* * *
She’s lounging on the couch with a heating pad and a tablet when I get home, her slender limbs gracefully arranged and her shiny chestnut hair caught in a messy knot on top of her head. Even dressed in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, my little bird looks like she could star in a black-and-white movie, the delicacy of her features accentuated by the loose tendrils of hair waving around her heart-shaped face.
My lungs tighten as she looks up, her soft hazel eyes locking on my face. Each time I see her, I want her, my need for her a clawing hunger in my chest. Over the past three weeks, I’ve had her so many times the craving should’ve diminished, but it’s only grown, intensifying to an unbearable degree.
I want her, and I want this—the quiet pleasure of sharing her life, of knowing that I can hold her in the middle of the night and see her across the kitchen table in the morning. I want to take care of her when she’s sick and bask in her smile when she’s well. And sometimes, when my grief wells up, I want to hurt her too—an urge I suppress with all my strength.
She’s mine, and I will protect her.
Even from myself.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, approaching the couch. I didn’t have a chance to fuck her this morning, and I’m semi-hard just from being near her. However, my lust takes a backseat to my need to make sure she’s healthy and well.
Sara won’t die from menstrual cramps, but I don’t want to see her in any pain.
“Better, thank you,” she answers, laying her tablet next to her. It looks like she was watching some music videos on there—something I’ve seen her do to relax.
“You can keep on doing that,” I say, nodding toward the tablet. “I have to make dinner, so don’t stop on my behalf.”
She makes no move to pick up the tablet, just tilts her head and watches me as I walk to the sink to wash my hands and take out the ingredients for tonight’s simple dinner: the chicken breasts I marinated last night and fresh veggies for a salad.
“You know, you never answered my question,” she says after a minute. “Why are you really doing this? What do you get out of all this domesticity? Doesn’t a man like you have something better to do with your life? I don’t know… maybe rappel down the side of a building or blow up something?”
I sigh. She’s back on that topic. My ambitious young doctor can’t grasp that I just like doing this—for her and for myself. I can’t turn back the clock and spend more time with Pasha and Tamila, can’t warn my younger self to forego work in favor of what matters because it could all vanish in an instant. I can only focus on the present, and my present is Sara.
“My wife taught me to make a few simple dishes,” I say, placing the chicken breasts in the frying pan before starting to chop up the salad. “In her culture, women tended to do all the cooking, but she wasn’t big on tradition. She wanted to make sure I could take care of our son if anything happened to her, so to please her, I agreed to learn a few recipes—and found I liked the process of preparing food.” A familiar pain tightens my chest at the memories, but I push the grief away, focusing on the sympathetic curiosity in the warm hazel eyes watching me from the couch.
Sometimes, I’m convinced Sara doesn’t hate me.
Not all the time, at least.
“So you started cooking for your wife?” she asks when I’m silent for a couple of moments, and I nod, scraping the veggies off the cutting board into a big salad bowl.
“I did, but I didn’t learn more than the basics until she was gone,” I say, and despite myself, my voice is rough, raw with suppressed agony. “Two months after the massacre, I was walking past a culinary school in Moscow, and on impulse, I walked in and took a cooking class. I don’t know why I did it, but when I was done and my borscht was simmering on the stove, I felt a tiny bit better. It was something different I could focus on, something tangible and real.”
Something that cooled the boiling rage inside me, enabling me to strategize and plan out my vengeance like a recipe, complete with steps and measures I would need to take.
I don’t say that last part, because Sara’s gaze softens further. I guess my little hobby humanizes me in her eyes. I like that, so I don’t tell her that I was in Moscow to kill my former superior, Ivan Polonsky, for participating in the massacre cover-up, or that an hour after the class was over, I slashed his throat in an alley.
His blood looked a lot like borscht that day.
“I guess you never know what you have until you lose it,” Sara muses, hugging the heating pad to her, and I feel a flicker of jealousy at the wistfulness in her tone.
I hope she’s not thinking of her husband, because as far as I’m concerned, he’s no big loss.
That sookin syn deserved everything he got and then some.
When the meal is ready, Sara joins me at the table, and we eat while I tell her about some of the cities where I’ve taken cooking lessons: Istanbul, Johannesburg, Berlin, Paris, Geneva… After describing the cuisines, I share a few stories about temperamental chefs, and Sara laughs, a genuine smile lighting up her face as she listens to me. To avoid spoiling the mood, I leave out all the dark parts—like the fact that Interpol found me in Paris and I had to shoot my way out of the building where the cooking school was located, or that I blew up a target’s car in Berlin before going in for my lesson—and we wrap up the meal on a companionable note, with Sara helping me clean up before I shoo her away.
“Go relax,” I tell her. “Take a shower and get in bed. I’ll be up soon.”
Her expression turns wary. “Okay, but just so you know, my period started.”
“So what? You think I’m grossed out by a little blood?” I grin at the look on her face. “I’m kidding. I know you’re not feeling well. We’ll just cuddle, like the good old days.”
“Ah, gotcha.” An answering smile, genuine and warm, flashes across her face. “In that case, I’ll see you up there soon.”
She hurries out of the kitchen, and I stand there, unable to breathe, feeling like I just got knifed in the gut.
Fuck, that smile… That smile was everything.
For the first time, I understand why I feel this way around her.
For the first time, I realize how much I love her.
Chapter 43
Sara
By Sunday morning, I feel better and decide to go see my parents. I’ve visited them only once since Peter’s return, as I’ve been busy with my stalker and worried about exposing them to danger. However, I’m now increasingly convinced that Peter wouldn’t arbitrarily hurt them. He values family too much to do that to me.
As long as I comply with his demands, my parents should be safe.
My mom is ecstatic when I call her, and we make plans to go out for a sushi lunch. When I inform Peter about that, he nods absentmindedly and types something on his phone.
“What are you writing?” I ask warily.
“Just telling my guys that I’ll be in today, after all,” he says, putting the phone away. “Why? Did you want me to join you?” His gray eyes gleam as he looks at me.
I laugh. “No, I think the bit where the FBI storm the restaurant to capture one of their most wanted might be a bit of an appetite spoiler.”
Peter doesn’t smile back, and I realize he’s serious.
“You… you’d come out with me in public?”
“Why not?” He lifts his eyebrows coolly. “I met you at Starbucks, didn’t I?”
“Well, yeah, but that was before. I mean—never mind.” I take a breath. “I guess you’re not afraid of being seen in public?”
“I wouldn’t parade in front of your local FBI office, but I can go out for an occasional lunch or dinner if the place is scoped out beforehand, and I can make sure there are no cameras.”
“Oh.” I chew on the inside of my lip as I pick up my bag. “Well, maybe we can go out for dinner later this week…”
“But not today,” he says, and I nod, feeling awkward but not knowing what else to do. There’s no way I’m
introducing George’s killer to my parents.
It’s bad enough I just offered to go out to dinner with him.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you when you get back,” he says, and I slip away before he can suggest anything else—like matching tattoos or a beach wedding.
This is total madness, and the craziest part is that it’s starting to seem normal.
I’m getting used to having Peter in my life.
* * *
At lunch, I inform my parents that I decided not to sell the house. I already told them two weeks ago that the lawyers’ offer fell through, so they’re not particularly surprised to hear about my decision. In fact, they’re quite pleased, given that the house is only a twenty-minute drive from them while my new apartment would’ve been at least forty-five minutes away.
“It’s a lovely house,” Dad says, pouring himself a little platter of soy sauce. “I think the whole apartment thing was an overreaction. You’re young, but years go by fast, and at some point soon, you might want to think about starting a family. You know, get out there and meet a man—”
“Oh, stop it, Chuck,” Mom snaps at him. “Sara has plenty of time.” Turning toward me, she says in a softer voice, “You take as long as you need, darling. Don’t let your dad push you into anything. We are glad you’re keeping the house, but that doesn’t mean we expect you to produce grandkids anytime soon.”
“Mom, please.” It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes like I’m still in high school. My parents are doing the good cop/bad cop thing with me, likely in the hopes of planting the “go out and meet a nice man” suggestion in my mind. “If I’m on the verge of producing grandkids, I promise you and Dad will be the first to know.”
Mom gives Dad a beatific smile. “See? She’ll go out there when she’s ready.”
“Right.” I busy myself with prying apart my wooden chopsticks. “When I’m ready.” Which, given what’s happening in my life, might be never. Or at least not until Peter gets bored with me—something that looks increasingly unlikely to happen soon. If anything, I think he’s even more fixated on me now, his gray eyes watching me with a peculiar light that sends warm shivers down my spine.
Before I can analyze why that is, the waiter brings out our sushi boat, and my parents ooh and aah over the artfully arranged fish, sparing me from more of their not-so-subtle machinations. I wish I could tell them the truth, but there’s no way I can explain Peter without terrifying them out of their minds.
I’m still not sure how I’m dealing with the whole thing myself.
* * *
By the end of the week, my period is over and I’m back in the swing of things, with two on-call shifts early in the week and a three-hour stretch at the clinic on Wednesday on top of my usual office hours. I’m working so much I’m barely home, but Peter doesn’t object, though I can sense he’s less than pleased with the situation. Despite my period, we’ve had sex over the last few days—he wasn’t lying about his lack of squeamishness—and each time, he’s been unusually hungry, his touch unrestrained and borderline rough.
It’s as if he’s afraid of somehow losing me, as if he hears the ticking of some clock.
On Friday, I spend most of the day in my office, seeing patients, but just as I’m about to head home, I get an urgent message that one of my patients has gone into labor. Suppressing a weary sigh, I hurry to the locker room to scrub up and run into Marsha, who’s coming off her shift.
“Hey,” she says with a sympathetic grimace. “Just getting started?”
“Looks like it,” I say, stuffing my clothes into the locker. “Are you girls going out tonight?”
“Nah. Andy can’t make it, and Tonya is busy with that cute bartender. Remember him?”
I pull my hair into a ponytail. “The one from the club we went to?” At Marsha’s confirming nod, I ask, “Yeah, why? Did they hook up?”
“You guessed it.” Marsha grins. “Anyways, I see you’re in a rush, so I’ll let you go. Call me if you want to do anything this weekend. Andy is having a barbecue tomorrow night, and I’m sure she’d love for you to come.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you if I can make it,” I say and hurry out of the locker room. I know I won’t be calling her, and this time, it’s not because I’m afraid for my friends.
As tempting as the barbecue sounds, what I’m most looking forward to this weekend is quiet time at home.
With Peter.
The man I’m finding hard to hate.
* * *
Several hours later, I trudge back into the locker room, exhausted. My patient’s uterus ruptured, and I had to perform an emergency C-section to save her and the baby. Fortunately, both made it through okay, but I have a splitting headache from hunger and extreme tiredness.
I can’t wait to get home, heat up whatever Peter might’ve prepared for dinner, and, if I’m lucky, get a massage as I’m falling asleep.
“Dr. Cobakis?”
The female voice sounds vaguely familiar, and I spin around, my pulse jumping. Sure enough, I see Karen, the FBI agent/nurse who was with Agent Ryson when I woke up after Peter’s attack. Like the last time, she’s dressed in nursing scrubs, though I know she doesn’t work in this hospital.
She must be trying to blend in.
“Karen?” I try not to betray my nervousness. “What are you doing here?”
She approaches me and stops a couple of feet away. “I wanted to talk to you someplace we wouldn’t be spotted, and this seemed as good of an opportunity as any.”
I glance around the locker room. She’s right: we’re the only ones here at this time. “Why?” I turn my attention back to her. “What’s wrong?”
“A couple of months ago, you reached out to Agent Ryson,” she says quietly. “You said you felt you were being watched. At the time, we dismissed your concerns, but we’ve since received some new information.”
My throat cinches tight. “What… what new information?”
“It has to do with Peter Sokolov, the fugitive who assaulted you in your home.”
“Oh?” My voice is an octave too high.
“He was spotted in the area, just a few blocks away from this hospital. A hidden traffic camera caught his face at an angle, and our facial recognition program flagged the photo.” She cocks her head to the side. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, Dr. Cobakis, would you?”
“I…” My heartbeat is roaring in my ears, my thoughts racing in panicked circles. This is it, the opportunity to get help without Peter knowing I spoke to anyone. The FBI are already aware he’s here, and they won’t rest until they find him. I can improve the odds of their success, tell them he’s most likely at my house, and if they succeed in capturing him and his men, it’ll be truly over.
My life will be my own again.
“It’s okay, Dr. Cobakis.” Karen lays a gentle hand on my arm. “I know this is all very stressful for you, but we’ll make sure you’re safe. Just please think back to the past few weeks. Any chance someone might’ve been following you? Have you had any instances recently when you felt like you were being watched?”
All the time—because I am being watched. I want to tell her that, but the words won’t come; instead, my breathing speeds up until I’m all but hyperventilating.
Peter won’t go quietly when the agents come for him; he’ll fight, and people will get killed. He could get killed. Nausea rises in my throat as I picture his powerful body riddled with bullet holes, his intense metallic eyes dull and faded with death. It should be an image that brings me joy, but I feel sick instead, my ribcage squeezing painfully tight as I try to picture what my life will be like without him in it.
How free—and how alone—I’ll be again.
“I… No.” I take a step back, shaking my head. I know I’m not thinking clearly, but I can’t bring myself to say it. My mouth simply won’t form the words. “I haven’t noticed anything.”
A frown creases Karen’s forehead. “Nothing? Are you sure? To the best of
our knowledge, you and your deceased husband are his only link to this area.”
“Yes, I’m positive.” It’s as though a stranger is speaking these lies. My headache intensifies until it’s a beating drum inside my skull, and I feel like I’m on the verge of throwing up. My thoughts skitter from one alternative to the next, my mind like a rat inside a maze. I don’t even know why I’m lying. It’s over. One way or another, it’s over—because now that they know Peter is in the area, they will come for him, no matter what I say. And if they don’t succeed in killing or capturing him, he might think that I betrayed him and make good on his threat to take me away, maybe even punish people close to me to teach me a lesson.
I should help the FBI.
It’s my best chance to be free.
“All right,” Karen says when I remain silent. “If you think of anything, here is my number.” She hands me a card, and I take it with numb fingers as she says, “We don’t want to spook him in case he is watching you for whatever reason, so we’re not going to take you into protective custody right now. Instead, we’ll put a discreet protective detail on you, and if they see anything—and I do mean anything—out of the ordinary, they will act fast to ensure your safety. In the meanwhile, please carry on with your normal activities and rest assured that the man who killed your husband will pay for what he’s done.”
“Okay. I’ll—I’ll do that.” Hanging on to my composure by a thread, I grab my bag from the open locker and slam it shut, then hurry out of the room.
I’m already next to my car when I realize I’m still wearing my scrubs.
Thanks to Karen’s ambush, I forgot to change back into my clothes.
* * *
Heavy metal blares from the speakers as I pull out of the parking lot, castigating myself for my stupidity. Even with my headache, the music is somehow soothing, the violent beats more orderly than the mad jumble of my thoughts. I can’t believe I didn’t confide in Karen and beg for the FBI’s help when I had the chance. Now I have no idea what to do, how to act or even where to go. Do I go home with the FBI watching me? And if I do, will they realize that Peter is there, or will the precautions he takes—such as not parking on my driveway—ensure they remain oblivious to his presence? Maybe I should go to my parents’ house or a hotel instead, or simply crash somewhere in the hospital. But then what about Peter’s men who always follow me around? They’d realize something is wrong, and Peter might come after me, and who knows what could happen then? In general, will the FBI spot my bodyguards, or will they spot the agents first and warn Peter? If I come home, will I find him already gone, having evaded the authorities once again?
Falling For The Forbidden Page 113
