by Anna Zaires
“No, don’t.” Releasing my arm, he moves his hand up to cradle my cheek, his broad palm warm on my frozen skin. “Don’t be sorry, my love. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
And as he presses my face against his shoulder, rocking me back and forth as if I were a baby, I close my eyes and try my hardest to believe him.
58
Peter
The guts are in a knot as I watch Goldberg examine Sara. The short, balding man is a trauma surgeon by training, but he seems to know what he’s doing—and any doctor is better than none.
Of course, Sara is a doctor herself, but she can’t exactly perform her own gynecological exam.
“Well, from what I can see, you and the baby are perfectly fine,” he announces when he’s done, and I blow out a relieved breath.
Next step: get Sara to a therapist to deal with those terrifying flashbacks.
Ice still grips my chest when I think about how her face had turned white and blank, as if all life had left her body. And when the hyperventilating and the screaming started… Fuck, I’d give anything to never see her in that state again. I know what PTSD is—I’ve seen it in many soldiers—and to see my ptichka suffering like that had been more than I could bear.
I need to make her better.
I need to do undo the damage I have wrought.
“Now, I’m sure you know this better than I do, but you need to avoid stress as much as possible,” Goldberg says to Sara, and she nods, looking every inch the calm, capable doctor herself. And if I hadn’t seen her melt down at our kitchen table—twice—less than an hour ago, it would be easy to believe that she’s just fine.
That the events of the past week have been just a blip on her emotional radar.
But they’re not. They couldn’t be. As strong as my ptichka is, she’s been through too much for it not to impact her. She’d held it together while we were in survival mode, but now that we’re relatively safe, her mind and body are catching up, trying to deal with the extreme trauma.
As far as I know, she hasn’t even cried about her parents—or talked about the man she killed.
I’m no shrink, but that can’t be healthy. Maybe that’s why the flashbacks are hitting her so hard: because she’s fighting off her feelings, refusing to think about her grief.
I’ve seen this in the military, too. Young soldiers, wanting to seem strong, trying to control their feelings to the point that they lose control instead. Bottling that shit up never works; the soldiers would always end up breaking down, or turning to drugs and alcohol to cope. My nightmares after Daryevo aside, I’ve never had those kinds of issues—but then again, I’m lucky in a way.
I’ve been in survival mode most of my life.
“Thank you, Dr. Goldberg,” Sara says, hopping off the table, and when she goes behind a curtain to put on her clothes, I pull the doctor aside.
“Is she really fine?” I ask in a low voice. “Because she’s just lost her parents, and in general, the last few days have been… difficult.”
The doctor sighs, peeling off his gloves. “I don’t know what to tell you. Physically, she’s healthy. Emotionally… well, that’s not really my department. You might want to talk to Julian, see if he can bring someone to the estate for her to talk to. I know that a couple of years ago, Nora was going through a rough time, and he had a therapist brought here for her. Maybe he could do the same for your wife?”
I was thinking of getting Sara to see a shrink remotely, but in person would be even better.
“Thanks, I’ll talk to him,” I tell Goldberg as Sara returns, and he nods, smiling.
“Good luck. And remember: keep it low stress, okay?”
“Thank you. We’ll do our best,” Sara says, smiling back at him. It’s her sweet, warm smile, and for a second, I feel an ugly spike of jealousy. It’s illogical—the doctor is a hundred-percent gay—but I can’t help it.
I haven’t seen that smile from her in days.
Not since she’s lost everything because of me.
59
Sara
Peter is quiet on the way back to our house, his expression closed off. I know he’s worried about me, but I wish he’d talk to me, distract me from my thoughts. Instead, he silently holds my hand, and as comforting as his touch is, it’s not enough to keep my mind from wandering… from going places I can’t have it go.
“So, is Esguerra going to help you get Henderson?” I ask brightly—partially because I’m curious, partially to have something to talk about. “You’re going after him, right?”
Peter glances down at me. “Yes—and he will.”
“Oh, good. Do you already know how you’re going to find him?”
“We have some ideas,” he says vaguely, then falls silent again.
Great. He probably doesn’t want to talk about it, lest I have another freak-out. Is this how it’s going to be with us from now on, with Peter thinking I’m so fragile I might shatter at the least provocation?
The worst part of it is, I’m not sure he’s wrong. After what happened at breakfast, my mind feels like a minefield, full of tripwires and hidden dangers. I don’t know what’s going to trigger me and cause those awful memories to take over. And Peter doesn’t even know about the mini flashback I had earlier this morning, before Nora and Rosa’s visit.
If he knew, he’d be convinced I’m a basket case.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, deciding to focus on a more innocuous topic. “How’s your side doing?”
He smiles at me. “Much better, thank you. Another few days, and I should be good as new.”
“Really? You heal remarkably fast.”
His smile fades. “I have a thick hide.”
Whereas I don’t. I’m a fragile fucking flower, falling apart at the seams if he so much as says boo. He didn’t say so, but I hear the words anyway.
I all but feel his worry about me.
Giving up on conversation, I focus on our surroundings. We’re walking past what must be the guards’ housing; I see tough-looking men with machine guns going in and out of the flat-roofed, dorm-like building. All around us is exotic greenery, and the air is thick and humid, scented with tropical vegetation and a hint of ozone from the clouds gathering on the horizon.
Esguerra’s mansion is some distance to the right, the white, two-story building reminding me of a Civil War era plantation. It’s surrounded by pretty landscaping and lush green lawns, as well as a few smaller buildings.
The guard towers I’d spotted from the plane are visible in the distance, with armed guards on top of them, and I’m sure there are dozens of other, less obvious security measures in place.
Once, seeing all these men with weapons and knowing that I’m on a ruthless criminal’s compound would’ve unnerved me, to say the least. But now it makes me feel safe.
Now the enemy are the people most citizens count on for protection: the law enforcement authorities.
Well, and Henderson—who’s using the authorities as his tool of vengeance.
When we get back to the house, Peter prepares our lunch, and we eat—this time, without any meltdowns on my part. He’s still quiet during the meal, though, his gaze trained on me with undisguised worry.
“Stop,” I groan when I can’t take it anymore. “Please, stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to freak out, I promise.”
“You can’t promise that because those flashbacks aren’t something you can control, ptichka,” he says quietly. “And the more you try, the worse they may get. Which is why I’m going to go talk to Esguerra about getting a therapist here.”
“What? Oh, come on. This can wait until—”
“No, it can’t.” His face is set in implacable lines. “Not with what happened this morning.”
“Peter, please. Nothing really happened. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. There’s no need to embarrass me in front of Esguerra by asking him to do this. Besides, won’t it mean you’ll owe him a favor? Once you’ve deal
t with Henderson, we can talk about therapy and all that. Until then—”
“Until then, you’ll see whoever we can bring here.”
Ugh. I shove my empty plate away and get up. It’s impossible to sway Peter when he sets his mind on something. I both love and hate that about him—and in this instance, it’s definitely the latter.
Why can’t he understand that I’m just not ready to deal with the emotional fallout of what happened? That I’d rather risk the occasional flashback than delve into the toxic pool of guilt and horror sloshing around in my mind?
If I could simply erase those memories, I would. Barring that, I just don’t want to think about them.
“Ptichka…” He catches my wrist as I’m about to leave the kitchen. His touch burns through me, his fingers binding me like a shackle. “Listen to me, my love. You’re hurt, injured—as surely as if you’d caught a bullet. Would you let my wounds fester? Or would you do your best to bring about their healing?”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” His gray eyes are soft as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with his free hand. “How is it different?”
Because it is, I want to shout. Because it doesn’t matter what I do, or how many therapists I talk to.
Nothing will bring my parents back.
This isn’t a bullet wound that will heal with care.
Yet as I stare up at Peter, it occurs to me that I could argue with him for weeks, and it wouldn’t change a thing. I can’t convince him that I’m fine.
Not with words, at least.
Slowly and deliberately, I lick my lips. Predictably, his gaze falls to my mouth, and his grip on my wrist tightens as I repeat the action, then follow it up with my teeth sinking seductively into my bottom lip.
My goal is to distract him from his worry, but my own heartbeat accelerates as his breathing quickens and his gaze shoots up to meet mine. His pupils are already dilated, turning the silver of his irises to dark steel. I’m acutely aware of the heat emanating from his fingers as he holds my wrist, and the proximity of his tall, strong body makes me want to melt against him, to rub my aching breasts on the broad, hard plane of his chest.
“Ptichka…” His voice is low and thick. “You’re playing with fucking fire.”
My nipples pinch into tight, hard buds, and liquid heat soaks my panties. Holy fuck, am I turned on. That tone, combined with the hint of violence in the too-tight grip of his fingers on my wrist, does more for me than hours of foreplay. Other than the blow job I gave him in the hospital, we haven’t had sex in several days, and my body is desperate for him to take me.
Stepping forward, I rise on tiptoes and press my lips to his, wrapping my free arm around his muscled neck. For a moment, he’s stiff, as if taken aback by my aggression, but then his instincts take over, and I find myself backed against the refrigerator, with his hard body pressing into me and his mouth devouring me like there’s no tomorrow.
I can feel the bulge of his erection as he grabs my other wrist and stretches my arms above my head, pinning them against the cold steel of the fridge. More heat ripples through my insides, and I moan into his mouth, lifting my leg and hooking it behind his ass, so I can rub my aching, swollen sex against that bulge. I didn’t feel comfortable borrowing Yulia’s underwear as well as the clothes, and the jean shorts are rough and scratchy against my bare folds, the sensation uncomfortable yet perversely exciting.
“Fuck me,” I breathe as he lifts his head to gaze down at me, his eyes glittering and his jaw tightly clenched. Clasping both of my wrists in one big hand, he unzips his pants with another hand, freeing his erection as I beg, “Fuck me now.”
“Oh, I will. Believe me.”
His breathing is heavy, his gaze fierce as he releases my wrists and unzips my shorts, then roughly yanks them down my legs. Shaking with need, I step out of them, and he grips my ass, lifting me up. And as I clutch his shoulders, he spreads my thighs wide and lowers me onto his thick cock, spearing me in one hard stroke.
Air whooshes out of my lungs as my legs wrap around his hips and my nails dig into the coiled muscles of his shoulders. Fuck, he’s big. My body had somehow forgotten this part. My inner tissues feel painfully stretched, my arousal tempered by the stinging burn of his entry. That is, until he begins to move.
Still holding my gaze, he pulls out and thrusts back in. There’s no waiting, no teasing me with shallow thrusts; right away, his rhythm is hard and driving, as merciless as the man himself. And that’s exactly what I need. The growing heat and tension lessen the discomfort, my body softening and liquifying, welcoming him deep inside. Each stroke hammers at my G-spot; each time his pelvis slams against mine, it presses on my clit.
My orgasm is as violent as it is sudden. It blasts me long before I’m prepared, the pleasure tearing at me, ripping me apart. Gasping, I cry out his name, my legs tightening around him, but he doesn’t stop.
He hammers into me until I come again.
I’m still riding the orgasmic aftershocks when a vein starts throbbing in his sweat-slickened forehead, and his thick cock further swells inside me. With a groan, he thrusts as deeply as he can, and my inner muscles squeeze around his shaft as it jerks and pulses, bathing my insides with his seed.
60
Peter
Breathing heavily, I reluctantly withdraw from Sara’s tight, slick pussy and carefully lower her to her feet. She looks just as overwhelmed as I feel, and a sharp pinch of regret chases away the warm afterglow.
I was too rough with her.
Again, I was too fucking rough with her.
I know she likes it that way now, but she’s pregnant.
Traumatized and pregnant.
What the fuck was I thinking, losing control like that? I need to be coddling her, keeping her rested and relaxed, not fucking her brains out against the fridge like some out-of-control animal.
She sways on her feet as I release her and step back, and I grip her arm, steadying her as she reaches for a paper towel to mop at the wetness between her legs.
“Ptichka… Are you okay?”
She grins, throwing the balled-up towel in the trash. “Never better. How about you?’
I frown, then remember about my injuries. Now that I’m paying attention to it, my side does hurt a bit, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I say as a worried look appears on her face and she grabs the hem of my T-shirt—undoubtedly intending to lift it to inspect my bandage. Gently guiding her hands away, I step out of her reach. “Really, I’m okay.”
I can’t believe she’s worried about me when I’ve just savaged her like this. I know I hurt her—I could feel the extreme tightness of her body when I thrust into her. What if I hurt the baby too?
What if she miscarries, like Nora did that time?
As I stand, processing that horrifying thought, she bends over and picks her shorts up off the floor. Her curvy little ass flashes in the air with the movement, and despite the cum still coating my cock, I feel it twitch with interest.
Fuck, I am an animal.
“Sara…” My voice is strained as she faces me. “Are you really okay?”
She blinks. “I told you, never better. Come, let’s go clean up.” And grabbing my hand, she tugs me to the bathroom.
We shower together—well, Sara showers, and I use the handheld showerhead to strategically wash around my bandages—and then she lies down for a nap, claiming food coma and post-sex drowsiness. I lie down with her and hold her until she falls asleep; then I quietly get up and leave the house.
I know why she’s tired, and it has nothing to do with food or sex.
Her body is crashing after the nonstop adrenaline of the past week, and the demands of the growing baby do not help.
The guilt is like a gnawing monster in my stomach.
I did this to her.
I’m responsible for all of her misfortune.
If I hadn’t been so selfis
hly obsessed with her, if I’d just let her be, she’d still be home with her parents, living her calm, peaceful life. If I’d walked away after our first meeting, she might’ve married someone else… someone who could ensure she spends her pregnancy in comfort and safety.
Instead, she’s with me on the run, suffering from PTSD-like flashbacks and exhaustion.
“Hey there, Peter,” Diego greets me as I walk past him on the road, and I nod curtly, not in the mood for chitchat.
I have one goal right now: speak to Esguerra.
I need that therapist brought here right away.
Before long, I’m knocking on the door of Esguerra’s mansion.
“Is he here?” I ask Ana when she opens the door for me, and the housekeeper nods.
“Yes, please, come in. Would you like something to eat or drink while I go get him?”
“No, thank you. I’m good.” I follow Ana into the foyer and lean against the wall, too wound up to sit.
She goes up the wide, curving staircase, and a few minutes later, Esguerra comes down, buttoning his shirt as he walks. His hair is disheveled, and a pissed-off scowl is etched into his face.
I either pulled him from a nap or something involving Nora.
My bet is on the latter.
“What is it?” he barks. “Did Henderson—”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I take a breath as his scowl deepens. “It’s personal. I need a favor.”
He stops in front of me, cold amusement replacing the concern in his gaze. “Really? Food and shelter are not enough for you?”
“Do you know any shrinks?” I ask calmly, refusing to take the bait. “Preferably, someone well-versed in the treatment of PTSD.”
He looks taken aback. “For you?”
Remembering Sara’s words, I nod coolly. “For me.”
I don’t want my ptichka to feel embarrassed—not that she should. Needing help to process extreme trauma doesn’t make one weak, just normal.