Forever Mine: Tormentor Mine: Book 4 - Anna Zaires - E-Book

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Anna Zaires

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Beschreibung

I fought against fate, and I won. I made a deal with the devil to keep her.

It was supposed to be over. We were meant to be happy.

Too bad my enemies had other plans.

Note: This is the conclusion of Peter & Sara’s story. It is strongly recommended that you read Twist Me and Capture Me trilogies before embarking on this book, as there will be major spoilers for those series.

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Forever Mine

Tormentor Mine: Book 4

Anna Zaires

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

Chapter 19

Part II

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

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

Part III

Chapter 39

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

Part IV

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Epilogue

Excerpt from Twist Me

Excerpt from Capture Me

Excerpt from The Krinar Exposé

About the Author

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 © 2019 Anna Zaires and 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: 978-1-63142-349-9

Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63142-350-5

Part I

1

Henderson

“What are you doing?”

Bonnie’s anxious voice startles me out of my planning, and I look up, shoving the folder I was studying into a stack of files on my desk as I prepare to answer with a plausible lie.

Except my wife of twenty-one years is not looking at me.

She’s staring at the computer behind me, where a photograph of a beautiful chestnut-haired bride smiling up at her handsome groom takes up most of the screen.

Fuck. I thought I’d closed that tab. My neck muscles spasm with tension, the bile returning to burn up my throat as I see Bonnie begin to shake.

“Why do you have his picture?” Her voice turns shrill as her eyes swing to me, accusing. “Why do you have that monster’s picture on your screen?”

“Bonnie… It’s not what you think.” I stand up, but she’s already backing away, shaking her head, her long earrings flapping around her skinny face.

“You promised. You told me we’ll be safe.”

“And we will be,” I say, but it’s too late.

She’s already gone.

Back to the refuge of her bed, her pills, her mindless reality TV.

Back to where the kids and I can never reach her.

Sinking back into my chair, I roll my head from side to side, releasing the worst of the agonizing tightness as I pull out the folder again. The name inside stares at me, each letter taunting me, stoking the bitter fires of rage.

Peter Sokolov.

I’m the last person remaining on his list. The only one he hasn’t killed yet for what happened in that shitty village in Dagestan. One mistake, one careless order given, and this is the result. For years, he’s hunted me and my family, torturing our friends and loved ones in an effort to get to me, starring in my children’s nightmares, destroying our lives in every way.

And now, thanks to his buddy Esguerra’s pull with our government, he’s allowed to roam free. To marry his pretty, chestnut-haired doctor and live in the United States as if all’s forgiven and forgotten.

As if his promise not to kill me is something I’m supposed to believe.

My gaze falls on the rest of the names in the folder.

Julian Esguerra.

Lucas Kent.

Yan and Ilya Ivanov.

Anton Rezov.

Sokolov’s allies—monsters, all of them.

They must pay for what they’ve done.

Like Sokolov, they must be neutralized.

Then and only then will we be truly safe.

2

Sara

I wake up with the startling realization that I’m married.

Married to Peter Garin, a.k.a. Sokolov.

The man who killed George Cobakis, my first husband, after breaking into my house and torturing me.

My stalker.

My kidnapper.

The love of my life.

My mind jumps to last night, and heat spreads throughout my body—a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. He punished me yesterday. Punished me for nearly standing him up at the altar.

He took me brutally, and in the process, he made me admit it.

Made me confess that I love him—all of him, the dark parts included.

That I need that darkness… need it directed at me, so I can overcome the shame and guilt of knowing I fell for a monster.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the bland white ceiling. We’re still in my small apartment, but I’m guessing we’ll move soon. And then what? Children? Walks in the park and dinners with my parents?

Am I really about to build a life with the man who threatened to kill everyone at our wedding if I didn’t show up?

He must be making breakfast because I smell delicious scents coming from the kitchen. It’s something both sweet and savory, and my stomach growls as I sit up, wincing at the soreness in my hamstrings.

If we’re going to be fucking in exotic positions a lot, I might have to take up yoga.

Shaking my head at the ridiculous thought, I go to shower and brush my teeth, and by the time I come out, dressed in a robe, I hear Peter’s deep, softly accented voice calling me.

Or more precisely, calling his “ptichka.”

“I’m here,” I say, walking into the kitchen—only to find myself swept up in incredibly strong arms and kissed so thoroughly that I lose my breath.

“Yes, you are,” my husband murmurs when he finally sets me back on my feet. “You’re here, and you’re not going anywhere.” His large hands rest possessively on my waist, his gray eyes gleaming like silver in his stubble-darkened face. Though he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he must not have shaved yet, because that stubble looks deliciously rough and scratchy, making me wonder what it would be like to have him rub it all over my skin.

Impulsively, I lift my hand to his chiseled jaw. It’s just as scratchy as I imagined, and I grin as he closes his eyes and rubs his face against my palm, like a big tomcat marking his territory.

“It’s Sunday,” I tell him, lowering my hand when he opens his eyes. “So yes, I’m not going anywhere. What’s for breakfast?”

He grins and steps back, releasing me. “Ricotta pancakes. You hungry?”

“I could definitely eat,” I admit, and watch his metallic eyes brighten with pleasure.

I sit down as he grabs plates for both of us and sets them on the table. Though he only came back for me last Tuesday, he’s already completely at home in my tiny kitchen, his movements as smooth and confident as if he’s been living here for months.

Watching him, I again get the unsettling sensation that a dangerous predator has invaded my small apartment. Partially, it’s his size—he’s at least a head taller than I am, his shoulders impossibly broad, his elite soldier’s body packed with hard muscle. But it’s also something about him, something more than the tattoos that decorate his left arm or the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow.

It’s something intrinsic, a kind of ruthlessness that’s there even when he smiles.

“How are you feeling, ptichka?” he asks, joining me at the table, and I look down at my plate, knowing why he’s concerned.

“Fine.” I don’t want to think about yesterday, about how Agent Ryson’s visit had literally made me sick. I’d already been anxious about the wedding, but it wasn’t until the FBI agent slapped me in the face with Peter’s crimes that I lost the contents of my stomach—and nearly stood Peter up.

“No ill effects from last night?” he clarifies, and I look up, my face heating as I realize he’s referring to our sex life.

“No.” My voice is choked. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his gaze hot and dark, and I hide my intensifying blush by reaching for a ricotta pancake.

“Here, my love.” He expertly plates two pancakes for me and pushes a bottle of maple syrup my way. “Do you want anything else? Maybe some fruit?”

“Sure,” I say and watch as he walks over to the fridge to take out and wash some berries.

My domesticated assassin. Is this what our life together will always be like?

“What do you want to do today?” I ask when he returns to the table, and he shrugs, his sculpted lips curved in a smile.

“It’s up to you, ptichka. I was thinking we could go out, enjoy the beautiful day.”

“So… a walk in the park? Really?”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“No reason. I’m game.” I focus on my pancakes so I don’t start giggling hysterically.

He wouldn’t understand.

We eat quickly—I’m hungry, and the ricotta pancakes (sirniki, he calls them) are to die for—and then we head out to the park. Peter is driving, and when we’re halfway there, I notice a black SUV following us.

“Is that Danny again?” I ask, glancing back.

Ever since Peter’s return, the Feds have left us alone, and Peter is much too calm about the tail for it to be anyone but the bodyguard/driver he hired.

To my surprise, Peter shakes his head. “Danny is off today. It’s a couple of other guys from that crew.”

Ah. I turn around in my seat to study the SUV. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see in. Frowning, I look back at Peter. “You think we still need all that security?”

He shrugs. “I hope not. But better safe than sorry.”

“And this car?” I look around the luxurious Mercedes sedan Peter bought last week. “Is it extra secure somehow?” I rap my knuckles on the window. “This seems really thick.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Yes. The glass is bulletproof.”

“Oh. Wow.”

He glances at me, a faint smile appearing on his lips. “Don’t worry, ptichka. I have no reason to think we’ll get shot at. This is just a precaution, that’s all.”

“Right.” Just a precaution—like the weapons he had inside his jacket at our wedding. Or the bodyguard/driver who’s there to pick me up when Peter can’t. Because normal suburban couples always have bodyguards and bulletproof cars.

“Tell me about the houses you found,” I say, shoving aside the unease generated by the thought of all those security measures. Given his former profession and the kinds of enemies he’s made, Peter’s paranoia makes perfect sense, and I’m not about to object to whatever precautions he deems necessary.

Like he said, better safe than sorry.

“I’m going to show you the listings in a second,” he says, and I realize we’re already at our destination.

He expertly parks the car and walks around to open the door for me. I place my hand in his, letting him help me out, and I’m not the least bit surprised when he uses the opportunity to draw me to him for a kiss.

His lips are soft and gentle as they touch mine, his breath flavored with maple syrup. There is no urgency in this kiss, no darkness—just tenderness and desire. Yet when he lifts his head, my pulse is just as fast as if he’d ravished me, my skin warm and tingling where his palm cradles my cheek.

“I love you,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, and I beam up at him, my unease replaced by a light, buoyant sensation.

“I love you too.” The words come even easier today—because they’re true. I do love Peter.

I love him even though he still terrifies me.

He grins and leads me to a bench. “Here.” He pulls me down to sit and takes out his phone, swiping across the screen a few times before handing it to me. “These are the listings I’ve found,” he says, looking at me with a warm silver gaze. “Let me know which houses you like, and we can go see them.”

I flip through the pictures as the buoyant feeling intensifies.

Is this what true happiness feels like?

“Let’s walk and talk,” I tell him when I’m done looking through the photos, and he gladly agrees, clasping my hand in a firm grip as we wander through the park and discuss the pros and cons of the different houses.

“You don’t think four bedrooms is too small?” he asks, gazing down at me with a questioning smile, and I shake my head.

“Why would I think that?”

“Well…” He stops and faces me. “Have you considered how many kids you’d like to have?”

My stomach dives. Here it is—the topic we’ve been avoiding since Cyprus, when Peter admitted he was trying to impregnate me and I crashed a car trying to escape. I was expecting it to come up at some point—we haven’t been using condoms since Peter’s return and he outright told my parents he’d like us to start a family soon. Still, my heart pounds in my chest, and my palm grows sweaty in Peter’s grasp as I try to imagine what it would be like to have a child with him.

With the merciless killer who obsessively loves me.

Taking a breath, I reach deep for my courage. Peter is no longer a criminal, no longer a fugitive, and I’m his wife, not his captive. He gave up his vengeance so we could have this—a real life together.

Walks in the park, children, and all.

“I’ve been picturing three,” I say steadily, holding his gaze. “But I think I could also be happy with one. What about you?”

A tender smile blooms on his darkly handsome face. “Definitely at least two—assuming all goes well with the first.” He places his big palm on my stomach. “Do you think there’s a chance…?”

I laugh, stepping away. “Are you kidding me? It’s way too soon to tell. You came back less than a week ago. If I knew I was pregnant, that would be problematic.”

“Very,” he agrees, catching my hand and squeezing it possessively. We resume walking, and he gives me a sidelong glance. “I take it you’re okay with this?”

“With a baby now, you mean?”

He nods, and I take a deep breath, looking ahead at a group of skateboarding teens. “I guess. I’d still like to wait a little, but I know this means a lot to you.”

He doesn’t answer, and when I look at him, I see that his expression has darkened, his jaw tight as he stares straight ahead. The buoyant feeling evaporates as I realize I’ve inadvertently reminded him of the tragedy in his past.

“I’m sorry.” I raise our clasped hands to press his fist against my chest. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your family.”

His gaze meets mine, and some of the raw agony in it recedes. “It’s okay, ptichka.” His voice is husky as he lifts our joined hands higher to drop a tender kiss on my knuckles. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me. Pasha and Tamila will always live in my memories, but you are my family now.”

My heart squeezes into an aching ball. He’s right. I am his family—and he is mine. Because the wedding happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to truly think about that, to articulate that reality in my mind.

We’re married.

Truly married.

I can no longer think of George as my husband because Peter holds that title now—just as he can’t think of Tamila as his wife.

“And you’re right,” he continues as I process that realization. “Family is important to me. I want us to have a child, and I want it soon. However…” He hesitates, then says quietly, “If you want to wait, I won’t force the issue.”

I stop and gape at him. “Really? Why not?”

A quicksilver smile flashes across his face. “Do you want me to?”

“No! I just…” I shake my head, pulling my hand out of his grasp. “I don’t understand. I thought that was part of it, you know, marriage and all. You forced the wedding, so…”

All traces of humor leave his gaze. “You nearly died, my love. In Cyprus, when you thought that I would force a child on you, you tried to escape and nearly died.”

I bite my lip. “That was different. We were different.”

“Yes. But childbirth in general can be dangerous. Even with all the medical advances today, a woman risks her health, if not her life. And if anything happened to you because I insisted…” He stops, his jaw clenching as he looks away.

I stare at him, my heart beating heavily in my chest. The odds of anything serious happening to me in childbirth are very low, and my first instinct as a doctor is to tell him that, to reassure him. But at the last second, I think better of it.

“So you would wait?” I ask carefully instead.

Peter turns back to face me, his gaze somber. “Do you want to wait, my love?”

Now it’s my turn to look away. Do I? Up until this moment, I’d assumed that Peter’s return and the rushed wedding meant that a child was imminent in our future. I’d resigned myself to the thought, even embraced it on some level.

If nothing else, my parents could have the grandchildren they’ve been wanting—a positive I hadn’t considered until our dinner the other night.

“Sara?” Peter prompts, and I look up to meet his gaze.

Here it is.

My chance to delay it.

To do the right thing, the smart thing.

To have a child when I’m sure that we can make it, that Peter can live this kind of life.

All I have to do is say yes, use the choice he gave me, but my mouth refuses to form the word. Instead, as I hold his gaze, seeing the tension there, I hear myself say, “No.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t want to wait,” I clarify, shutting down the rational voice screaming in my mind as I watch a bright, joyous smile curve his lips.

Maybe this is the wrong decision, but at this moment, it doesn’t feel that way. Peter was right when he said that life is short. It is short and uncertain, full of pitfalls. I’ve always lived it cautiously, planning for the future on the assumption that there would be one, but if there’s anything I’ve learned over the past couple of years, it’s that there are no guarantees.

There’s just today, just now.

Just us, together and in love.

We spend another hour in the park, then go grocery shopping together, stocking up on food for the week. Peter buys enough to feed ten people, and when I question him about that, he informs me that he intends to invite my parents for dinner this Friday—and to pack me lunch to take to work each day.

When we come home, he disappears into the kitchen, and I go on my computer to deal with the emailed congratulations and gift cards—a popular choice for the majority of the guests at our wedding, given that no one had time to shop for an actual gift. I print out all the gift cards, sort them into categories, apply the codes to specific retailers as needed, and email back thank-yous. The whole process takes less than forty minutes—yet another perk of our simple, speedy wedding.

With George, we spent two weekends in a row on this task.

I’m about to shut down the computer when I see another email in my inbox—this one from an unknown sender but also with the subject of “Congratulations.”

I open it, expecting another gift card, but inside is just a short message.

Congratulations on a beautiful wedding. If you ever need to reach us, you can use this email address.

With best wishes,

Yan

I blink, staring at the email. I have no idea how Peter’s former teammate got my email, or why he decided to write to me, but I add his email address to my contacts, just in case.

Done with the gifts, I follow the delicious smells into the kitchen, where Peter is preparing lunch.

Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but I’m feeling optimistic.

This marriage thing is going to work out.

The two of us will make sure it does.

3

Peter

As we eat lunch, I barely taste my food, all my attention on Sara as she tells me about the wedding gifts and Yan’s strange email. Her hazel eyes look almost green as she animatedly gestures with her fork, her skin like pale cream in the bright sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. In a casual blue sundress, with her chestnut hair in loose waves around her slender shoulders, she’s every dream of mine come to life, and my chest tightens at the recollection of what it was like to be without her all those months.

I’m never letting her go again.

She’s mine, until death do us part.

“Why do you think he decided to give me his contact info? Do you think he just wants to keep in touch?” she asks, spearing a piece of cucumber in her Russian-style salad, and I force myself to focus on the conversation instead of how much I’d like to spread her out on the table and feast on her rather than the food I’ve prepared.

“I have no idea,” I answer, and it’s true. Yan Ivanov took over our assassination business after I left, so I can’t imagine he’d want me back. For months before that, there was tension between us, and I suspect if I hadn’t voluntarily stepped down as team leader, he would’ve done his best to take my place.

Then again, he doesn’t think civilian life is for me; he stated as much at our wedding. So maybe he expects me to return and is keeping an eye on the situation just in case.

With Yan, one never knows.

“Well, I hope they come visit us,” Sara says. “The guys, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to talk to them at the wedding, and I feel bad about that.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? That is what you feel bad about?”

She drops her gaze to her salad bowl. “And nearly standing you up, obviously.”

The metal edges of the fork handle cut into my palm, and I realize I’m squeezing the utensil too hard. I’m no longer mad at my ptichka, though some of the hurt still lingers. I understand how difficult it was for her to admit she loves me, to embrace me fully after everything I’ve done. She needed me to leave her no choice, and I obliged, threatening her friends to make her show up at our wedding.

No, the source of my anger is not Sara, but the man who tried to manipulate her into bailing on our wedding.

Agent Ryson.

The fact that he dared to show up like that fills me with blistering fury. I leave Henderson alone, they leave me and Sara alone—that was the deal. No more FBI surveillance, no harassment, just a clean slate so we can lead peaceful lives.

He threatened Sara, too. Accused her of conspiring with me to kill her husband. I have no idea what he said to her, exactly, but it must’ve been bad to make her react so strongly.

Under any other circumstances, he would’ve already been rotting with the worms, but I’m supposed to be a law-abiding citizen now. I can’t go around killing FBI agents—not without giving up the life I’ve fought for, the civilian life that Sara needs. So as tempting as it is, Ryson lives—for now, at least. Later on, when enough time has passed, he might meet with an unfortunate accident or an overly aggressive mugger, à la Sara’s patient’s stepfather… but that’s a thought for another day.

Today I have Sara all to myself, and I intend to enjoy it.

“Don’t worry, my love,” I say when my new wife continues to eat quietly, avoiding my gaze. “It’s over. It’s in the past—as are whatever other mistakes we’ve made. Let’s just focus on the present and the future… live our lives without always looking back.”

She looks up, her eyes uncertain. “Do you really think we can?”

“Yes,” I tell her firmly, and reaching over, I bring her hand to my lips for a tender kiss.

After we eat lunch, we go see the listings I showed her, and Sara falls in love with one house—a five-bedroom Victorian that was built in the eighties but completely renovated last year. It has a large back yard—for the dog and the kids, she gleefully tells me—and a gorgeous fireplace in the living room. I’m not crazy that it’s so close to the neighbors and the yard is completely open, but I figure if we plant some trees and put up a fence, we’ll have sufficient privacy.

Either way, it’s better than living in Sara’s current rental.

Before we leave, I put in an above-market all-cash offer, and the realtor calls us a few minutes later to inform us that the offer has been accepted.

“That’s it,” I tell Sara when I hang up. “The closing is next week.”

Her eyes widen. “Really? Just like that?”

“Why not?”

She laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose because most people don’t buy houses as easily as they buy shoes.”

I smile and reach out to take her hand. “Most people aren’t us.”

“No,” she agrees wryly, looking up at me. “They’re not.”

We return home, and I make us dinner—grilled scallops with sweet potato mash and steamed broccolini. As we eat, Sara brings up moving logistics, and I tell her that I’ll take care of everything, just as I did with the wedding arrangements.

“All you’ll need to do is show up at the new place,” I say, pouring her a glass of Pinot Grigio. Then, remembering her inexplicable upset over the sale of her Toyota, I add, “Unless there’s something you want to decide on together? Maybe you want to choose new furniture or decorations?”

She smiles ruefully. “No, I think I’m good. I’m not overly picky about house stuff. If you want to run with it, I’m fine with that.”

“To our new place, then.” I lift my wine glass and clink it gently against hers. “And a new life.”

“To our new life,” she echoes softly, and as she sips from her glass, I can’t help remembering the time when she tried to drug my wine, early on in our relationship. She’d been so defiant then, so sure that she hated me.

Does she still? In some small way?

My mood darkening, I set my wine down and stand up. Walking around the table, I pull Sara to her feet.

“What are you—” she begins, but I’m already kissing her, tasting the wine on her lips.

Her soft, plush lips that have been driving me to distraction all day.

I’ve been doing my best to act like a good husband, to do all the normal things with her instead of chaining her to my bed and fucking her all day long like my instincts demand. I’ve been calm and patient, letting her recover from last night, but I can’t do the civilized thing any longer.

I need her.

Right here.

Right now.

Her arms wind around my neck, her slender body arching against me as I bend her over my arm, unable to get enough of the taste and smell of her, of the feel of her delicate tongue stroking against my own. She’s fucking delicious, and my cock hardens, my heart thudding furiously in my ribcage as I clear the dishes from the table with one swipe of my arm, heedless of the mess I’m creating.

We need to get new dinnerware anyway.

She gasps as I stretch her out on the table and flip up the skirt of her sundress, exposing pale thighs and a pretty blue thong edged with lace. Unable to control myself, I tear off the scrap of silk and bury my head between her thighs, my tongue dipping hungrily between her folds, my lips closing around her clit on a hard, greedy suck as I drape her legs over my shoulders.

“Peter… Oh God, Peter…” Her hips lift off the table, her hands fisting tightly in my hair, and I feel like my cock will explode in my jeans at the taste of her, at the warm, feminine scent and the feel of her silky flesh under my tongue. I love everything about this, from the way her sharp little nails scratch my skull and her toned thighs squeeze my ears, to the gasping sounds tearing from her throat and the way her slick pussy quivers and contracts under my tongue.

This is paradise, fucking heaven, and I can’t believe I went without it—without her—for nine agonizing months.

Continuing to feast on her clit, I slip a finger inside and feel her inner walls clench around the intrusion as her hips lift and shimmy, wordlessly begging for more.

“Almost there… just a bit more,” I growl into her folds, stroking her from the inside, and as I find the bit of spongy tissue that signifies her G-spot, her whole body arches and she comes with a keening cry, her hands clenching spasmodically in my hair as her pussy pulses around my finger.

By now, my cock is threatening to explode inside my jeans, so I withdraw my finger and flip her over onto her stomach. Then I pull her toward me until she’s bent over the table, her dress bunched up around her waist, exposing the firm white globes of her ass and a pussy glistening with her wetness and my saliva. Unable to wait even a second longer, I unzip my jeans and push them down along with my briefs, freeing my aching cock.

“Ready?” I say hoarsely, leaning over her as I guide myself to her entrance, and her breath audibly hitches as I push in without waiting for a reply.

Inside, she’s velvety soft and slick, her tender flesh gripping me tightly, sheathing me so perfectly that my balls draw up against my body and a low groan escapes my throat as my fingers dig into her hips.

This is fucking madness, total and utter insanity. After our talk last night, we had sex two more times before falling asleep, and I shouldn’t be feeling like this, so desperately hungry for her that I’m on the verge of losing control. But I am that hungry. I’m ravenous for all things Sara. The need to possess her claws at my bones, the dark lust arcing up and down my spine. I feel it burning in my veins, incinerating me from the inside out.

She’s my addiction, and I can’t get enough.

Releasing her hips, I reach over and grab her elbows, pulling on them to make her arch her back before I slam into her harder, feeling her inner muscles clench around me as I start fucking her in earnest.

She cries out with every punishing thrust, her upper body lifted off the table by my grip on her elbows, and I feel the orgasm boiling up within me, the pleasure rising like a tidal wave. Groaning, I throw back my head, hammering into her faster, and her cries intensify, her pussy tightening around me as her whole body goes stiff. I feel her spasms begin, and then I’m there, my cock jerking in release as her wet flesh pulses around me, milking me, squeezing me until there’s nothing left.

Until I collapse over her, pressing her into the table as I breathe heavily, inhaling the heady scent of sex and sweat and her.

My Sara. My wife.

My obsession.

We could spend an eternity together, and that still wouldn’t be enough.

4

Henderson

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. For the second night, I can’t sleep, dark thoughts crawling around my mind as my neck keeps locking up.

The plan I’m formulating is extreme, monstrous even, but I don’t see any other choice. I can’t strike at Sokolov directly—he and his bride are too well guarded. If I try and miss, there will be hell to pay.

Besides, Sokolov is not the only one I want eliminated.

His allies are just as dangerous… to me, to my family, and to the world at large.

This is really the only way.

He and the others must be made to pay.

5

Sara

I wake up to the quiet beeping of my alarm. Shutting it off, I roll over onto my back and stretch, feeling both sore and satisfied. After we cleaned up the kitchen and showered, Peter took me one more time before we fell asleep, and then again during the night.

Someone needs to bottle up the man’s sex drive and sell it as a drug. They’d make a fortune.

Grinning at the thought, I hop out of bed and run into the shower. I can already smell whatever deliciousness Peter is cooking in the kitchen, and my stomach is more than ready to start the day.

“Morning, ptichka,” he greets me when I step into the kitchen after quickly showering and getting dressed for work. On the table are two plates with avocado toast and egg, and on the counter is a lunch bag—I presume for me to take to work.

“Hi.” My heartbeat accelerates as I take him in. He’s shirtless today, his dark jeans riding low on his hips and the tattoos on his arm gleaming in the morning light. His body is a work of art, with perfectly defined muscles and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Even the scars on his torso have a kind of violent, dangerous beauty to them—just like the man himself.

“Do you have time to eat?” he asks, and I nod, fighting the urge to lick my lips as his ab muscles flex in front of me.

Maybe Peter is not the only one with an insane libido.

The condition might be contagious.

“I have fifteen minutes,” I say huskily, forcing myself to walk over to the table instead of toward him. If I give him a good-morning kiss now, we’ll end up right back in bed.

“Good. I’ll take you to work this morning,” he says, joining me at the table. Picking up his toast, he bites into it, and I do the same with mine, enjoying the zesty lime flavor combined with the savory fried egg and crisp rye bread.

“Is this a busy week for you?” he asks when I’m almost done with my toast, and I nod, patting my lips with a napkin.

“Yes, actually. Really busy. Wendy and Bill—you know, my bosses—just took off for vacation, so I’m seeing some of their patients in addition to my own. Oh, and I’m inducing one of my patients tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll probably be home late. Plus, I have some shifts at the clinic in the second half of the week.”

“I see.” Peter’s expression is neutral, but I sense a subtle darkening of his mood. He’s not happy about this, and I can’t blame him.

I’d also rather spend time with him than go to work.

“Will you be home for dinner tonight?” he asks, and I smile, glad to be able to give him some good news on this front.

“I should be. If there are no emergencies.”

“Right.” He stands up. “Let me grab a shirt, and I’ll drive you to the office.”

“Thank you—and thanks for the delicious breakfast,” I call out, but he’s already gone into the bedroom.

6

Peter

Sara’s office is walking distance from her apartment, so the drive is just a few short minutes. All too soon, I’m pulling up to the curb and handing Sara her lunch, all the while feeling like I’d sooner gnaw my arm off than let her out of the car.

I hate that I won’t see her all day long, that I won’t be able to touch her or talk to her until evening. It’s even harder than last week because we got to spend this Sunday together—and I now know what paradise feels like.

It’s what we had back in Japan, only without the bitter animosity—without Sara resenting me for stealing her away from her career and everyone she loves.

It takes all my strength to remain seated and calm as she kisses my cheek and whispers, “Love you. See you soon,” before jumping out of the car.

I watch her slim figure disappear into her office building, and then I message the crew to give them their Sara-watching instructions for the day.

If I can’t be with her, at least I’ll know where she is and what she’s doing.

At least I’ll be sure she’s safe.

I spend the morning transferring the funds for the closing this Thursday and organizing the upcoming move. I plan to have us in the new house by next week, which means there’s a lot of work to be done. Though the place has just been renovated and won’t require major upgrades, I have to install proper security measures.

Suburbia or not, our house will be a fortress, and no one—least of all Agent Ryson—will be able to accost Sara at home again.

It’s mid-afternoon and I’m washing vegetables for dinner when my phone vibrates on the countertop. Pressing on the screen with one semi-dry finger, I skim Sara’s text.

So sorry. Just got a call from the clinic. They’re completely overrun, and they’re begging me to come in tonight. It’ll only be until ten or so. Again, I’m so sorry.

The zucchini I was washing snaps in half, and I shove the phone away with my elbow to avoid subjecting it to the same fate.

I should’ve fucking known. “If no emergencies come up” is code for “an emergency is bound to come up.” It was that way before Japan, and even though Sara’s current job is less focused on the obstetrics side of OB-GYN, her mindset hasn’t changed.

Work still comes first for her, even volunteer work at the clinic.

It takes me a solid twenty minutes to calm down and start thinking rationally. Sara’s career is one of the reasons I went through all that trouble with Novak and Esguerra, why I agreed to give up my revenge on Henderson. Being a doctor—helping patients—is important to her; she needs her career as much as she needs to be near her family and friends. I knew this when I stole her away, but it didn’t matter to me at the time.

All that mattered was keeping her.

Now that I have her and she’s happy, I can’t regress to that way of thinking, can’t forget what it was like when I was the source of her misery, when every time she looked at me, I saw torment in her eyes.

It’s different now. Whatever her remaining reservations, she’s finally admitted that she loves me—loves me enough to have my child.

A daughter or a son… like Pasha.

For a moment, it hurts to breathe again, but then the pain passes, leaving a bittersweet ache in its wake. I’ve been able to think of Pasha like this more and more in recent months, without the rage poisoning the memories. And I know it’s all due to her.

My little songbird whom I so badly want to cage again.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly let it out and focus on the calming task of making dinner.

If Sara can’t come home tonight, I’ll just have to come to her.

7

Sara

I expect someone from Peter’s crew to take me to the clinic, but Peter himself is waiting for me by the curb.

I grin, some of my tiredness fading as his eyes skim over my body before settling hungrily on my face.

“Hi.” I walk straight into his embrace and inhale deeply as his strong arms close around me, pressing me tightly against his chest. He smells warm, clean, and distinctly male—a familiar Peter scent I now associate with comfort.

He holds me for a few long moments, then pulls back to gaze down at me. “How was your day, my love?” he asks softly, brushing my hair off my face.

I beam up at him. “Crazy busy, but all better now.” I’m ridiculously overjoyed that he came to bring me to the clinic himself.

He grins back at me. “Miss me, did you?”

“I did,” I admit as he opens the car door and helps me in. “I really did.”

His answering smile makes me want to melt into the seat. “And I missed you, ptichka.”

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” I say as we pull away from the curb. The car smells of something deliciously spicy, and my stomach rumbles as I say, “I was really looking forward to having a nice dinner at home.”

Peter glances at me. “I brought you dinner. It’s on the back seat.”

“You did?” I turn around in my seat and spot the source of the delicious smell—another lunch bag. “Wow, thank you. You didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it.” Stretching, I grab the bag and put it on my lap.

I was going to buy some pretzels from a vending machine at the clinic, but this is infinitely better.

“Why do you have to do this?” Peter asks, stopping at a red light. His tone is casual, but I’m not fooled.

He was looking forward to our dinner as well.

“I really am sorry,” I say, and I mean it. When Lydia, the receptionist at the clinic, called me at lunchtime, I came very close to refusing her pleas—but in the end, the knowledge that a few dozen women would miss out on their cancer screenings and essential prenatal care if I didn’t show up won out. “They’re short of volunteers today, and I couldn’t leave them in the lurch.”

He gives me a sidelong look. “Couldn’t you?”

I pause in the middle of opening the lunch bag. “No,” I say evenly. “I couldn’t.”

Here it is, what I was afraid of all along. I suspected it was only a matter of time before my long hours would start bothering Peter, and it seems that I was right to worry.

Tensing, I prepare to hear an ultimatum, but Peter just presses on the gas, accelerating smoothly.

“Eat, my love,” he says in the same casual tone. “You don’t have a lot of time.”

I follow his suggestion and dig into the food—a vegetable medley with couscous and roasted chicken. The seasoning reminds me of the delicious lamb kebab Peter made for us back in Japan, and I inhale everything in a matter of minutes.

“Thank you,” I say, wiping my mouth with a paper towel he so thoughtfully packed along with the utensils. “That was amazing.”

“You’re welcome.” He turns onto the street where the clinic is and parks right in front of the building. “Come, I’ll walk you in.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—” I stop because he’s already walking around the car.

Opening the door for me, he helps me out and shepherds me to the building, as though I might wander off if he doesn’t keep a hand on the small of my back.

I expect him to stop when we reach the door, but he comes inside with me.

Confused, I stop and look up at him. “What are you doing?”

“There you are!” Lydia hurries toward me, her broad face relieved. “Thank God. I thought you weren’t going to— Oh, hi.” She blushes, staring at Peter with what I can only interpret as a full-blown crush.

“Peter was just—” I start, but he smiles and steps forward.

“Peter Garin. We met at our wedding,” he says, extending his hand.

The receptionist’s eyes go wide, and she clasps his hand, giving it a vigorous shake. “Lydia,” she says breathlessly. “Congrats again. It was a beautiful event.”

“Thank you.” He grins at her, and I can almost sense her swooning on the inside. “You know, Sara just told me you’re short on volunteers today. I’m no doctor, obviously, but maybe there’s something I can do to help out around here tonight? Maybe you have some files that need sorting, or something that needs fixing? We only have one car for now, and I’d rather not drive back and forth to pick up Sara.”

“Oh, of course.” Lydia’s excitement level visibly quadruples. “Please, there’s so much work. And did you say you’re handy? Do you by any chance also know something about computers? Because there’s this stubborn software program…”

She leads him away, chattering, and I stare in disbelief as my assassin husband disappears around the corner without so much as a look back.

8

Peter

I help Lydia with her software issue, fix a leaking faucet, and hang up a few decorations in the waiting area while two dozen women—many of them visibly pregnant—watch me in fascination.

As the only doctor here tonight, Sara has a never-ending stream of patients, so I don’t bother her. It’s enough to know that she’s just a couple of rooms away, and I can reach her in a minute if I need to.

Once all the basic tasks are done, I get to work assembling an ultrasound machine that a local hospital donated. I’ve never worked with medical equipment before, but I’ve always been good at putting things together—weapons, explosives, communication devices—so it’s not long before I figure out what goes where and how to test it to make sure it’s working.

“Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver, just like your wife,” Lydia exclaims when I show it to her. “We’ve been waiting for a technician to stop by for months, and oh, this is going to be so helpful! Sara is with her last patient now. Do you think you might have time to fix up this one cabinet, too? It’s been drooping and—”

“No problem.” I follow her to one of the exam rooms and add a few screws to make sure the cabinet in question doesn’t fall on anyone’s head.

“You are so good at this,” the receptionist gushes when I’m finished. “Did you ever work in construction, by any chance? You seem so practiced with that drill and all…”

“I worked on some construction projects as a teen,” I say without elaborating. This woman doesn’t need to know that the “projects” were forced labor in a youth version of a Siberian gulag.

“Oh, I thought so.” She beams at me. “Let me check if Sara is done.”

“Please.” I smile back at her. “I’d like to take my wife home.”

The receptionist hurries away, and I stretch my arms, releasing the stiffness in my muscles. It’s only been a few days, but I’m getting restless, eager to move and do something physical. After I made dinner, I went for a long run in the park and stopped by a boxing gym to work off some steam, but I need more.

I need a challenge of some kind.

For the first time, I seriously consider what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Thanks to the Esguerra-Novak double gig, I have enough money for me, Sara, and a dozen kids/grandkids—particularly if we don’t get into the habit of buying private planes, specialized weapons, or other expensive props. I don’t have to work to support us, and I didn’t make any plans beyond getting Sara and binding her to me—partially because I’ve always enjoyed the downtime between jobs.

Now I’m starting to realize that was because I knew that the time off was temporary, that another challenging, adrenaline-filled mission was in my future. Now there’s nothing—just a series of calm, peaceful days stretching out into infinity.

Days where all I’m going to be doing is thinking about Sara and waiting for her to come home.

“Peter?” Sara pokes her head into the room, and a big smile lights her face when she lays her eyes on me. “I’m ready to go home if you are.”

“Let’s go,” I say, and shelve the problem for another day.

I’ll think about what to do with my time later.

For now, I’ve got my ptichka, and she’s all I need.

9

Sara

The next two days fly by in a blur of work. On Tuesday, I stay late in the hospital for a delivery, and Wednesday is another shift at the clinic, where I’m once again the only doctor seeing all the patients.

It’s exhausting, but I don’t mind because Peter finds a way to be near me both evenings—on Tuesday, by catching up on some emails at the Snacktime Café by the hospital, so I can pop out to see him while waiting for my patient to be ready to deliver, and on Wednesday, by volunteering at the clinic alongside me again.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask him as we’re driving to the clinic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very glad you are—and Lydia is over the moon, for sure. But is this really what you want?”