Obsession Mine: Tormentor Mine: Book 2 - Anna Zaires - E-Book

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Anna Zaires

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Obsession Mine: Tormentor Mine: Book 2

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Obsession Mine

Tormentor Mine: Book 2

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 © 2017 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

e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-238-6

ISBN: 978-1-63142-239-3

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

Chapter 20

Part II

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part III

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Part IV

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

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

Excerpt from Twist Me

Excerpt from Capture Me

Excerpt from The Krinar Captive

About the Author

Part I

1

Peter

“They’re gaining on us,” Ilya says as the whine of sirens and the roar of helicopter blades grow louder. Light from the cars on the other side of the highway bounces off his shaved head, creating the illusion that his skull tattoos are dancing as he glances in the rearview mirror with a worried frown.

“Right.” Ignoring the adrenaline pumping in my veins, I tighten my arm around Sara, preventing her head from sliding off my shoulder as Ilya zooms around a slower-moving car. I expected the pursuit, of course—one doesn’t steal a woman guarded by the FBI without consequences—but now that it’s happening, I find myself worried.

My three teammates and I can handle a high-speed chase just fine, but I can’t endanger Sara that way.

Reaching a decision, I tell Ilya, “Slow down. Let them catch up to us.”

Anton twists around in the front passenger seat, his bearded face incredulous as he grips his M16. “Are you insane?”

“We can’t lead them to the airport,” Yan, Ilya’s twin, points out. He’s sitting on the other side of Sara, and he must’ve caught on to my plan, because he’s already rummaging in the large duffel bag we stored under the backseat of our SUV.

“Do you think the Feds know we have her?” Anton glances at the unconscious woman pressed to my side, and I feel an irrational flicker of jealousy as his black gaze roves over Sara’s face, lingering for a moment longer than necessary on her plush pink lips.

“They must. Those guys tailing her were stupid but not completely inept,” Yan says, straightening with a grenade launcher in his hands. Unlike his twin, he favors a conservative hairstyle and neatly pressed business clothes—his banker disguise, as Ilya calls it. In general, Yan looks like someone who wouldn’t know how to handle a wrench, much less a gun, but he’s one of the most lethal individuals I know—as are the rest of my team.

Our clients pay us millions for a reason, and it has nothing to do with our fashion choices.

“I hope you’re right,” Ilya says, tightening his grip on the wheel as he glances in the rearview mirror again. Two black government SUVs and three police cruisers are now four cars behind us, blue and red lights flashing as they pass slower-moving vehicles. “American police are soft. They won’t risk shooting if they know we have her.”

“Nor will they open fire in the middle of a highway,” Yan says, pressing a button to roll down the window. “Too many civilians around.”

“Hold off for a moment,” I tell him as he moves closer to the window, the grenade launcher in hand. “We want the chopper as low as possible above us. Ilya, slow down some more and get into the right lane. We’re taking the next exit.”

Ilya does as I say, and we switch into the slower lane, our speed dropping below the posted limit. A gray Toyota Camry zooms past us on the left, and I press Sara closer to me, telling Yan to get ready. The noise from the helicopter is deafening—it’s hovering almost directly overhead now—but I wait.

A few moments later, I see it.

The sign for the exit, coming up in a quarter mile.

“Now,” I yell, and Yan springs into action, propelling his head and torso out the window, the grenade launcher in his hands.

Boom! It sounds like the mother of all fireworks just went off above us. Brakes screech all around us, but we’re already at the exit, and Ilya swerves off the highway just as all hell breaks loose, cars colliding in both lanes with a clang of crumpling metal as the chopper above explodes in a fiery metal ball.

“Fuuuck,” Anton breathes, staring at the mess we left behind. With the flaming chopper pieces raining down, a giant Walmart truck is in the process of flipping over, and no less than a dozen cars have already crashed, with more ramming into the pile with each second. The government SUVs are among the victims, and the police cruisers are trapped behind them. There’s no way our pursuers will be able to follow us now, and though I’m not happy about the injured civilians, I know this is how we’ll make our escape.

By the time they regroup and send more cops after us, we’ll be long gone.

Nobody is taking Sara away from me.

She chose me, and she’s staying mine.

We get to the underpass where we left our other vehicle without pursuit, and once we switch cars, we all breathe a little easier. I have no doubt the Feds will locate us, but by the time they do, we should be safely in the air.

We’re almost at the airport when Sara lets out a small moan, her eyelids fluttering open as she stirs at my side.

The drug I gave her has worn off.

“Shhh,” I soothe, kissing her forehead as she tries to wriggle out of the blanket cocooning her from neck down. “You’re okay, ptichka. I’m here, and all is well. Here, drink this.” With my free hand, I open a sports bottle filled with water and press it to her lips, letting her suck down some liquid.

“What… where am I?” she croaks hoarsely when I take the bottle away, and I tighten my arm around her shoulders, preventing her from unrolling the blanket and exposing her nakedness. “What happened?”

“Nothing bad,” I assure her, setting the bottle down to brush a strand of hair off her face. “We’re just going on a little trip.”

On the other side of Sara, Yan snorts and mutters in Russian something about major understatements.

Sara’s gaze darts toward Yan, then bounces all over the car, and I see the exact moment she realizes what’s happening.

“Please tell me you didn’t…” Her voice rises in pitch. “Peter, tell me you didn’t just—”

“Shhh.” Turning her fully toward me, I press two fingers against her soft lips. “I couldn’t stay, and I couldn’t leave you behind, ptichka. You know that. It’s going to be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’m going to keep you safe.”

She stares at me, her hazel eyes filled with shock and horror, and despite my certainty that I did the right thing, my chest tightens unpleasantly.

Sara warned me about the FBI, knowing I would most likely take her with me, but she probably didn’t expect me to do it like this. And maybe there was some other way, something I could’ve done that wouldn’t have involved drugging her and stealing her in the middle of the night.

No. Shaking off the uncharacteristic self-doubt, I focus on what matters: reassuring Sara and getting her to accept the situation.

“Listen to me, ptichka.” I curve my palm around her delicate jaw. “I know you’re worried about your parents, but as soon as we’re airborne, you can call them and—”

“Airborne? So we’re still in—? Oh thank God.” She closes her eyes, and I feel a tremor run through her before she opens her eyes to meet my gaze. “Peter…” Her voice turns soft, cajoling. “Peter, please. You don’t have to do this. You can just leave me here. It’ll be so much safer for you… so much easier to get away if they’re not searching for me. You could just disappear, and they’ll never catch you, and then—”

“They’ll never catch me regardless.” My tone is clipped, but I can’t help the flare of anger as I lower my hand. Sara had her chance to be rid of me, and she didn’t take it. By warning me, she sealed her fate, and it’s too late to back out now. Yes, I drugged and took her without asking, but she had to know I wouldn’t leave her behind. I told her how much I loved her, and though she didn’t say the words back to me, I know she’s not indifferent. Maybe this is not precisely what she wanted, but she chose me, and for her to beg me to leave her behind now, to try to manipulate me with her big eyes and sweet voice… It hurts, this rejection of hers, though it shouldn’t.

I did kill her husband and force my way into her life.

“We’re here,” Anton says in Russian as the car slows, and I turn my head to see our plane some twenty meters ahead.

“Peter, please.” Sara begins to struggle inside the blanket, her voice rising in volume as the car comes to a complete stop and my men jump out. “Please don’t do this. This is wrong. You know this is wrong. My whole life is here. I have my family and my patients and my friends…” She’s crying now, her struggles intensifying as I bend to grab her blanket-wrapped legs and haul her out of the car. “Please, you said you wouldn’t do this if I cooperated, and I did. I did everything you wanted. Please, Peter, stop! Leave me here! Please!”

She’s hysterical now, twisting and bucking in the confines of the blanket as I back out of the car, holding her against my chest, and Anton shoots me an uncomfortable look as he helps the twins get the weapons from under the backseat. Though my friend had suggested on more than one occasion that I should just take Sara if I want her, the reality of it must be crueler than he imagined.

Other people might deem us monsters, but we can feel—and it would take a heart of steel not to feel something as Sara continues to beg and plead, struggling inside the blanket cocoon as I carry her to the plane.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her when I bring her into the passenger cabin and carefully deposit her into one of the wide leather seats at the front. Her distress is like a poison-tipped blade in my side, but the thought of leaving her behind is even more agonizing. I can’t picture my life without Sara, and I’m ruthless enough—and selfish enough—to ensure I won’t need to.

She might be having second thoughts about her decision, but she’ll come around and accept the situation, just like she was beginning to accept our relationship. And then she’ll be happy again—happier, even. We’re going to build a life together, and it’s going to be one she’ll enjoy as well.

I have to believe that, because this is the only way I can have her.

This is the only way I can know love again.

2

Sara

Tears of panic and bitter frustration roll down my face as the wheels of the jet lift off the runway, and the lights of the small airport fade into inky darkness. In the distance, I see the light clusters of Chicago and its suburbs, but before long, they disappear too, leaving me with the crushing knowledge that my old life is gone.

I’ve lost my family, my friends, my career, and my freedom.

My stomach roils with nausea as shards of glass pierce my temples, my headache aggravated by whatever Peter injected to knock me out. Worst of all, though, is the suffocating sensation in my chest, the awful feeling that I can’t get enough air. I take deep breaths to combat it, but it only worsens. The blanket is like a straightjacket, keeping my arms pinned to my sides, and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.

My tormentor carried out his threat.

He kidnapped me, and I may never see home again.

He’s not next to me now—as soon as we took off, he got up and disappeared into the back of the passenger cabin, where two of his men are sitting—and I’m glad. I can’t bear to look at him, to know that I was stupid enough to warn him when he already knew everything.

When he had that needle ready and was toying with me.

How did he know? Were there cameras and listening devices inside the hospital locker room where Karen confronted me? Or did the men Peter assigned to follow me spot my FBI tail and tell him? Or maybe he has some connections in the FBI, just like that one contact of his had in the CIA? Is that possible, or am I reaching? Either way, it doesn’t matter now; the point is, he knew.

He knew, yet he pretended not to, playing with my emotions while he waited for me to crack.

God, how could I have been such an idiot? How could I have warned him, knowing that something like this could happen? How could I have come home when I suspected—no, when I knew—what my stalker was likely to do if he learned about the impending danger? I should’ve told Karen everything when I had the chance, let her send the agents to my house while the FBI took me into protective custody. Yes, Peter might’ve still escaped, but he wouldn’t have taken me with him—not at that point, at least. I would’ve had more time to plan, to figure out the best way for me and my parents to stay safe. He would’ve most likely returned for me, but there was at least a chance the FBI could’ve protected us.

Instead, I walked right into Peter’s trap. I went home, and I let him lie to me. Let him fool me into believing that there was something human—something good—within him. “I love you,” he said, and I fell for it, buying into the illusion that we had something genuine, that his tenderness meant he truly cared for me.

I let my irrational attachment to my husband’s killer blind me to the reality of what he is, and I lost everything.

The tightness in my chest grows, my lungs constricting until every breath is a struggle. Rage and despair mix together, making me want to scream, but all I can manage is a pained wheeze, the blanket around my body as smothering as a noose around my neck. I’m too hot, too restrained; my head is pounding, and my heart is beating too fast. I feel like I’m suffocating, dying, and I want to claw at my throat, to tear it open so I can suck in air.

“Here, it’s okay.” Peter is crouched in front of me, though I didn’t see him return. His strong hands are loosening the blanket, smoothing my hair back from my sweat-dampened face. I’m shaking and wheezing, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack, and his touch is bizarrely soothing, taking away the worst of the suffocating sensation.

“Breathe, ptichka,” he urges, and I do, my lungs obeying him the way they refuse to obey me. My chest expands with one full breath, then another, and then I’m breathing semi-normally, my throat opening to let in precious oxygen. I’m still sweating, still shaking, but my pulse is slowing, the fear of suffocating disappearing as Peter liberates my arms from the blanket and hands me a man’s black T-shirt.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have a chance to grab any of your clothes,” he says, helping me pull the enormous T-shirt over my head. “Luckily, Anton stashed a change of clothes in the back. Here, you can put on these pants, too.” He guides my trembling feet into a pair of men’s black jeans, helps me put on a pair of black socks, and removes the blanket altogether, throwing it on the table next to us.

Like the T-shirt, the jeans are huge on me, but there is a belt inside the loops, and Peter tightens it around my hips, knotting it at the front like a tie before rolling up the pant legs.

“There,” he says, eyeing his handiwork with satisfaction. “That should suffice for the flight, and then I’ll get you a brand-new wardrobe.”

I close my eyes, shutting him out. I can’t bear to look at his exotically handsome features, can’t tolerate the warmth in those steel-gray eyes. It’s all a lie, an illusion. He doesn’t care for me, not really. Obsession is not love, and that’s what he feels for me: a dark, terrible obsession that ruins and destroys.

That has already destroyed my life in so many ways.

I hear him sigh before his big hands wrap around my cold palms.

“Sara…” His deep, softly accented voice feels like a caress over my skin. “We’ll make it work, ptichka, I promise. It won’t be as bad as you’re imagining. Now tell me… do you want to call your parents, explain everything to them?”

My parents? Startled, I open my eyes to gape at him. Then I realize he mentioned this before, only I didn’t register it. “You’re letting me call my parents?”

My captor nods, a small smile curving his sculpted lips as he remains crouched in front of me, his hands gently clasping mine. “Of course. I know you don’t want them to worry, with your dad’s heart and all.”

Oh God. My dad’s heart. My headache intensifies at the reminder. At eighty-seven, my dad is remarkably healthy for his age, but he had a triple bypass surgery a few years back and has to avoid stress. And I can’t imagine anything more stressful than— “Do you think the FBI spoke to them already?” I gasp in sudden horror. “Did they tell my parents I was kidnapped?”

“I doubt they would’ve had the time.” Peter squeezes my hands reassuringly, then releases them and rises to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a smartphone and hands it to me. “Call them, so you can give them your version of the story first.”

“My version of the story? And what version is that?” The phone feels like a brick in my hand, its weight magnified by the knowledge that if I say the wrong thing, I could literally kill my dad. “What can I tell them that will make this in any way okay?”

My tone is caustic, but my question is genuine. I can’t imagine what I can say to lessen my parents’ panic over my disappearance, how I can explain what the FBI is about to tell them—especially since I don’t know how much the agents will reveal.

The plane chooses that moment to hit a pocket of turbulence, and Peter sits down next to me. “Tell them you met a man… a man you fell in love with.” He covers my knee with his warm palm, his metallic gaze mesmerizing in its intensity. “Tell them that for the first time in your life, you decided to do something crazy and irresponsible. That you’re fine, but for the next few weeks, you’ll be traveling around the world with your lover.”

“The next few weeks?” A wild hope blooms inside me. “Are you saying that—”

“No. You won’t be back in a few weeks. But they don’t need to know that yet.”

The hope withers and dies, the crushing despair returning. “I’ll never see them again, will I?”

“You will.” His hand squeezes my knee. “At some point, when it’s safe.”

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

“We?” A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Are you under the impression that this is some kind of partnership? That we kidnapped me together?”

Peter’s gaze hardens. “It can be a partnership, Sara. If you want it to be.”

“Oh, really?” I push his hand off my knee. “Then turn this fucking plane around, partner. I want to go home.”

“That’s impossible, and you know that.” His bristle-darkened jaw flexes.

“Is it? Why? Because you love to fuck me? Or because you fucking love me?” My voice rises as I jump to my feet, hands balled at my sides. I can see his men in the seats behind us, their faces stony as they stare out the window, pretending not to listen, but I don’t care. I’m past embarrassment, past shame; all I feel is rage.

I’ve never wanted to hurt a living person as much as I want to hurt Peter at this moment.

My tormentor’s gaze is dark, his expression hard as he stands up. “Sit down, Sara,” he says harshly, reaching for me as the plane hits another bump and I grab at the window wall to steady myself. “It’s not safe.” He takes my arm to force me back into the seat, and my other hand acts of its own accord.

With the phone still clutched in my fist, I take a swing at him—and don’t miss, because at that moment, the plane dips again, throwing us both off-balance. With an audible thud, the phone crashes into Peter’s face, the impact of the hit jarring my bones and snapping his head to the side.

I don’t know who’s more shocked that I managed to land a blow, me or Peter’s men.

I can see their incredulous stares as Peter slowly, and very deliberately, releases my arm and wipes at the blood trickling down his cheekbone. The metal shell of the phone must’ve cut his skin; that, or the unexpected turbulence lent momentum to my blow, intensifying the force behind it.

His eyes meet mine, and my heart jumps into my throat at the icy rage shimmering in the silvery depths. Warily, I back away, the phone slipping out of my numb fingers to hit the floor with a metallic thunk.

I haven’t forgotten what Peter is capable of, what he did to me when we first met.

I can only take two steps before my back presses against the wall of the pilot’s cabin, ending my retreat. I have nowhere to run on this plane, no place to hide, and fear tightens my stomach as he steps closer, his furious gaze holding mine captive as he braces his palms on the wall on both sides of me, caging me between his muscular arms.

“I…” I should say that I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean it, but I can’t bring myself to voice the lie, so I clamp my lips shut before I can make it worse by telling him how much I hate him.

“You what?” His voice is low and hard. Leaning in, he bends his head until his lips graze the top of my ear. “You what, Sara?”

I shiver at the damp heat of his breath, my knees going weak and my pulse accelerating further. Only this time, it’s not entirely from fear. Despite everything, his nearness wreaks havoc on my senses, my body quivering in anticipation of his touch. Only hours ago, he was inside me, and I still feel the aftermath of his possession, the inner soreness from the hard rhythm of his thrusts. At the same time, I’m painfully aware of my hardened nipples poking through the borrowed T-shirt and the warm slickness gathering between my legs.

Even clothed, I feel naked in his arms.

He lifts his head, staring down at me, and I know he feels it too, the magnetic heat, the dark connection that vibrates the air around us, intensifying each moment until milliseconds feel like hours. Peter’s men are less than a dozen feet away, watching us, but it feels like we’re all alone, wrapped in a bubble of sensual need and volatile tension. My mouth is dry, my body pulsing with awareness, and it’s all I can do not to sway toward him, to remain still instead of pressing against him and giving in to the desire burning me up inside.

“Ptichka…” Peter’s voice softens, taking on an intimate edge as the ice in his gaze melts. His hand leaves the wall to cup my cheek, the rough pad of his thumb stroking over my lips and making my breath catch in my throat. At the same time, his other hand clasps my elbow, his grip gentle but inescapable. “Come, let’s sit down,” he urges, pulling me away from the wall. “It’s not safe to be up and about like this.”

Dazed, I let him shepherd me back to the seat. I know I should continue fighting, or at least put up some resistance, but the anger that filled me is gone, leaving numbness and despair in its wake.

Even after what he did, I crave him. I want him just as much as I hate him.

My sock-clad feet are chilled from walking on the cold floor, and I’m grateful when Peter grabs the blanket from the table and tucks it around my legs before sitting down next to me. He pulls the seatbelt over me, buckling me in, and I close my eyes, not wanting to see the warmth that now fills his gaze. As frightening as the darker side of Peter is, the man who’s doing this—the tender, caring lover—is the one who terrifies me most.

I can resist the monster, but the man is a different story.

Warm fingers brush across my hand, and cold metal presses into my palm. Startled, I open my eyes and look at the phone Peter just handed to me.

He must’ve picked it up from where I dropped it.

“If you want to call your parents, you might want to do so now,” he says softly. “Before they hear anything on their own.”

I swallow, staring at the phone in my hand. Peter is right; there’s no time to waste. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my parents, but anything is better than what the FBI agents are likely to say.

“How do I call?” I glance at Peter. “Is there some special code or anything I need to use?”

“No. All my calls are automatically encoded. Just put in their number as usual.”

I take a deep breath and punch in my mom’s cell. She’s more likely to panic at getting a call in the middle of the night, but she’s nine years younger than my dad and has no known heart problems. Holding the phone up to my ear, I turn away from Peter and watch the night sky through the window as I wait for the call to connect.

It rings a dozen times before going to voicemail.

Mom must be sleeping too deeply to hear it, or else she has the phone turned off for the night.

Frustrated, I try again.

“Hello?” Mom’s voice is sleepy and disgruntled. “Who is this?”

I exhale in relief. It doesn’t sound like the FBI got to them yet; if they had, Mom wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me, Sara.”

“Sara?” Mom instantly sounds more alert. “What’s wrong? Where are you calling from? Did something happen?”

“No, no. Everything is fine. I’m perfectly fine.” I take a breath, my mind racing as I try to come up with the least worrisome story. At some point soon, the FBI will contact my parents, and my story will be exposed for a lie. However, the very fact that I called and told such a story should reassure my parents that, at the time of the call at least, I was alive and well, lessening the impact of whatever the agents will tell them.

Steadying my voice, I say, “Sorry to call so late, Mom, but I’m going on a last-minute trip, and I wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t worry.”

“A trip?” Mom sounds confused. “Where? Why?”

“Well…” I hesitate and then decide to go with Peter’s suggestion. This way, when my parents learn of the kidnapping, they might think I went with Peter of my own free will. What the FBI will think is another matter, but I’ll save that worry for a different day. “I met someone. A man.”

“A man?”

“Yes, I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t know that much about him, and I wasn’t sure how serious it was.” I can sense Mom is about to launch into an interrogation, so I quickly say, “In any case, he had to go out of the country unexpectedly, and he invited me to come along. I know it’s completely crazy, but I needed to get away—you know, from everything—and this seemed as good of an opportunity as any. We’re going to be traveling the world together for a few weeks, so—”

“What?” Mom’s voice rises in pitch. “Sara, that’s—”

“Insane? I know.” I grimace, grateful she can’t see my pained expression. Between lying to her and the continued headache, I feel like absolute shit. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want you to worry, but it’s something I had to do. I hope you and Dad understand.”

“Wait a minute. Who is this man? What is his name? What does he do? Where did you meet?” She fires off each question like a bullet.

I turn to look at Peter, and he gives me a small nod, his face impassive. I don’t know if he can hear my conversation, but I interpret that nod to mean I can tell my parents a few more details.

“His name is Peter,” I say, deciding to stay as close to the truth as possible. “He’s a contractor of sorts, works mostly abroad. We met when he was in the Chicago area, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. I wanted to tell you about him at our sushi lunch, but it didn’t seem like the right time.”

“Okay, but… but what about your work? And the clinic?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll get it all settled, don’t worry.” I won’t, of course—this kind of bullshit won’t fly with my hospital-based practice even if Peter lets me call them—but I can’t tell Mom that without making her worry prematurely. She’ll have a panic attack soon enough, when the agents show up on her doorstep. Until then, she and Dad might as well think I’ve gone crazy.

A daughter belatedly acting out is infinitely better than a daughter kidnapped by her husband’s killer.

“Sara, darling…” Mom sounds worried regardless. “Are you sure about this? I mean, you said yourself you don’t know much about this man, and now you’re leaving the country with him? This is not like you at all. You didn’t even tell me where you’re going. Are you flying or driving? And what is this number you’re calling from? It’s showing up as blocked, and the reception is all weird, like you’re—”

“Mom.” I rub my forehead, my headache worsening. I can’t answer any more of her questions, so I say, “Listen, I have to go. Our plane is about to take off. I just wanted to give you a quick update so you wouldn’t worry, okay? I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”

“But, Sara—”

“Bye, Mom. Talk to you soon!”

I hang up before she can say anything else, and Peter takes the phone from me, his mouth curved in an approving smile.

“Good job. You have a real talent for this.”

“For lying to my parents about getting kidnapped? Yes, a real talent, for sure.” Bitterness drips from my words, and I don’t bother toning it down. I’m done being nice and agreeable.

We’re no longer playing that game.

Peter doesn’t appear fazed. “You told them something that will allay the worst of their worry. I don’t know how much the Feds will disclose, but this should reassure your parents that you’re alive and well as of today. Hopefully, it will be enough until you contact them again.”

That was my thought process as well, and it bothers me that we’re on the same wavelength. It’s a small thing, reasoning alike in this one instance, but it feels like a slippery slope, like a step toward that partnership Peter mentioned. Toward the illusion that there is a “we,” that our relationship is in any way genuine.

I can’t—I won’t—fall for that lie again. I’m not Peter’s partner, his girlfriend, or his lover.

I’m his captive, the widow of a man he killed to avenge his family, and I can’t ever forget that fact.

Fighting to keep my voice even, I ask, “So I will have a chance to contact them again?” At Peter’s affirmative nod, I press, “When?”

His gray eyes gleam. “Once they hear from the FBI and have a chance to digest everything. So in other words, soon.”

“How will you know whether they hear from—? Oh, never mind. You’re watching my parents too, aren’t you?”

“I’m monitoring their house, yes.” He doesn’t look the least bit ashamed. “So we’ll know what the agents tell them and when. Then we’ll figure out what you should say and how to contact them again.”

I press my lips together. There’s that insidious “we” again. As if this is a joint project, like interior decorating or choosing a bottle of wine for a family gathering. Does he expect me to be grateful for this? To thank him for being so nice and thoughtful with the logistics of my kidnapping?

Does he think that if he lets me alleviate my parents’ worry, I’ll forget that he stole my life?

Gritting my teeth, I turn away to stare out the window, then realize I still don’t know the answer to one of my mom’s questions.

Turning back to face my kidnapper, I meet his coolly amused gaze. “Where are we going?” I ask, forcing myself to speak calmly. “Where exactly are we going to be figuring all this out from?”

Peter grins, revealing white teeth that are slightly crooked on the bottom. Between that and the small scar on his lower lip, his smile should’ve been off-putting, but the imperfections only highlight its dangerously sensual appeal.

“We are going to be figuring it out from Japan, ptichka,” he says and reaches across the table to gather my hand in his big palm. “The Land of the Rising Sun is our new home.”

3

Sara

I don’t speak to Peter for the rest of the flight. Instead, I pass out, my brain turning off as though to escape reality. I’m grateful for that. The headache is relentless, the drummers beating inside my skull every time I try to open my eyes, and it’s only when we start our descent that I wake up enough to drag myself to the restroom.

When I return, I find Peter in the seat next to mine, working on a laptop. I think he might’ve been there throughout the flight, but I’m not sure. I do remember falling asleep while he held my hand, his strong fingers massaging my palm, and I recall him tucking the blanket around me at some point when the cabin got extra chilly.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, looking up from the laptop as I step around him and sit down in my plush leather seat. Now that the initial shock of the abduction has passed, I realize the jet is quite luxurious, though not very big. Toward the back of the plane, there are two more rows of seats besides ours, each seat big and fully reclining, and in the middle is a beige leather couch with two end tables attached to it.

“Sara,” Peter prompts when I don’t answer, and I shrug in response, not inclined to soothe his conscience by admitting that I feel better after my long nap. The effects of the drug must’ve fully worn off, because the nausea and the headache that tormented me are gone.

I am hungry and thirsty, though, so I reach for the bottle of water and the bowl of peanuts sitting on the small table between our seats.

“We’ll have a real meal soon,” Peter says, pushing the bowl toward me. “We weren’t expecting to leave the country so suddenly, and this is all we had on board.”

“Uh-huh.” Not meeting his eyes, I gulp down half of the water bottle, eat a handful of nuts, and wash them down with the rest of the water. I’m not surprised to hear about the lack of food on the plane; the wonder is that he had a plane on standby, period. I know he and his team get paid ridiculous sums of money to assassinate crime lords and such, but the cost of this mid-sized jet must be well into eight figures.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I glance at my captor. “Is this yours?” I wave a hand to indicate our surroundings. “Did you buy it?”

“No.” He closes the laptop and smiles. “I got it as payment from one of our clients.”

“I see.” I look away, focusing on the dark sky outside the window instead of that magnetic smile. Now that I’m feeling better, I’m even more bitterly aware of what Peter has done—and how hopeless my situation is.

If I was at my tormentor’s mercy at home, where I was afraid of what might happen if I went to the authorities, I’m now doubly so. Peter Sokolov can do anything to me, keep me captive until I die if he’s so inclined. His men won’t help me, and I’m about to enter a country where I don’t speak the language and don’t know anything or anyone.

I love sushi, but that’s as far as my familiarity with Japan extends.

“Sara?” Peter’s deep voice cuts into my thoughts, and I instinctively turn to look at him.

“Buckle up.” He nods toward the seatbelt lying unfastened at my side. “We’ll be landing shortly.”

I pull the seatbelt over my lap before turning my attention back to the window. I can’t see much in the darkness—we must’ve flown long enough for it to be night in Japan despite the time difference—but I keep my eyes on the sky outside, both in the hopes of seeing something and out of the desire to avoid conversing with Peter.

I’m not going to act like we really are lovers going on a trip, to pretend that I’m okay with this in any shape or form. The leverage he had over me—his threat to steal me away if I didn’t play along with his domestic bliss fantasy—is gone, and I have no intention of being his compliant victim again. I was beginning to give in, to fall under his twisted spell, but that’s all over now. Peter Sokolov tortured me and killed my husband, and now he’s kidnapped me. There’s nothing between us except a fucked-up past and an even more fucked-up future.

He might have me, but he won’t enjoy it.

I’ll make sure of that.

4

Peter

My cheekbone still smarts from Sara’s blow as we land at a private airport near Matsumoto and transfer to the helicopter waiting for us there. I’ll have a black eye tomorrow—an idea I find amusing now that the initial shock of anger is past. The pain Sara inflicted is minor—I’ve suffered worse in routine training—but the unexpectedness of my pretty little doctor physically lashing out is what got to me.

It was like being scratched bloody by a kitten, one you just want to cuddle and protect.

She’s still angry with me. It’s obvious in her rigid posture, in the way she doesn’t speak to me or even glance my way as the helicopter takes off. Though it’s still dark, I see her staring at the sights below, and I know she’s trying to memorize where we’re going.

She’ll attempt to escape at the earliest opportunity, I can tell.

Anton pilots the chopper, and Ilya sits in the back with me and Sara while Yan is up front. We’re not expecting any trouble, but we’re armed, so I keep a careful eye on Sara to make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish, like trying to grab a gun from me or Ilya.

Given the mood she’s in, I wouldn’t put anything past her.

Our Japanese safe house is located in the sparsely populated, mountainous Nagano Prefecture, at the very peak of a steep, heavily forested mountain overlooking a small lake. On a clear day, the view is breathtaking, but the main reason I acquired the property is that this particular mountaintop is only accessible by air. There used to be a dirt road on the west slope—that’s how a wealthy Tokyo businessman built his summer home up there back in the nineties—but an earthquake-triggered landslide made the slope into a cliff, cutting off all ground access to the property and destroying its value.

The businessman’s children were beyond grateful when one of my shell companies purchased the house last year, sparing them from the burden of paying taxes on a place they neither wanted nor had the means to visit regularly.

“So why Japan?”

Sara’s tone is flat and disinterested as she gazes out the chopper window, but I know she must be dying of curiosity to break the hour-long silence and actually speak to me.

It’s either that, or she’s fishing for information that could help her escape.

“Because this is the last place anyone would think to look for us,” I answer, figuring there’s no harm in telling her the truth. “Nothing connects me to the country. Russia, Europe, the Middle East, Africa, the Americas, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines—at one point or another, I’ve blipped on the authorities’ radar in all those places, but never here.”

“Also, it makes for a pleasant hideout,” Ilya says in English, speaking to Sara for the first time. “Much better than holing up in some cave in Dagestan or sweating our balls off in India.”

Sara gives him an indecipherable look, then turns her attention back to the view outside. I don’t blame her. The sky is lightening with the first hints of dawn, and it’s possible to make out the mountain slopes and forests below. By the time we reach our mountaintop retreat, she’ll get the full impact of the view—and realize she can give up all hope of escape. Because that’s another reason for my choice of Japan: the remote location of this specific house.

My little bird’s new cage will be both pretty and impossible to flee from.

We land forty minutes later on a small helipad next to the house, and I watch Sara’s face as she takes in the sight of our new home—a starkly modern wood-and-glass construction that blends seamlessly with the untouched nature surrounding it.

“Do you like it?” I ask, catching her gaze as I help her out of the chopper, and she looks away, pulling her hand out of my grasp as soon as her sock-clad feet are planted on the ground.

“Does it matter? If I said no, would you take me back?” She turns and starts walking toward the edge of the helipad, where the mountainside forms a cliff drop to the lake below.

“No, but if you hate it here, we can consider some of our other safe houses.” Following her, I catch her wrist before she gets to the edge of the pad. I don’t think she’s upset enough to jump off a cliff, but I’m not about to risk it.

“Where? In Dagestan or India?” She finally looks up at me, eyes narrowed. Though it’s late spring, it’s winter cold at this altitude, the chilly morning wind whipping her chestnut waves around her face and molding the loose black T-shirt against her slender torso. I can feel her shivering, her wrist thin and fragile in my grasp, but her delicate jaw is set in a stubborn line as she holds my gaze.

She’s so vulnerable, my Sara, but so strong too. A survivor, like me, though she probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

“Dagestan and India are two of the possibilities, yes,” I say, letting her hear the amusement in my voice. She’s trying to antagonize me, make me regret taking her with me, but no amount of sarcasm or silent treatment will do that.

I need Sara like I need air and water, and I’ll never regret keeping her.

Her soft mouth compresses and she twists her arm, trying to break my grip on her wrist. “Let me go,” she hisses when I don’t immediately release her. “Take your fucking hand off me.”

Despite my resolve to remain unaffected, a twinge of anger bites at me. Sara chose me, if not precisely this, and I’m not about to put up with her treating me like a leper.

Instead of releasing her wrist, I tighten my grip and pull her toward me, away from the edge of the helipad. When she’s sufficiently far from the drop, I bend down and pick her up, ignoring her startled squeak of protest.

“No,” I say grimly, pressing her against my chest. “I’m not letting you go.”

And ignoring her attempts to twist out of my hold, I carry the woman I love to our new home.