Destiny Mine: Tormentor Mine: Book 3 E-Book

Anna Zaires

• Herausgeber: Mozaika Publications
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Fate made us enemies. I made us lovers.

In a different world, we were meant for each other.

This is not that world.

Note: For optimal enjoyment, it’s recommended you read the  Twist Me trilogy prior to starting this book.

Leseprobe

Destiny Mine

Tormentor Mine: Book 3

Anna Zaires

♠ Mozaika Publications ♠

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Anna Zaires & Dima Zales

www.annazaires.com

All rights reserved.

Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.

www.mozaikallc.com

Cover by Najla Qamber Designs

www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-298-0

ISBN: 978-1-63142-299-7

Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part II

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part III

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Part IV

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

Excerpt from Twist Me

Excerpt from Capture Me

Excerpt from The Krinar Captive

About the Author

Part I

1

Sara

Warm lips press against my cheek, the kiss soft and tender even as day-old stubble rasps across my jaw.

“Wake up, ptichka,” a familiar accented voice murmurs in my ear as I mutter a sleepy protest and snuggle deeper into the pillow. “It’s time to go.”

“Hmm-mm.” I keep my eyes closed, reluctant to let go of my dream. It was a pleasant one for once, involving a sunny lake, a pair of romping dogs, and Peter playing chess with my dad. The specifics are already fading from my mind, but the light, euphoric feeling remains, even as reality, along with bitter awareness of the impossibility of the dream, is creeping in.

“Come on, my love.” He presses a gentle kiss to the sensitive underside of my ear, sending pleasurable shivers through me. “The plane is waiting. You can sleep on the way home.”

The last of the dream fades, and I roll over onto my back, suppressing a wince at the lingering soreness in my left shoulder as I open my eyes to meet my captor’s warm, silver gaze. He’s leaning over me, a tender smile curving his sculpted lips, and for a moment, the euphoric lightness intensifies.

We’re alive, and he’s here with me. I can touch him, kiss him, feel him. His face is leaner than before, hollowed out by stress and sleep deprivation, but the weight loss just enhances his stark male beauty, sharpening the slant of those exotically angled cheekbones and highlighting the strong line of his jaw.

He’s gorgeous, this assassin who loves me.

My husband’s killer, who’ll never set me free.

My chest tightens, my joy tainted by the familiar squeeze of self-loathing and guilt. Maybe there will come a day when I won’t feel so conflicted, so torn about needing the man looking at me like I’m his heart, but for now, I can’t forget what he is and what he’s done.

I can’t let go of the shame of knowing I’m falling for my tormentor.

Peter’s smile fades, and I know he senses my thoughts, reads the guilt and tension on my face. For the past two weeks, ever since I woke up here at the clinic, I’ve been avoiding thinking about the future and dwelling on what led to the crash. I needed Peter too much to push him away, and he needed me. This morning, though, we’re returning to his safe house in Japan, and I can’t hide my head in the sand any longer.

I can’t pretend the man I’ve been clinging to like he’s my lifeline doesn’t intend to keep me captive for the rest of my life.

“Don’t, Sara.” His voice is deep and soft, even as the warm silver of his gaze cools to icy steel. “Don’t go there.”

I blink and smooth out my expression. He’s right: now is not the time. Pushing up onto my right elbow, I say evenly, “I should get dressed. If you’ll excuse me…”

He straightens, giving me space to sit up. Grateful for my hospital gown, I slither out of bed and hurry to the bathroom before he changes his mind and decides to have the discussion after all. We do need to talk about what happened—the confrontation is long overdue, in fact—but I’m not ready for it. Over these past two weeks, we’ve been closer than ever, and I don’t want to give that up.

I don’t want to go back to seeing Peter as my adversary.

As I brush my teeth, I study the diagonal scar on my forehead, where a shard of glass left a long gash. The plastic surgeons at the clinic did a good job fixing what could’ve been a disfiguring mark, and with the stitches out, the scar is already looking less angry. In another few weeks, it’ll be a thin white line, and in a couple more years, it might be completely undetectable, like the faint bruises that still decorate my face.

By the time the child Peter wants to force on me is old enough to notice and ask questions, there should be no traces left of my disastrous escape attempt.

My breath seizes at the thought, and I press my hand against my stomach, counting the days with growing dread. It’s been two and a half weeks since we had unprotected sex during a potentially fertile window, which means my period should’ve started a few days ago. Between the surgeries and the drugs, I wasn’t paying much attention to the calendar, but now that I’m doing the math, I realize I’m late. Not so late that I have to go into complete panic mode, but late enough to seriously worry.

I could already be pregnant.

My first impulse is to rush out, find the nearest nurse, and demand a blood test. I’m sure they tested me for pregnancy two weeks ago, when I was brought to the clinic after the crash, but the first traces of hCG in my bloodstream wouldn’t appear until seven to twelve days after conception. I undoubtedly tested negative, and they would’ve had no reason to test me again.

No reason except that my period is now late.

I’m already reaching for the doorknob when I stop myself. The minute I take that blood test, Peter will know. He’ll have access to the results before I do, and something in me recoils at the thought. I’ve had no choice, no control over anything in our relationship thus far, and I need to feel like I do, even if it’s only in this one instance.

If there’s a child, it’s growing in my body, and Iwant to decide when to share the news.

It’s not a rational decision, I know. Peter isn’t stupid. He can also count the days. If he hasn’t realized my period is late yet, he will soon, and then he’ll know he’s won, that for better or worse, we’re bound together by the bundle of cells that might already be growing inside me.

By the child who’ll be born to a killer hunted by authorities worldwide and the captive object of his obsession.

A painful throbbing begins behind my left eye, the headache sudden and relentless. I can’t avoid thinking about the future any longer, can’t afford to take each day as it comes and hope for the best.

I have to protect this baby, but I don’t know how.

I can’t escape, and Peter will never set me free.

2

Peter

Sara is unusually quiet as we leave the clinic, her slender fingers cold in my grip, and I know she’s again entertaining doubts about us, her overactive mind going over all the reasons why what we have is wrong and cannot work.

I wish I could reassure her, explain my new idea and tell her she just needs to be patient, but I don’t want to make promises I might not be able to keep. There are so many layers to my plan, so many moving parts, that the odds of failure are much greater than those of success.

If I accept Danilo Novak’s hundred-million-euro offer to eliminate Julian Esguerra, my team and I will be tangling with the most dangerous man I know.

Under different circumstances, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Esguerra has sworn to kill me for endangering his wife in order to rescue him, but before that, I spent a year working for him as a security consultant in order to get the list of people involved in my family’s massacre. I know the Colombian arms dealer; I’ve seen how violent and merciless he is. His organization singlehandedly wiped out one of the deadliest terrorist groups in history, and he’s done unspeakably cruel things to other enemies. With his enormous wealth and contacts in governments all over the globe, Esguerra is next to untouchable, his compound in the Amazon jungle the equivalent of a military fortress. And that’s why Novak is offering that kind of money: because no one in their right mind would go up against someone so powerful and ruthless.

The only reason I’m even thinking about embarking on my plan is Sara.

I have to make up for the crash that nearly killed her.

I have to do whatever it takes to give her the life she deserves.

Anton is already on the plane when the twins and I drive up with Sara, and as soon as I get her safely seated, we take off. It’s a fourteen-hour flight to Japan, so once we’re airborne, I remove Sara’s sneakers and tuck a blanket around her feet, hoping she’ll be comfortable enough to take a nap.

I myself haven’t slept much since the crash, but I want her to rest and heal.

She regards me with somber hazel eyes as I reach for my laptop, and I ask, “Hungry, my love?”

We had breakfast before leaving the clinic, but she barely ate, so I brought extra sandwiches for the flight.

She shakes her head. “I’m okay, thanks.” Her voice is melodious and a little husky—a singer’s voice, I’ve always thought. I want to listen to it forever, whether she’s speaking or belting out one of the pop songs she loves. Most of all, though, I want to hear it croon a lullaby to our baby, so the child knows he or she’s safe and loved.

With effort, I push that alluring image away. I can’t think about starting a family with Sara now… not when I have such a dangerous task ahead.

It’s for the best that Sara is not pregnant, and until we’re past this hurdle, I’ll make sure she stays that way.

3

Peter

“You did what?”

Anton stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, his bearded jaw slack with shock. Like me, the guys are up early despite our late arrival last night, so I figured I’d fill them in on our next mission before Sara wakes up.

“I scheduled a meeting with Novak,” I repeat, cracking an egg into a mixing bowl before stirring in a little milk. “We’ll be going to Belgrade mid-December. The Serbian bastard’s too paranoid, said he’ll only communicate the specifics of whatever asset he’s got in Esguerra’s organization in person, not over email or phone.”

Yan leans against a nearby counter, his green eyes coolly amused as he crosses his trouser-clad legs at the ankles. “Why mid-December? It’s only early November.”

I shrug. “We’re not in a rush, and neither is he.” The latter is not true, actually. Novak wanted to meet next week, but I put him off until next month. Once we start the ball rolling, there’ll be no stopping it, and I’m not ready.

I want—no, I need—to spend time with Sara before I embark on this mission. Also, our hackers are hot on Wally Henderson’s trail and may uncover another lead soon. He’s the last name on my list, and by far the most elusive. He’s also the general who was in charge of the Daryevo operation—which makes him the person most directly responsible for the massacre of my wife and son. If not for Sara’s accident, we might’ve caught him in New Zealand when his wife’s picture appeared on Instagram, posted there by a clueless winery owner proud of his clientele. As it was, however, by the time we detoured to the Swiss clinic and I pulled myself together enough to send my men to capture Henderson, he’d performed his disappearing act again. Only this time, his trail is fresh, and our hackers have a better idea of where to look.

We’re going to find Walter Henderson III, and when we do, I’ll tear the sookin syn limb from limb.

Ilya frowns, his skull tattoos gleaming in the morning light as he sits down on a barstool. “Are you sure about this, man? A hundred million is juicy, but this is Esguerra we’re talking about. Kent’s going to get involved and—”

“Fuck Kent.” I break the next egg so viciously it splatters on the side of the mixing bowl. “That bastard deserves it after the way he fucked up with Sara.”

“But Esguerra?” Anton says, getting over his shock. “The guy’s got a small army on his payroll, and that jungle compound of his—you said yourself it’s impenetrable. How the fuck are we supposed to—”

“That’s why we’re meeting with Novak, to find out what he’s got up his sleeve.” I’m starting to lose patience. “I’m not fucking suicidal; we’ll only do this if we can make it out alive.”

“Really?” Yan crosses the kitchen and sits down on a barstool next to his brother. “Are you sure about that? Because Sara did get hurt on Kent’s watch.”

His voice is silky soft, but I know a challenge when I hear one.

Keeping my expression calm, I walk over to the sink and wash all traces of raw egg off my hands. Anton, who knows me best, prudently steps away, but the Ivanov twins don’t budge from their seats, regarding me with identical green stares as I casually round the bar and approach Yan.

“So you think I’m reasoning with my dick?” The softness of my voice matches his. “You think I’m willing to get us all killed to punish Kent for letting Sara crash?”

Yan swivels his barstool to fully face me. “I don’t know.” His expression is mildly amused, but his eyes are cold and sharp. “Are you?”

My lips stretch in a grim smile as my right hand closes around the switchblade in my pocket. “And if I were?”

Yan holds my gaze for a few tense seconds as the air in the room thickens with challenge. I like Yan, but I can’t let this insubordination stand. He knew what he was signing up for when he joined this team, was fully aware that to participate in the lucrative business I was building, he’d have to help me with my personal agenda. That was our deal, and I intend to hold him to it, even if it’s now Sara who motivates my actions instead of my dead wife and son.

“Yan.” Ilya’s voice is quiet as he rises to his feet and places a massive hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Peter knows what he’s doing.”

Yan remains silent for a moment longer, then inclines his head with a hard-edged smile. “Yes, I’m sure. He is the team leader, after all.”

His words are conciliatory, but I’m not fooled. I’ll have to be extra alert on this mission.

Yan could easily become a complication.

4

Sara

As the five of us eat breakfast, I can’t help but notice the tension at the table. I don’t know if something happened before I came down, or if everyone is as jet-lagged as I am, but the easy camaraderie I’ve observed between Peter and his men doesn’t seem to be there this morning.

Instead of bantering with each other and entertaining me with anecdotes about Russia, Peter’s teammates wolf down their omelets in silence and swiftly disperse, with Anton taking the chopper on a supply run and the twins heading out for a training session in the woods.

“What’s going on?” I ask Peter when we’re the only ones left in the kitchen. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“Or something.” He gets up to clear away the empty plates. “Let’s just say that not everyone agrees with my chosen course of action.”

“What course of action?”

“I’m contemplating accepting another job offer—a particularly lucrative one.”

I frown and get up to help him stack the dishes in the dishwasher. “Is it dangerous?”

His smile lacks any hint of humor. “Our life is dangerous, ptichka. The work we do is just part of it.”

“So why are the guys objecting?” I put down the plate I was rinsing and face Peter, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Is it somehow worse than your usual Mission Impossible gigs?”

His steely gaze warms at my worried tone. “It’s nothing you need to stress about, my love—at least not for a while. We won’t even meet with the potential client until mid-December, and that meeting will decide if we take this job or not.”

“Oh.” My worry abates slightly, edged out by growing curiosity. “Are you meeting this client in person?” At Peter’s nod, I ask, “Why? You don’t normally do that, do you?”

“No, but we’re going to make an exception this time.” He doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and I decide to leave it alone for now. Mid-December is weeks away, and he’ll tell me when he’s ready—probably when he hasn’t just argued with his teammates.

We finish the cleanup in companionable silence, and I marvel at how natural all this feels: having breakfast with Peter and his men, doing dishes, talking about his work. Never mind that we’re on an inaccessible mountain peak in Japan with a foot of snow already blanketing the ground, or that the work in question is gory assassinations. My time away from here—the days I spent in Cyprus with the Kents, followed by the two-week stay at the Swiss clinic—is already beginning to seem like a bad memory, a scary interlude in this new life of mine.

A life that’s becoming more comfortable and real with each day that passes here, in this foreign place that’s starting to feel like home.

I wait for the painful bite of self-hate and guilt, but all I feel is a kind of weary resignation. I’m tired of fighting myself and these confusing feelings, tired of resisting and pretending that the man watching me with those metallic eyes is nothing more than my captor—that I didn’t cling to him at the clinic like a baby koala to its mother. When I woke up this morning, alone in an empty bed, I wanted to cry—and it had nothing to do with the fact that I still haven’t gotten my period.

I shut the door on that thought before I can start freaking out again. Yes, I’m now several days late, but there are other potential explanations for the delay. Stress, for instance, both of the physical and emotional variety. Without a pregnancy test and in the absence of other symptoms, there’s no way to know at this early stage if I’m dealing with the effects of the accident or the consequences of unprotected sex. So for now, since I’m not ready to bring up this topic with Peter, I need to put it out of my mind and hope for the best.

If I’m pregnant, we’ll both know soon enough.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, his dark eyebrows pulling into a concerned frown, and I realize I must’ve inadvertently grimaced, as if in pain.

“I’m just jet-lagged,” I say, and to further allay his worry, I paste on a bright smile. “You know, long flight and all.”

“Ah.” He lifts his big hand, gently touching the healing scar on my forehead. “You should take it easy for the next few days. You’re not yet fully recovered.” His frown deepens. “Maybe we should’ve stayed at the clinic longer.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Oh, no. We stayed about a week too long as is. I’m fine—just a little tired, that’s all.”

“Right.” He doesn’t look convinced, and impulsively, I rise on tiptoes and kiss the hard line of that sensuous mouth.

It’s just a brief, playful kiss, but we both reel from it as though from a blow. I don’t know why I did this, why it felt like the most natural thing in the world to soothe him like that. It wasn’t because I want sex, though I do—he hasn’t taken me since Cyprus and my body’s aching for his touch. No, it was just something I wanted to do, something that felt right.

He recovers first, a slow, seductive smile curving those sculpted lips as he reaches for me, one arm sliding around my waist to draw me closer while the other hand curves gently around my jaw, his callused thumb stroking my cheek. “Sara…” His voice is low and husky, as warm as the glow in his gaze. “My beautiful ptichka… I love you so, so much.”

My chest squeezes, compressing the air in my lungs. He’s said he loves me before, but never like this… never with this depth of feeling. It shakes me to the bone, because for the first time, I believe him.

I believe him, and I want to say it back.

The realization is like a hammer to my skull. I fought so hard against this, did everything I could to avoid falling for this man, to escape him. Yet even as I ran from him, I knew I was escaping from myself as well, from the dark part of me that wants to embrace my husband’s killer, to give in to the fantasy of a happy life with the assassin who stole me from everyone I love. I fought, I ran, and somewhere along the way, it happened anyway.

I fell for him.

I fell for the man I should hate, a monster whose child I may be carrying.

He holds my gaze, and in his eyes, I see the same fierce longing that I’ve been working so hard to squash. He needs me, this lethal captor of mine, needs me so much he’s willing to do anything to have me. And for some reason, that knowledge no longer terrifies me as much as it once did.

I don’t know if I somehow telegraph my thoughts, or if the abstinence of the past two and a half weeks has been as hard for Peter as it has for me, but the banked fire in his gaze burns brighter and the powerful arm around my waist tightens, drawing me flush against his body.

His hard, fully aroused body.

My own body tightens, clenching on a sudden empty ache as my hands come up to press against his broad chest. I want him, just as I wanted him all those nights at the clinic when I slept cuddled platonically in his embrace. He refused to touch me then, out of concern for my injuries, but I’m no longer hurting—not from injuries, at least.

His head dips, and I welcome his hard, devouring kiss. This is exactly what I want: to be possessed by him, to know the violence of his passion. He’s not gentle any longer, and I don’t want him to be. I want him just like this: rough and nearly out of control, consuming me with his need, making me burn with his overwhelming hunger.

My hands somehow end up in his dark hair, clutching at the thick, silky strands as I kiss him back with matching savagery, our tongues dueling as our bodies strain against each other through the barrier of clothes. I’m breathing hard now, and so is he as he backs me up against the edge of the counter, then lifts me onto it, pulling off my yoga pants and thong in one rough jerk. Then his zipper is down and his thick cock spears into me, making me cry out at the brutal stretch. If I weren’t so wet, he would’ve ripped me, but I’m slick with need, and as he starts thrusting into me, I wrap my legs around his hips, taking him in, embracing everything he has to give.

It’s not long before my body tightens, spiraling toward climax at a dizzying pace, and his thrusts pick up speed, the savage rhythm driving us both to the edge of sanity. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back as the orgasm overtakes him, and I scream, shuddering in agonizing pleasure as my inner muscles clench around his pulsing cock. The hot jets of his seed bathe my insides, and my body spasms again and again, the release lasting an eternity.

Eventually, though, it does end, and I become aware of the unyielding stone of the sleek quartz counter under my back and Peter’s heavy weight pressing me down. We’re both breathing raggedly, and even through the layer of his shirt, I feel the sweat covering his back.

We just fucked on the kitchen counter, where anyone could’ve walked in on us.

We went at it like animals, as if it had been years since we’d had sex instead of weeks.

A manic giggle escapes my throat at the same time as Peter swears furiously under his breath and pushes off me. The thunder-dark expression on his face as he zips up his jeans makes me crack up even more. Gasping with hysterical laughter, I slide off the counter on wobbly legs, and spot my pants and thong wedged under the dishwasher.

I’m naked from the waist down.

My bare ass was on the kitchen counter, like a turkey waiting to be stuffed.

My hysterics reach a new height, and I bend over, laughing so hard tears stream out of my eyes. Peter is staring at me like I’ve gone insane, and that just makes it worse, because I know how I must look, bare-assed and hooting like a madwoman.

After a couple of minutes, I calm down enough to think about retrieving my clothes, but Peter catches my shoulders before I can get on all fours. The worried frown on his face propels me into renewed hysterics. “You… you’re going to have to disinfect it,” I gasp out between bouts of uncontrolled laughter. “Since you c-cook here and all…”

I’m laughing too hard to talk now, but he must catch my gist, because reluctant amusement glimmers in his eyes and curves his lips. And then he’s laughing too, because there are still dirty dishes everywhere, and we just fucked where anyone could see us, and his semen is dripping down my thighs onto the clean tile floor.

Eventually, we calm down and retrieve my pants and underwear from under the dishwasher. My throat is sore and my abdomen aches from laughing so hard, but I feel cleansed somehow, emptied of all the bitterness and resentment. Peter’s expression, however, is darkening again, and as he leads me upstairs to shower, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t reply at first, just busies himself with turning on the shower and undressing both of us when we reach the bathroom. I wait patiently, and when we step under the water spray and he starts washing my back, he finally murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”

I blink and turn around to look at him. Is that what worries him? That he was rough? My left shoulder is still sore from being dislocated in the car crash, but I’m pretty sure our vigorous sex didn’t hurt it. “No, of course not. I told you, I’m perfectly fine.”

He looks at me, unconvinced, then sighs and gathers me against him in a hug. I close my eyes to keep out the streaming water and wrap my arms around his hard-muscled torso. We stand like that, holding each other without words, and it feels so right, in all its wrongness.

It feels like we belong like this, like we were meant to be.

5

Peter

The next morning, I wake up before Sara, and as has been my habit lately, I watch her sleep for a few minutes before forcing myself to get out of bed.

I don’t know if it’s just wishful thinking, but it felt different yesterday. It felt like the tentative truce we established at the clinic was still there. Usually, after sex, I could sense Sara scrambling to rebuild her walls amidst bitter self-recriminations, but not yesterday. Yesterday, I couldn’t feel her inner conflict, and after I assured myself that I didn’t hurt her, I stopped kicking myself for losing control—and for leaving off the condom yet again despite my earlier resolution not to do so.

At this point, filling Sara with my seed is instinctual, and those instincts refuse to heed the reasons for waiting until the Esguerra situation is resolved.

In any case, I doubt we were in any danger yesterday. Sara must be toward the end of her cycle, given when her period was last. Which was when exactly? Three weeks ago or four? I frown into the bathroom mirror as I wipe off the last of the shaving foam and put down the razor. No, that doesn’t seem right. We were away for almost three weeks, and before that, she didn’t bleed for at least—

A knock on the bathroom door interrupts my calculations. “Peter?” Sara’s sleep-roughened voice is strangely tense. “Yan wants to talk to you.”

Fuck. I rub a towel over my face to get rid of whatever foam might still be clinging to my skin and stride out of the bathroom. Sara is standing by the bed, swaddled in a thick robe that she must’ve pulled on to open the door for Yan.

“He said to come down as soon as you can,” she says, a worried frown bisecting her forehead. “It’s urgent.”

I nod, already pulling on a pair of jeans. I figured as much, because my men are not in the habit of knocking on our bedroom door. Something must’ve happened, but for the life of me, I can’t think what. There’s no way the authorities, or any of our enemies, could’ve tracked us here, and that’s the only emergency I can think of that would merit such urgency.

“Get dressed,” I tell Sara as I head for the door. “In case we need to leave quickly.”

Her eyes widen with understanding, and she rushes to put on her clothes as I hurry downstairs.

All three of my teammates are already there, clustered around Yan, who’s peering at his laptop screen. Anton is typing something on his phone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask sharply, and the twins turn to look at me, their faces grim.

“Sara is still upstairs, right?” Yan asks, casting an unreadable look at the stairs, and I nod, closing the distance between us in a few long strides.

“What’s going on?”

“Take a look,” he says and turns the screen toward me.

At first, all I see is the familiar shabby coziness of Sara’s parents’ kitchen, with its well-worn appliances and a windowsill full of potted herbs. Sara’s elderly father, dressed in a robe, is shuffling around the kitchen with his walker, pouring himself coffee and getting a yogurt from the fridge. He’s almost at the kitchen table with his breakfast when a ringing cell interrupts what must’ve been a serene morning.

Charles “Chuck” Weisman carefully places his coffee cup on the kitchen counter and reaches into his pocket to take out his phone. “Lorna?” His voice is strong and steady despite his age. “Did you forget to check—” He abruptly falls silent, and even on the grainy image, I can see him blanch, his mouth opening and closing in wordless shock.

His free hand gropes convulsively at his side but misses the rail of the walker, and I hold my breath as he stumbles. To my relief, he manages to catch himself on the edge of the counter. As frail as Sara’s father is, the fall could’ve easily killed him.

“Where?” is all he asks after a minute of tense listening, and then he slips the phone back into his pocket and stands for a moment, chin trembling, before pulling himself together and walking laboriously to the bedroom to get dressed.

“This was recorded approximately ten hours ago,” Yan says when I look up from the screen, ready to rip into him with furious questions. “We just finished listening to the complete audio of this call. It sounds like Sara’s mother was in a car accident—a bad one. They weren’t sure she’d make it. Our hackers are accessing the hospital records as we speak, but the ER doctors are notoriously slow at adding their notes into the system. The good news is that Sara’s father is still at the hospital—or at least, he hasn’t been home.”

“I just got in touch with the American crew,” Anton says, putting his phone away. “They’re on their way to the hospital, so we’ll get an update on her condition shortly. I told them to be extra careful; I’m sure the Feds will be watching the place, on the off chance Sara turns up.”

Fuck. I close my eyes and rub my temples to offset a burgeoning headache. This is Sara’s worst nightmare come true: one of her parents is hurt and she’s not there. She always feared it would be her father, because of his heart troubles, but this is her relatively young and healthy (for seventy-eight years of age) mother. Sara will be beyond devastated, and all the progress we’ve made in our relationship over the past couple of weeks will be lost.

She’ll never forgive me for keeping her away from her mother’s deathbed. It’ll create another rift between us, one that may be even harder to surmount than the one left by her husband’s death.

I open my eyes, a twisting, sucking pain settling low in my gut. My men are watching me with a mixture of curiosity and pity, and I know they understand. They’ve come to know Sara over the last few months, and to like her. They’ve seen how devoted she is to her elderly parents, how she asks about them every day and diligently watches the videos we provide her.

They know this will destroy her.

She’ll blame herself as much as she’ll blame me.

“Keep me posted on any updates from the Americans,” I order hoarsely and head upstairs.

I have to catch Sara before she comes down.

She can’t find out about this until we know all the facts.

6

Sara

I rush through my morning routine, showering and brushing teeth in under five minutes. It takes me another three minutes to get dressed, and then I debate what to do. Should I run downstairs to find out what’s going on? Or pack in case we do have to leave in a hurry?

Pragmatism wins out over curiosity, so I find a backpack in a closet and begin stuffing it with necessities: three pairs of clean underwear, both for myself and for Peter, then socks, jeans, shirts, sweaters, all for the both of us. I’m sure Peter and his men will be able to get new clothes if we have to abandon everything and evacuate to a different safe house, but it will be helpful if we have a few days’ worth of things to wear, so it’s less of an emergency. I haven’t forgotten the flight here, when my only dress options were the blanket Peter stole me in and hugely oversized men’s clothing.

If I can avoid schlepping around in Peter’s sweatpants, I’ll gladly do so.

Clothing dealt with, I move on to toiletries, packing our toothbrushes and toothpaste in a plastic Ziploc bag I find under the sink. As I zip them up, along with Peter’s razor and a small tube of moisturizer, it strikes me that I’m being oddly calm about this. My palms are sweaty and my heartbeat is elevated, but I’m no more stressed than I’d be if we were running late for a flight. I suppose it’s because deep inside, I expected something like this to happen. As skilled as Peter and his men are at evading the authorities, sooner or later, they’re bound to be found. If not by the FBI or Interpol, then by some criminal out to avenge one of their targets.

Even drug lords and corrupt bankers may have someone who loves them.

I’m running back into the bedroom to get a belt for Peter’s jeans when he walks in, his expression pitch black.

“What happened?” Dropping the backpack on the bed, I rush toward him. “Do we have to—”

He catches my face between his callused palms and slants his lips across mine in a hard, violently hungry kiss. We didn’t make love after the encounter in the kitchen—I passed out early from jet lag and Peter considerately let me sleep—and I can taste the pent-up lust in this kiss, the dark fire that always burns between us.

Backing me up against the bed, Peter tears off my clothes, then his own, and then, with no preliminaries, he thrusts into me, stretching me with his thickness, battering me with his hard heat. I cry out at the shock of it, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. His eyes glitter fiercely as he stretches my arms above my head, his hands shackling my wrists, and I realize it’s something more than lust driving him today, something savage and desperate.

My body’s response is swift and sudden, like oil catching fire. One minute, I’m gritting my teeth at the merciless force of his thrusts, and the next, I’m hurtling over the edge and screaming as I splinter in brutal ecstasy. There’s no relief in this orgasm, only a lessening of impossible tension, but even that doesn’t last. The second peak, as violent as the first, comes right on its heels, and I cry out at the agonizing spasms, the pleasure ripping me apart as he drives into me, over and over again, riding me through the climax and beyond.

I don’t know how long Peter fucks me like that, but by the time he comes, spurting burning-hot seed inside me, my throat is raw from screaming and I’ve lost count of how many orgasms he’s wrung from my battered body. The hard muscles of his chest gleam with sweat as he withdraws from me, and I lie there panting, too dazed and exhausted to move.

He leaves, then returns a few moments later with a wet towel, which he uses to pat at the wetness between my legs. “Sara…” His voice is rough, thick with emotion as he leans over me to brush a lock of hair off my sweat-dampened forehead. “Ptichka, I—”

A hard knock on the door jolts us both.

“Peter.” It’s Yan, his voice as sharp as earlier this morning. “You need to hear this. Now.”

Swearing under his breath, Peter jumps off the bed, finds his discarded jeans in the pile of clothes on the floor, and pulls them on without bothering with underwear. The look he gives me over his shoulder is fierce, almost angry, but he doesn’t say anything as he strides out of the room.

I sit up, wincing at the soreness between my thighs, and force myself to get up and take another quick rinse before getting dressed again.

I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m getting an awful premonition.

7

Peter

It’s a testament to the seriousness of the situation that there isn’t a suggestive smirk in sight as I stalk into the kitchen barefoot and shirtless, the smell of sex clinging to me like some primal cologne.

“It’s bad,” Yan says with no preamble as I approach. “A drunk driver T-boned her at an intersection, and the car rolled three times before landing on its roof. She has over a dozen broken bones and is hemorrhaging internally. They just took her in for a second surgery, but it’s not looking good. Given her age and the extent of her injuries, they don’t think she’s going to make it.”

Every word he speaks stabs deep into my gut. “What about Sara’s father?” I ask, my mind spinning. “Is he—”

“He’s holding himself together so far, but his blood pressure is dangerously high.” Anton’s dark gaze is grave. “They tried to send him home to get some rest, but he refuses to go. Some of their friends are there with him, but there’s only so much help they can provide.”

“Right.” I stare at my teammates, and in their eyes, I see the bleak knowledge of what I’m going to have to do.

The patter of light footsteps on the stairs captures my attention, and I turn to see Sara hurrying down the steps, her heart-shaped face pale with worry.

“What’s going on?” Her sock-clad feet slide on the kitchen tiles as she skids to a stop in front of us. Her hazel gaze jumps from me to my teammates and back. “Did something happen?”

“Give us a minute,” I tell the guys, and they immediately disperse, the twins going upstairs while Anton heads toward the closet by the door.

“Do you want me to prep the chopper?” he asks in Russian as he passes me, and I nod, keeping my gaze on Sara, who’s looking more anxious by the second.

“What happened?” she asks again, coming up to me, and I know I can’t delay it any longer. Reaching over, I clasp her delicate hand between my palms and, as gently as I can, convey what I just learned.

Her face lacks all semblance of color by the time I’m done, and her fingers are ice cold in my grip. Her eyes are still dry, but I know it’s the shock that’s keeping her from falling apart. My songbird was just dealt a devastating blow, and if I don’t act now, she’ll never recover from it.

I will lose her.

I know it.

I feel it.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I say evenly, “I saw you packing earlier. Are you ready to go?”

She blinks uncomprehendingly. “What?” Her voice is dazed, even as her gaze focuses on me with a sudden desperate hope. “Where?”

“Home,” I say, and the sucking pain in my gut intensifies, the hollowness spreading to engulf my heart. “I’m taking you back, my love, before it’s too late.”

8

Sara

I stare out the plane window at the clouds below, my thoughts scattered and my chest agonizingly tight. Maybe it’s because I’m still in shock, but everything happened with such speed that I simply can’t comprehend it, can’t make sense of this development and the tangle of emotions choking me up inside.

Mom was in a car accident. She might die.

Peter is taking me home.

My breaths are shallow, yet each time I inhale, it hurts, like the air inside the cabin is too thick. It feels like it took only minutes for us to leave, to get on the chopper and fly out, as though this was the plan all along, as if we talked it over and decided it was time.

Time for me to go home.

Time for Mom to die.

My breath hitches on a particularly thick inhale, and I have to fight to get my lungs to expand, to drag in oxygen through a windpipe that feels no wider than a pinprick.

The thing is, we didn’t talk it over. Not at all. Peter informed me, and that was it. Then there was just the hustle to get going, to grab whatever we need and get on the chopper. And once we were there, he was on the phone, arranging something, speaking lots of Russian and some English. I caught bits and pieces of his conversations, but I was too out of it to make sense of them. To make sense of anything, really. How can he take me back when they’re looking for him? When he knows that the moment I show up, I could be whisked away somewhere he may never find me?

How can he let me go when he swore he never would?

I want to ask Peter all this and more, but he’s not next to me. He’s on the couch, huddled over a laptop with the twins. I hear a barrage of rapid-fire Russian as they point at something on the screen, and I know they must be planning the logistics of this unforeseen operation, figuring out how to swoop in and drop me off right under the nose of the authorities.

I could get up and demand answers from them, but that could throw them off, make them miss some crucial detail that might mean the difference between life and death, or at least capture and freedom. So I just sit and look out the window, focusing on the exhausting task of breathing.

One inhale, one exhale. Slow and steady. I fight to use the unnaturally thick air as I keep my gaze on the fluffy clouds outside. Concentrating on them helps me cope with the knowledge that out there, thousands of miles away, Mom is under a surgeon’s knife, her frail body cut open and bleeding. I’ve seen hundreds of surgeries, have performed dozens of C-sections myself, and I know how it looks and feels, how human flesh is just meat at that point, something the doctor cuts and slices and stitches in order to save the person who’s not a person to the doctor at that moment but an assignment, a challenge to complete.

My stomach coils into a knot, my chest squeezing ever tighter, and I swipe at an annoying tickle on my cheek, only to lower my hand when it feels wet.

I didn’t realize I was crying, but now that I do, I try to pull myself together and focus on something besides the mental image of Mom’s body on a gurney, her stomach sliced open to repair the damage. And of Dad in the hospital waiting room, exhausted and sleep-deprived, his bad heart overwhelmed and overworked.

Why is Peter doing this? I try to think about that, because it’s better than the images in my head. Is he letting me go for good, or is he planning to return for me? If it’s the latter, he has to realize that stealing me the second time won’t be as easy. He’s taking an enormous risk by bringing me back, and yet he’s doing it. Why?

Could he be bored with me?

No. I slam the door on that pathetic, insecure idea. Whatever else he might be, Peter is the polar opposite of fickle. Once he sets a course of action, he doesn’t deviate from it, whether it be avenging his family or inserting himself into my life. Yesterday, he told me that he loves me, and I believed him. I still do.

He’s not taking me back because he wants to get rid of me.