I’m done playing house with a monster. If he wants me, he’s going to have to force me.
My stomach growls with hunger, and I kick myself for not eating before coming here. I was just so frazzled from thinking about Peter all day that I drove home on autopilot, my mind occupied with my impossible situation. Now that I know about his team and their assassination missions, I’m even less convinced that the FBI would be able to protect me if I went to them.
I don’t think anyone can protect me from him.
A knock on the bedroom door drags me out of my despairing thoughts.
“Come down, ptichka,” Peter says from the other side. “Dinner is getting cold.”
My whole body tenses, but I don’t respond.
Another knock. Then the door handle rattles. “Sara.” Peter’s voice hardens. “Open the door.”
I get up, too unsettled to sit still, but I make no move toward the door.
“Sara. Open this door. Now.”
I remain standing, my hands flexing at my sides. Before coming home, I considered getting a weapon, but I remembered what he told me about his men monitoring his vitals and dismissed the idea. I don’t know how the monitoring works, but it’s entirely possible he’s wearing some kind of device that measures his pulse and/or blood pressure. Maybe even an implant. I’ve heard of things like that, though I’ve never encountered them. In any case, if what Peter told me is true, I can’t hurt him in any meaningful way without risking my own life and possibly the lives of those close to me.
Men who kill for money wouldn’t hesitate to avenge their boss in the most brutal ways.
“You have five seconds to open this door.”
Fighting a sense of déjà vu, I sink my teeth into my lower lip but keep still, even as my heart thuds sickly and cold sweat pours down my spine. As much as I don’t want him to hurt me, I don’t want to live like this either, too afraid to stand up for myself, meekly going along with a madman’s demands. The last time I locked a door on him, I was in shock, so overwhelmed and terrified from seeing him kill those two men that I acted on autopilot. Now, however, my action is deliberate.
I need to know how far he’ll go, what he’s willing to do to get his way.
He doesn’t count out loud this time, so I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five… I wait for his kick to rattle the door, but instead, I hear footsteps heading down the hall.
The breath I’m holding escapes in a relieved whoosh. Is it possible? Could he have given up and decided to leave me alone tonight? I wouldn’t have expected that, but he’s surprised me before. Maybe his reluctance to force me still holds; maybe he’s drawing a line at breaking down the bedroom door and—
The footsteps return, and the door handle rattles again before something metallic scratches against it. My heart skips a beat, then resumes its furious thudding.
He’s picking the lock on the door.
The cool deliberateness of that action is somehow scarier than if he’d simply kicked down the door. My tormentor is not acting out of anger; he’s fully in control and knows exactly what he’s doing.
The metallic scratching lasts for less than a minute. I know because I watch the blinking numbers on the alarm clock on my nightstand. Then the door swings open, and Peter steps in, his gait radiating restrained rage and his face set in cold, hard lines.
Fighting the urge to run, I raise my chin and stare up at him as he stops in front of me, his big body towering over my much shorter frame.
“Come to dinner.” His voice is quiet, soft even, but I hear the pulsing darkness underneath. He’s hanging on to his control by a thread, and if I had any hope left, I’d back down out of self-preservation. But I’m all out of strategies, and at some point, self-preservation has to take a back seat to self-respect.
Recklessly, I shake my head. “I’m not doing this.”
His nostrils flare. “Doing what? Eating?”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl again, and I flush at the unfortunate timing. “I’m not eating with you,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “Nor am I sleeping with you—or doing anything else for that matter.”
“No?” Dark amusement creeps into the gray iciness of his gaze. “Are you sure about that, ptichka?”
My hands ball at my sides. “I want you out of my house. Now.”
“Or what?” He steps closer, crowding me with his large body until I have no choice but to back up in the direction of the bed. “Or what, Sara?”
I want to threaten him with the police or FBI, but we both know that if I could’ve gone to them, I would’ve already done so. There’s nothing I can do to force him out of my life, and that’s the crux of the matter.
Ignoring the icy sweat trickling down my back, I lift my chin higher. “I’m done with this, Peter.”
“This?” He steps closer, cocking his head to the side.
“This sick relationship fantasy you’ve cooked up,” I clarify. He’s too close for comfort, invading my personal space like he belongs there. His masculine scent surrounds me, the heat coming off his big body warming my insides, and I step back again, trying to ignore the melting sensation between my thighs and the aching tautness of my nipples.
I can’t be this close to him without remembering how it feels to be even closer, to be joined with him in the most intimate of ways.
“A sick relationship fantasy?” His eyebrows arch mockingly. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“I. Am. Done,” I repeat, enunciating each word. My heart slams anxiously against my ribcage, but I’m determined not to back down or let him distract me with a discussion of our messed-up relationship. “If you want to cook in my kitchen, go ahead, but short of force-feeding me, you can’t make me eat with you—or do anything else with you of my own accord.”
“Oh, ptichka.” Peter’s voice is soft, his gaze almost sympathetic. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”
His lips curve in that imperfect, magnetic smile, and my stomach flips as he comes even closer. Desperate for some distance, I take another step back, only to feel the back of my knees press against the bed.
I’m trapped, caught by him once again.
Mercilessly, he steps closer, and my sex clenches as his hands curl around my shoulders. “Come downstairs with me, Sara,” he says softly. “You’re hungry, and you’ll feel better once you eat. And while you’re eating, we can talk.”
“About what?” I ask, my voice tight. The heat of his palms burns even through the thick layer of my sweater, and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing semi-steady as pernicious arousal curls in my core. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“I think we do,” he says, and I see the monster behind the dark silver of his gaze. “You see, Sara, if you don’t want to be with me here, we can be together someplace else. The fantasy can be made real—but solely on my terms.”
Chapter 39
Peter
She’s shaking as I lead her downstairs, and I know it’s as much from anger as fear. I suppose her reaction should bother me, but I’m too angry myself. Yesterday, and today at breakfast, I could’ve sworn she was glad to see me, relieved that I came back. But tonight, she’s back to being cold and distant, and I won’t stand for it.
It’s time the gloves came off.
“Sit,” I tell her when we get to the kitchen table, and she plops down in a chair, a defiant expression on her pretty face. She’s determined to make things difficult, and I’m just as determined not to let her.
Taking a breath to steady myself, I turn off the bright overhead lights and light the candles. Then I plate the risotto I made and bring it over to her before getting my own food. I’m as hungry as she is, so as soon as I sit down, I dig into the food, figuring the discussion of our relationship can wait a couple of minutes.
Unfortunately, Sara doesn’t share that opinion. “What did you mean, ‘the fantasy can be made real?’” she asks, her voice tense as she toys with her fork. “What exactly are you say
ing?”
I make her wait until I’m done chewing; then I put down my fork and give her a level look. “I’m saying that you living in this house, going to work, and interacting with your friends is a privilege I’m allowing,” I say calmly and watch her blanch. “Other men in my position wouldn’t have been nearly so accommodating—and I don’t have to be either. I want you, and I have the power to take you. It’s as simple as that. If you don’t like our existing relationship dynamic, I will change it—but not in a way you’ll enjoy.”
Her hand trembles as she reaches for the glass of wine I poured earlier. “So you’ll what? Kidnap me? Take me away from everyone and everything?”
“Yes, ptichka. That’s precisely what I’ll do if I can’t make the current situation work.” I resume eating, giving her time to process my words. I know I’m being harsh, but I need to squash this little rebellion, make her understand just how precarious her position is.
There’s no line I won’t cross when it comes to her. She’s going to be mine one way or another.
Sara stares at me, the glass shaking in her grasp; then she puts it down without taking a single sip. “So why haven’t you done this already? Why all this?” She sweeps her hand out in a broad gesture, nearly knocking over the glass and one of the candle holders.
“Careful there,” I say, moving both objects out of her reach. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to drug me again.”
Her teeth audibly grind together. “Tell me,” she demands, her hand curling into a fist next to her untouched plate. “Why haven’t you kidnapped me already? Surely you have no moral qualms about that.”
I sigh and put my fork down. Maybe I should’ve promised her a discussion after the meal, not during. “Because I like what you do,” I say, picking up my wine glass and taking a sip. “With babies, with women. I think your work is admirable, and I don’t want to take you away from that—or from your parents.”
“But you will if you have to.”
“Yes.” I put down the glass and pick up my fork again. “I will.”
She studies me for a few seconds, then picks up her own fork, and for a couple of minutes, we eat in an uneasy silence. I can practically hear her thinking, her agile mind struggling to find a solution.
It’s too bad for her that one doesn’t exist.
When Sara’s plate is half-empty, she pushes it away and asks in a strained voice, “Did you stalk her too?”
My eyebrows lift as I pick up my wine glass. “Who?”
“Your wife,” Sara says, and my hand tightens on the wine stem, nearly snapping the fragile glass in half. Instinctively, I brace for the agonizing pain and fury, but all I feel is a dull echo of loss, accompanied by a bittersweet ache at the memories.
“No,” I say, and surprise myself by smiling fondly. “I didn’t. If anything, she stalked me.”
Chapter 40
Sara
Shocked, I stare at my tormentor, caught off-guard by that soft, almost tender smile. I fully expected him to explode at the question, and as I watched his fingers tighten on the glass stem, I was sure he would.
Instead, he smiled.
Chewing on my lower lip, I consider dropping the topic, but even with the threat of kidnapping looming over me, I can’t resist the chance to learn more about him.
“What do you mean?” I ask, picking up my wine glass. The risotto is amazing, but my stomach is tied in knots, preventing me from finishing my portion. Wine, though, I could use.
Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll forget his terrifying promise.
“We met when I was passing through her village almost nine years ago.” Peter leans back in his chair, a wine glass cradled in his big hand. The candlelight casts a soft, warm glow over his handsome features, and if it weren’t for the stress-induced adrenaline in my veins, I could’ve bought into the illusion of a romantic dinner, into the fantasy he’s trying so hard to create.
“My team was tracking a group of insurgents in the mountains,” he continues, his gaze turning distant as he relives the memory. “It was winter, and it was cold. Unbelievably cold. I knew we had to crash someplace warm for the night, so I asked the villagers to rent us a couple of rooms. Only one woman was brave enough to do so, and that was Tamila.”
I take a sip of wine, fascinated despite myself. “She lived by herself?”
Peter nods. “She was only twenty at the time, but she had a small house of her own. Her aunt died and left it to her. It was unheard of in her village, for a young woman to live on her own, but Tamila was never big on rules. Her parents wanted her to marry one of the village elders, a man who could give them a dowry of five goats, but Tamila found him repulsive and was delaying the marriage as much as she could. Needless to say, her parents weren’t pleased, and by the time my men and I came to the village, she was desperate to change her situation.”
I gulp down the rest of my wine as he continues. “I didn’t know any of this, of course. I just saw a beautiful young woman, who, for whatever reason, welcomed three half-frozen Spetsnaz soldiers into her home. She gave her bedroom to my guys and put me into the second, smaller room, saying that she herself would sleep on the couch.”
“But she didn’t,” I guess as he leans in to pour me more wine. My stomach feels tight, something uncomfortably like jealousy roiling my insides. “She came to you.”
“Yes, she did.” He smiles again, and I hide my discomfort by drinking more wine. I don’t know why picturing him with this “beautiful young woman” bothers me, but it does, and it’s all I can do to listen calmly as he says, “I didn’t turn her down, naturally. No straight man would. She was shy and relatively inexperienced but not a virgin, and when we left in the morning, I promised to swing by the village on the way back. Which I did, two months later, only to learn that she was pregnant with my child.”
I blink. “You didn’t use protection?”
“I did—the first time. The second time, I was asleep when she started rubbing against me, and by the time I woke up fully, I was inside her and too far gone to remember the condom.”
My mouth drops open. “She got pregnant on purpose?”
He shrugs. “She claimed she didn’t, but I suspect otherwise. She lived in a conservative Muslim village, and she’d had a lover before me. She never told me who he was, but if she’d gone through with the marriage to the elder—or if she’d turned him down and married someone else from her village—she could’ve been publicly exposed and cast out by her husband. A non-Muslim foreigner like me was her best bet at avoiding that fate, and she seized the opportunity when she saw it. It’s admirable, really. She took a risk, and it paid off.”
“Because you married her.”
He nods. “I did—after the paternity test confirmed her claim.”
“That’s… very noble of you.” I feel inexplicably relieved that he didn’t fall head over heels for this girl. “Not many men would’ve been willing to marry a woman they didn’t love for the sake of the child.”
Peter shrugs again. “I didn’t want my son exposed to ridicule or growing up without a father, and marrying his mother was the best way to ensure that. Besides, I grew to care for Tamila after my son was born.”
“I see.” Jealousy bites at me again. To distract myself, I drain my second glass of wine and grab the bottle to pour myself more. “So she trapped you, but it worked out.” My palms are sweaty, and the bottle almost slips out of my hand, the wine splashing into my glass with such force that some liquid spills over the rim.
“Thirsty?” Peter’s gray eyes gleam with amusement as he reaches over to take the bottle from me. “Maybe I should get you some water or tea instead?”
I vehemently shake my head, then realize the motion made the room spin a little. He might be right; I haven’t had much to eat, and I should probably slow down on the wine. Except my anxiety is melting away with each sip, and it feels too good to stop.
“I’m fine,” I say, picking up my glass again. I might regre
t this at work tomorrow, but I need the warm buzz the alcohol brings. “So you grew to care for Tamila. And she continued living in that village?”
“Yes.” His face tightens; we must be getting close to the painful memories. Confirming my suspicion, he says roughly, “I figured she and Pasha—that’s what we named my son—would be safer there. She wanted to live with me in my apartment in Moscow, but I was always traveling for work, and I didn’t want to leave her in an unfamiliar city on her own. I promised I’d take her to Moscow for a visit when Pasha was older, but until then, I thought it would be better if she stayed close to her family, and my son grew up breathing fresh mountain air instead of city smog.”
The mouthful of wine I swallowed burns though my tightening throat. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, putting down my glass. And I am sorry for him. I despise Peter for what he’s doing to me, but my heart still aches for his pain, for the loss that led him down this dark path. I can only imagine the guilt and agony he must be feeling, knowing that he inadvertently made the wrong choices, that his desire to protect his family led to their demise.
It’s something I can relate to, having killed my own husband not once, but twice.
Peter nods, acknowledging my words, then gets up to clear off the table. I keep drinking my wine as he loads the dishes into the dishwasher, and the warm buzz in my veins intensifies, the candles in front of me attracting my attention with the hypnotic flickering of the flames.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says, and I look up to see him drying his hands with the kitchen towel. I must’ve zoned off for a bit, watching the candles. That, or he’s insanely fast with his cleanup. Most likely, though, I zoned off—which means I’m more buzzed than I thought.
“Bed?” I force myself to focus as he comes up to me and clasps my wrist, pulling me to my feet. Despite the wine-induced softness around the edges of my vision, I remember the reason I was upset, and as he tugs me toward the stairs, the tightness in my stomach returns, my pulse picking up pace. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”
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