”

  “Sure. What is it?” I ask, sitting down across from the doctor. I hope they have another patient for me to assist with while Peter is sleeping.

  I need to stay busy.

  “Would you consider joining us here?” Dr. Jart asks. “I don’t know what your plans are with Mr. Sokolov, given the”—he clears his throat—“circumstances, but we could really use a female doctor with your specialty on staff. As you know, our obstetrician—Dr. Ludwig—is excellent, but he’s a man, and some of our patients, especially those from more traditional cultures, are a bit… uncomfortable with that fact.”

  “Oh.” I stare at the doctor. “Thank you. I… don’t know what to say.”

  A job offer—especially one largely predicated on my gender—was definitely not what I expected. But then again, why should I be surprised? There’s no political correctness in this new, lawless world of mine, where violence is part of business and women are seen as extensions of the powerful men they belong to.

  “I’m sure you’ll need to consult with Mr. Sokolov,” Dr. Jart says when I don’t say anything else. “If this is something that interests you, of course.”

  “Right.” Suppressing my inner feminist, I focus on the actual opportunity—which does seem interesting. The loss of my career is something I’ve been avoiding thinking about as well, but I know I won’t be able to do that forever. This way, I could still be a doctor—assuming Peter’s okay with us staying nearby.

  For all I know, he’s planning for us to hide out in Asia again.

  “Just think about it for now,” Dr. Jart says. “You don’t have to give us an answer right away—or even anytime soon. We understand that the situation”—he clears his throat again—“is volatile at the moment, so take as long as you need to decide.”

  “Thank you.” I get up and shake his hand. “I appreciate that.” I wonder how often he extends job offers to suspected terrorists who are on the run from the law. He doesn’t seem entirely comfortable with “the situation,” but he’s not deterred by it either.

  Personnel files at this place must make for some interesting reading.

  After the meeting, I stop by the café downstairs to grab a snack. By the time I return to Peter’s room, he’s awake and looking for me.

  “Where were you?” he asks, pushing up to a sitting position—with noticeably less effort this time. His healing speed is remarkable—either that, or his pain toleran
ce is off the charts. He didn’t even wince, though the movement must’ve pulled at the stitches in his side.

  I’m tempted to urge him to lie back down anyway, but I refrain. He seems much more alert now, his gray eyes sharply intent as he stares at me, and I know it won’t be long before he’s back to his usual self.

  “I was talking to one of the doctors,” I tell him instead, walking over to perch on the edge of his bed. “He offered me a job.”

  Peter’s eyebrows pull together. “Here? At this place?”

  “Yes. Apparently, they need a woman obstetrician.” Picking up his hand, I rub my thumb over the calluses on his palm. “What do you think? We’d obviously have to stay in the area, and I don’t know how safe it is.”

  No job is worth endangering our freedom.

  Peter is silent for a moment, mulling it over. “It’s not the worst idea,” he finally says. “First, though, we need to figure out exactly how this happened.”

  “You mean why they think you’re responsible for the explosion?”

  He nods grimly, and I take a breath to combat the tightening in my chest. I’ve been pondering that myself, and if Peter is innocent—which I believe he is—there’s only one logical conclusion.

  “Someone must’ve framed you,” I say quietly. “Maybe even someone within the FBI.”

  “Yes.” His expression doesn’t change. He must’ve already thought of this himself. “The question is who and why.” He reaches for his phone, like he did before, and I watch him scroll through the emails on the screen at a rapid clip.

  “Maybe the Feds don’t have any real suspects, so they decided to use you as a scapegoat,” I suggest as he opens one. “It was probably some terrorist organization behind the explosion, but they decided to pin it on you instead. Someone besides Ryson could’ve been upset with the deal you’d made, so when the opportunity arose—” I stop because Peter’s face turns into granite.

  “What is it?” I ask when he keeps reading without saying anything, his posture tensing more each second. My own neck muscles are locked tight, my heart racing as if I’m about to launch into a sprint.

  Whatever’s in that email is not good. I can tell by his expression.

  He lifts his eyes to meet my gaze. “Do you remember when I told you about the retired general, the one in charge of the Daryevo operation?” His voice holds a lethal softness. “The one I promised to leave alone in exchange for amnesty and immunity?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say as ice invades my stomach. “Henderson, right?”

  “Right.” His nostrils flare. “Fucking Wally Henderson III.”

  I suck in a breath. “Is he the one behind this?”

  “It appears that way.” A muscle ticks in Peter’s jaw. “Before they came for me, I asked our hackers to look into the explosion because something about it just didn’t smell right. And they finally came through with the results.”

  “They said Henderson framed you? But how? Why? And how could he have even known this tragedy would happen?”

  They came for Peter less than twenty-four hours after the attack. Even someone with Henderson’s connections would need time to manufacture evidence strong enough to send a SWAT team into a quiet suburban neighborhood. Even if Henderson had embarked on the task as soon as he learned about the explosion, it should’ve taken days, if not weeks, to—

  “Because he made it happen.” Peter’s expression is savage. “The fucker is the one who set the bomb.”

  “What?”

  “A man matching my description was caught on camera entering the building as part of a janitor crew the day before the explosion,” Peter says evenly. “And my fingerprints were found on one of the surviving door handles from the third floor, where the bomb had been placed. As for the explosive itself, it was a very unique one, one that’s pretty much undetectable—which is how my doppelganger was able to carry it through security in a lunchbox. Do you know who has access to that kind of explosive?”

  I stare at him, bewildered. “I… no.”

  “The US military. They source it directly from the arms dealer who manufactures it—Julian Esguerra.”

  My heart rate kicks up again. “The same one who’d brokered the deal for you? The guy you did that favor for?”

  “The very same.” Peter’s mouth twists. “So you see how they could think that I’m the one responsible, right? The US military buys up every batch Esguerra manufactures, and he has a waiting list a mile long in case they stop, but someone who knows the arms dealer personally could obtain a pound or so. Hell, you probably wouldn’t even need that much. It’s powerful shit—like a nuclear bomb, just not radioactive.”

  Oh, God. I now recall Peter talking about this with Kent when we had dinner together in Cyprus. Something about manufacturing constraints for an undetectable explosive and Uncle Sam. Was that the explosive in question?

  “So why…” I gather my racing thoughts. “Why do you think it was Henderson behind this? Could it have been someone else—say, Esguerra himself? You said he wanted you dead at some point, and he has the connections to make this happen, right? Or maybe some other enemy of yours?”

  “Because this has CIA pawprints all over,” Peter says grimly. “The janitor who looks like me, my fingerprints at the scene—it’s classic tradecraft. They’ve been doing this kind of shit since the Cold War. And guess who’s rumored to have been an undercover operative in his youth?”

  “Right, Henderson.” I remember Peter telling me this at some point. “But doesn’t Esguerra also have some CIA connections? Couldn’t he have—”

  “No.” Peter’s jaw is tight. “Aside from the fact that he could’ve already killed me a thousand different ways if he’d really wanted to, he had no reason to fuck up a mutually beneficial relationship with the US government. Right now, the authorities believe he’s complicit in the bombing, and they’re considering going after him as well.”

  “Oh, that’s… that’s not good at all.” From what I know, Esguerra had been all but untouchable until now.

  “No, it’s not,” Peter says darkly. “Which is why I need to speak to Yan right now. Because the other members of that janitor crew? Their descriptions match Anton, Yan, and Ilya, right down to the tattoos on one’s skull.”

  39

  Peter

  I reread the email from the hackers for the third time, all the while compulsively checking the clock on my phone. Three hours ago, I called Yan to share what I’ve learned, but he didn’t pick up. I left him a voicemail to call me back, then texted and emailed him for good measure before doing the same with his brother.

  Neither twin has gotten back to me yet—and neither has Anton.

  I check the clock again. It’s 11:33 p.m.—only two minutes later than the last time I looked. Sara is asleep next to me, her dark hair spread over my pillow, and as much as I want to join her in peaceful slumber, I can’t bring myself to close my eyes.

  My instincts are on high alert again.

  Careful not to wake Sara, I push up to a sitting position and swing my legs to the floor. Slowly and carefully, I stand up, ignoring the pulling pain at my side and the ache in my calf. The room spins around me as I take the first step, but my legs are able to support me.

  Good.

  I can’t afford to be flat on my back if something goes down.

  At my request, a couple of guns have been delivered to my room, so I walk over to the closet to inspect them. It’s nothing fancy—just an M16 and a couple of Glocks—but it’s better than nothing.

  I check each weapon and load it, then take out a pair of sweatpants from the closet and pull them on under my hospital gown, careful not to dislodge the bandage on my leg. My heart is beating too fast from the exertion, and I’m sweating like a hog, but I throw off the hospital gown and pull on a loose sweater, followed by a pair of socks and sneakers.

  “Peter?” Sara’s sleepy voice reaches me as I’m strapping one of the Glocks to my left ankle. “What are you doing?”

&nbs
p; I look up from where I’m crouched. “Just getting dressed, ptichka. Don’t worry.”

  “What?” Sara sits up, the drowsiness evaporating from her voice as she takes in my appearance. “Why are you getting dressed? You need to be in bed, resting, not—”

  “I think we need to leave.” I stand up slowly, breathing through the pain. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  Sara turns into a statue on the bed. “You think we’re not safe here?”

  “I don’t think we’re safe anywhere right now,” I say as I sling the M16 over my shoulder and stuff the other Glock into my waistband. “But it worries me that I haven’t heard from Yan or the others.”

  “You haven’t?” She pads across the room with bare feet and stops in front of me, her face color matching the white T-shirt she’s wearing in place of a pajama. “Could they just be busy?”

  “Anything is possible.” For all I know, the twins are in the middle of a hit, and Anton is having reception issues on the plane. “In our situation, though, better safe than sorry.”

  “But where will we go? Three days ago, you were out of your mind with the fever. You need to be in a hospital, healing—”

  “I’m fine now,” I interrupt softly, raising my hand to frame her delicate face. “Don’t worry, my love. You did your part, and now it’s time for me to do mine.”

  And as she stares up at me with huge, scared eyes, I drop a kiss on her tempting lips, then reach into the closet to take out her clothes.

  40

  Sara

  I get dressed while Peter tries reaching Anton and the twins again. My hands are cold from stress, my fingers clumsy, and it takes two attempts to tie the shoelaces on my sneakers.