He glares at me, and I see his internal debate. Share classified information and potentially get in trouble, or not share it and definitely get in trouble? Self-preservation must win out, because he says grimly, “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with his name and nationality.”
Ryson glances around, then leans in closer. “He goes by many aliases, but we believe his real name is Peter Sokolov.” He pitches his voice low even though the tables around us are empty. “According to our files, he’s originally from a small town near Moscow, Russia.”
That explains the accent. “What is his background? Why is he a fugitive?”
Ryson leans back. “I don’t know the answer to that last question. I don’t have sufficient security clearance.” He falls silent as the server approaches with our drinks. After the server leaves, he says, “What I can tell you is that prior to him becoming a fugitive, he was Spetsnaz, part of the Russian Special Forces. His job was tracking down and interrogating anyone deemed a threat to Russian security—terrorists, insurgents from the former Soviet Union republics, spies, and so on. He was reportedly very good at it. Then, about five years ago, he switched sides and started working for the worst of the criminal underworld—dictators convicted of war crimes, Mexican cartels, illegal arms dealers… In the process, he came up with a list of names—people he believes have harmed him somehow—and he’s been systematically eliminating them ever since.”
My hand is unsteady as I reach for my coffee cup. “And George was on that list?”
Ryson nods and knocks back his espresso in one big gulp. Putting down the cup, he says, “I’m sorry, Dr. Cobakis. This is all I can tell you, because this is all I know. I have no idea what your husband or any of the others did to end up on that list. I understand you’d like more answers, and believe me, so would we, but a lot of Sokolov’s file is redacted.” He stops to let the server pass by again, then adds quietly, “You need to forget about this man, Dr. Cobakis, both for your safety and ours. You don’t want to attract his attention again, believe me.”
I nod, my stomach knotted tight. I don’t know why I thought that knowing a few details about the man who haunts my dreams would be better than remaining in the dark. If anything, I’m more anxious now, my hands and feet icy with anxiety.
“Are you sure he’s gone?” I ask as the agent gets to his feet. “Are you certain he’s nowhere near here?”
“Nobody can be certain of anything when it comes to this psychopath, but for what it’s worth, a little over six weeks ago, he killed another person on his list—this one in South Africa,” Ryson says bleakly. “And before that, he took out two more in Canada despite our best attempts to safeguard them. So yes, as far as we know, he’s far from US soil.”
I stare at him, rendered mute by horror. Three more victims in the last six months. Three more lives lost while I’ve been battling nightmares and paranoia.
“Good luck, Dr. Cobakis,” Ryson says, not unkindly, and places a few dollar bills on the table. “Time really does heal, and one day, you’ll move past this too. I’m sure of that.”
“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice, but he’s already walking away, his stocky figure disappearing through the glass doors of the cafe.
* * *
That night, I dream of Peter Sokolov’s attack again, and the nightmare takes the turn I dread the most. Instead of him holding me under the faucet, he has me pinned under him on a bed, his steely fingers shackling my wrists. I feel him moving inside me, his cock long and thick as he invades my body, and heat thrums under my skin, my nipples taut and aching as they rub against his muscled chest.
“Please,” I beg, wrapping my legs around his hips as his metallic eyes stare into mine. “Harder, please. I need you.”
I’m slick with that need; it burns inside me, hot and dark, and he knows it. He feels it. I can see it in the coldness of his silver gaze, in the cruel set of his sensuous mouth. His fingers tighten around my wrists, cutting into my skin like a zip tie, and his cock turns into a blade, slicing me open, making me bleed.
“Harder,” I plead, my hips rising up to meet his knife-like thrusts. “Don’t leave me. Take me harder.”
He does exactly that, each stroke ripping me open, and I scream with pain and twisted pleasure, with relief and sweet agony.
I scream as I die in his arms, and it’s the best death I can imagine.
* * *
I wake up with my sex slick and throbbing and my stomach churning with nausea. Out of all the tricks my brain’s been playing on me, these perverted dreams are the worst. I can understand the panic attacks and the paranoia—they’re a natural result of what I’ve been through—but there’s nothing natural about the sexual slant of these nightmares. Just thinking about them makes me physically ill with shame.
Getting up, I pull on a robe over my pajamas and go down to the kitchen. My breathing is unsteady and my heart is racing, but this time, it’s not from fear. I feel flushed and agitated, my body aching with frustrated arousal.
I almost came during that dream. Another few seconds, and I would’ve orgasmed—like I’ve orgasmed during these dreams twice before.
Self-disgust is a heavy brick in my stomach as I make my decaf tea. What kind of twisted person has sexual dreams about her husband’s killer? How messed up does one have to be to enjoy dying in said killer’s arms?
I’ve considered discussing this with Dr. Evans, but whenever I try to bring up the topic in our sessions, I shut down. I simply can’t bring myself to form the words. Verbalizing the dreams would give them substance, transforming them from a nebulous product of my sleeping subconscious to something I think and talk about when I’m awake, and I can’t have that.
In any case, I know what the therapist would tell me. He’d say that I’m a young, healthy woman who hasn’t had sex in a long time, and that it’s normal to feel those types of urges. That it’s my guilt and self-loathing that are transforming my sexual fantasies into something dark and twisted, and the dreams don’t mean I’m actually attracted to the man who tortured me and killed George.
Dr. Evans would try to alleviate my guilt and shame, and that’s not something I deserve.
When the tea is ready, I carry it over to the kitchen table and sit down. I’m about to take my first sip when I get the watched feeling again. Rationally, I know I’m alone, but my heart rate speeds up, and my palms dampen with sweat.
My pepper spray container is upstairs, so I get up and, as calmly as I can, make my way to the knife rack on the counter. I select the biggest, sharpest knife and bring it back to the table with me. I know it would be useless against someone like Peter Sokolov, but it’s better than nothing. After a few deep breaths, I calm down enough to drink my tea, but the unsettling sensation of invisible eyes persists.
If the house doesn’t sell soon, I’ll just move out, I decide as I go back to bed.
I can afford a second residence, and even a crappy studio would be preferable to this.
Chapter 11
Sara
“So how did your Open House go yesterday?” Marsha shouts over the music as we wait for our fourth round of drinks at the bar.
“The realtor says it was good,” I shout back, trying not to slur my words. I haven’t done this in forever, and the alcohol is hitting me hard. “We’ll see if any offers come of it.”
“I can’t believe you own a house and are selling it,” Tonya says as the next song comes on and the music volume drops from deafening to merely loud. “I’d love to buy a house someday, but it’ll take forever to save up.”
“Yeah, if you spend half your paycheck on clothes and shoes,” Andy says with a grin, her red curls dancing as she sways her curvy hips in tune with the music. “Besides, Sara here is a doctor. She makes the big bucks, even if she doesn’t act as stuck up as the rest of them.”
Tonya giggles, her long earrings jiggling. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You look so young, Sara, I keep forgetting you’re a
real MD.”
“She is young,” Marsha says before I can respond. “She’s our own little Doogie Howser.”
“Oh, shut up.” I elbow Marsha, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment as I see the tattooed bartender grinning at me. He’s making our Lemon Drops with practiced motions, his brown gaze trained on me with unmistakable interest.
“Here you go, ladies,” he says, sliding our drinks over, and Andy winks at me as she hands me one of the glasses.
“Bottoms up,” she says, and we knock back the shots before going back to the dance floor, where the next song is already beginning to blast through the speakers.
I wasn’t going to come out this Friday after the shitty week I had, but at the last minute, I decided that going out and getting drunk would be preferable to passing out early and risking another twisted sex dream. Luckily, I keep a pair of cute silver flats in my locker at work, and Tonya lent me a short black dress that fit surprisingly well.
“H&M, baby,” she said proudly when I asked her where she got it, and I made a mental note to stop by the trendy store and get something similar for myself—in case I’m ever tempted to repeat this insanity.
We started off with a couple of drinks at Patty’s, then got a car to take us to the club Tonya talked about. True to her word, the promoter was able to get us in without a line, and we’ve been dancing nonstop for the past two hours. I’m sweating, my feet hurt, and I’ll probably have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow, but this is the most fun I’ve had in… well, years.
Maybe longer than five years.
The crowd at the club ranges from college kids to hot forty-somethings like Marsha, but the majority look to be in their late twenties, like myself. The DJ is outstanding, mixing the latest hits with hip-hop classics, and I sing along as we dance, belting out my favorite songs with abandon. I’ve always loved music and dancing—I did ballet all through elementary and middle school and took salsa classes in college—and with the buzz of alcohol in my veins, I feel sexy and carefree, for once like any other young woman at the club. Tonight, I’m not the serious student, the overworked doctor, the dutiful daughter, or the perfect wife. I’m not even the widow with paranoia and messed-up dreams.
Tonight, I’m just me.
The four of us dance by ourselves for a while; then a couple of guys join us, dancing up to Tonya and Marsha. Andy drags me away to the bathroom with her, and by the time we return, Tonya and Marsha are full-on flirting with the guys.
“You want to get another drink?” Andy yells over the music, and I nod, following her to the bar. The room is spinning around me, so I figure I’ll just get some water.
The club has become more crowded in the last hour, the dance floor spilling over to the bar and lounge area, and when a group of laughing women cuts in front of me, I lose sight of Andy. I’m not particularly worried—I can catch up to her at the bar—so I go around the group to avoid the most dense parts of the crowd.
I’m within a few feet of the bar when strong fingers wrap around my upper arm, and a deep male voice murmurs into my ear, “Dance with me, Sara.”
I freeze, my blood solidifying in my veins.
I know that voice, that subtle Russian accent.
Slowly, I turn my head and meet the metallic gaze that stalks my dreams.
Peter Sokolov is in front of me, his sculpted mouth curved in a faint smile.
Chapter 12
Peter
She sways on her feet, her face chalk white, and I grip her other arm to steady her. She clearly knows who I am; she recognizes me.
“Don’t scream,” I say. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her hazel eyes look wild, and I know she’s not really processing what I’m saying. All she sees is a mortal threat, and she’s reacting accordingly. In another few seconds, she’ll either faint or become hysterical, and neither would be a good thing.
“Sara.” I make my voice hard. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to. Do you understand? If you do anything to attract attention to us, people will die.”
The mindless panic in her gaze abates slightly, replaced by a fear that’s more rational, if not any less intense. I’m getting through to her.
It helps that I’m not bluffing.
“W-what do you want?” Even with the layer of lipgloss over them, her trembling lips are pale. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” I say, pulling her with me through the crowd as I maneuver away from the cameras positioned around the bar. Sara’s bare arms are tense in my grasp, her skin chilly to the touch, but as expected, she doesn’t scream.
From everything I know about her, the little doctor would sooner die than endanger a bunch of strangers.
“Dance with me,” I say again when I have her where I want her—next to a wall in a dimly lit part of the dance floor, where the crowd forms a human shield around us. To facilitate her compliance with my request, I release her arms and clasp her waist, being careful to keep my grip gentle.
Her body is as stiff as a block of ice as I hold her close, but to everyone around us, we look like any other couple swaying to the music. The illusion is only strengthened when her hands come up and her palms splay against my chest. She’s trying to push me away, but she’s too shocked to put much strength behind it. Not that it would help if she put all her strength behind it.
I can overpower most men with minimal effort, much less a woman as slight as her.
“Don’t be afraid,” I murmur, holding her gaze. Even on a crowded dance floor, I can smell her scent, something delicate and flowery, and my body reacts to her proximity, my cock hardening at the feel of her slender waist between my palms. I want to pull her closer, feel her body against mine, but I force myself to keep a small distance. I don’t want to scare her with the intensity of my need. As it is, the look in Sara’s eyes is that of a small animal caught in a trap, all blind fear and desperation. It makes me want to pick her up and cuddle her against my chest, but that would just terrify her more. There’s no action of mine that wouldn’t terrify her at this point; I could invite her to sing karaoke, and she’d have a panic attack.
“What do you want from me?” Her breathing is fast and shallow as she stares up at me. “I don’t know anything—”
“I know.” I keep my voice gentle. “Don’t worry, Sara. That part is over.”
Confusion edges out some of the terror in her eyes. “But then why…”
“Why am I here?”
She nods warily.
“I’m not really sure,” I say, and it’s the absolute truth.
Over the past five and a half years, vengeance ruled my life. Everything I did was in pursuit of that goal, but now that I’m almost through with my list, the future lies dull and empty in front of me, the path ahead shrouded in a bleak fog. Once I kill the last person responsible for my family’s deaths, I won’t have a purpose. My reason for existing will be well and truly gone.
Or so I thought until I met her and saw the pain in her doe-like eyes. Now she consumes my dreams and haunts my waking moments. When I think of Sara, I don’t see my son’s torn body and Tamila’s bloodied face.
I only see her.
“Are you going to kill me?”
She’s trying—and failing—to keep her voice steady. Still, I admire her attempt at composure. I approached her in public to make her feel safer, but she’s too smart to fall for that. If they’ve told her anything about my background, she must realize I can snap her neck faster than she can scream for help.
“No,” I answer, leaning closer as a louder song comes on. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
She’s shaking in my hold, and something about that both intrigues and disturbs me. I don’t want her to be afraid of me, but at the same time, I like having her at my mercy. Her fear calls to the predator within me, turning my desire for her into something darker.
She’s captured prey, soft and sweet and mine to devour.<
br />
Bending my head, I bury my nose in her fragrant hair and murmur into her ear, “Meet me at the Starbucks near your house at noon tomorrow, and we’ll talk there. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
I pull back, and she stares at me, her eyes huge in her heart-shaped face. I know what she’s thinking, so I lean in again, dipping my head so my mouth is next to her ear.
“If you contact the FBI, they’ll try to hide you from me. Just like they tried to hide your husband and the others on my list. They’ll uproot you, take you away from your parents and your career, and it will all be for nothing. I’ll find you, no matter where you go, Sara… no matter what they do to keep you from me.” My lips brush against the rim of her ear, and I feel her breath hitch. “Alternatively, they might want to use you as bait. If that’s the case—if they set a trap for me—I’ll know, and our next meeting won’t be over coffee.”
She shudders, and I drag in a deep breath, inhaling her delicate scent one last time before releasing her.
Stepping back, I melt into the crowd and message Anton to get the crew into position.
I have to make sure she gets home safe and sound, unmolested by anyone but me.
Chapter 13
Sara
I don’t know how I make it home, but somehow I find myself in my shower, naked and shivering under the hot spray. I have only a vague recollection of making some awkward excuse to Andy and stumbling out of the club to catch a cab; the rest of the trip is a blur of shock-induced numbness and alcoholic haze.
Peter Sokolov spoke to me. He held me.
My husband’s killer, the man who tortured me and ripped apart my life, danced with me.
My knees fold under me, and I sink to the floor, panting. A wave of dizziness makes the shower stall rotate around me, and all the drinks I consumed threaten to come up.
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