by Anna Zaires
My pulse spikes again. Of course he wouldn’t. Not after everything he’s done to get us here. Still, he has to realize that marrying me this weekend—and not giving me any choice about it—is not the way to go after a nine-month-long absence preceded by a forced relationship involving murder, torture, and abduction.
“How about a winter wedding?” I say in desperation. “We could do it right around the December holidays, so the season will always be extra festive for us. We could plan a honeymoon around that time, too. I’ll be able to take a week or two off work, and—”
“We can do the honeymoon whenever.” Reaching for me, he slides his hands under my blouse, resting warm palms on my bare sides. His metallic eyes take on a heated gleam as his thumbs rasp across the sensitive skin underneath my ribcage, stroking back and forth. “If you can’t or don’t want to take time off next week, you don’t have to. I’m okay with waiting until winter for the honeymoon.”
“Then why not the wedding?” I hold his gaze, trying to focus on the topic at hand instead of the way the slow, hypnotic stroking of those thumbs is heating up my skin and making my insides quiver. “What harm will it do if we get married then, too?”
His mouth takes on a sensuous curve, and he bends his head, inhaling deeply, as if breathing in my scent. “You mean other than all my planning going to waste?” he murmurs, his lips brushing across the top of my ear.
“Y-yes.” I close my eyes as he pulls me closer, nuzzling against the side of my neck as my head instinctively falls back, granting him better access. My breathing quickens, a melting sensation softening my bones as the hard ridge of his arousal presses against my stomach, making me aware of an empty ache deep within.
“Well…” He lightly bites my neck, then soothes the tiny sting by licking the wounded spot. “For one thing, I want you as my wife, and I want it today, not tomorrow or three days from now.” His mint-scented breath is warm on my skin, sending electric tingles down my body. “I want you to wear my ring at all times, everywhere, so everyone knows you’re mine.” He places another biting lick behind my ear, his voice deepening further as he murmurs, “It’s not rational, ptichka, but I need this—need you. And I can’t wait. Not after being apart from you for so long.”
“What about…” It’s getting harder to gather my thoughts as he continues to inflict those sensuous little bites all over my neck and shoulder juncture. With monumental effort, I force myself to focus. “What about kids? And where will we live? And what—” I gasp as he undoes my zipper and slides his hand into my soaked panties. “What about”—I begin to pant as his fingers find my clit and start manipulating it with unerring skill—“your job?”
“I told you, I quit.” His breathing is just as ragged as mine as he sinks one long finger into me, then uses the resulting slickness to paint wet circles on my throbbing clit. “It’s over.”
“But… oh, God.” My hips are now shimmying in a circle, chasing after the movement of that teasing finger. The pressure is building inside me so rapidly I can no longer form a single thought. “Oh, God, Peter, I’m going to—”
With a choked cry, I explode, every muscle in my body clenching on a violent wave of pleasure. The orgasm is so strong that my mind goes blank, flooded with purely physical sensations. I’m dimly cognizant of being moved, of my pants and underwear being pushed down my legs, and then I’m bent over the sofa and he’s pushing into me, his big cock penetrating deep in one hard stroke.
The shock of it jolts me to the bone, and my still-quivering muscles lock tight, clamping in an instinctive effort to halt the invasion. But that only makes him feel thicker, more massive inside me, and I find myself panting again as he grips my hips and starts thrusting, his pelvis slamming against my ass with each merciless stroke.
“Peter…” I feel the wave gathering again, threatening to swamp me in white-hot bliss. “Peter, wait…”
He doesn’t slow down; if anything, his punishing thrusts speed up. “Come with me,” he commands hoarsely. “I want to feel you milk my cock.”
I’m there before he finishes speaking, the wave cresting with tsunami-like force. The pleasure batters my senses, eviscerating the last shreds of my resistance. I don’t know if I’m screaming or if it’s the blood roaring in my ears, but the rest of the sounds fade out.
All I hear, all I feel, all I sense is the ecstasy and him.
51
Peter
My ptichka is quiet as I bring her to the bathroom and lower her into the bubble bath I prepared before leaving to pick her up. The tub is too small for us both, so I use the sink to wash up and then perch on the side of the tub, watching her rosy nipples play peekaboo with the bubbles. With her head resting on the edge of the tub, her eyes closed, and her delicate features pink with post-orgasmic glow, she looks so tempting I want her all over again.
Tonight, I promise myself.
As soon as Sara is done with her bath, we’re going to eat, and then she’s mine all night long.
Sensing my gaze on her, she opens her eyes. “Thank you for this,” she murmurs, moving one graceful hand through the bubbles. “I can’t remember the last time I did this.”
I fight the urge to reach in and capture that hand, to haul her against me so I can feel her bubble-slick body rubbing against mine. “You’re going to marry me on Saturday,” I say, my tone harsher than I intended. “That’s nonnegotiable.”
She visibly stiffens and sits up. “Peter, that’s not—”
“Or it can be tonight. I’m not averse to flying to Vegas with you after dinner.” I do my best to keep my eyes off the soft white breasts exposed above the water.
This is too important to get distracted by my lust.
As if sensing my thoughts, Sara sinks back into the water, letting the bubbles shield those tempting breasts from view. “You have a plane on standby?”
“More or less.” I let my teammates keep our plane for now, but I can charter a private jet on a couple of hours’ notice.
With enough money, anything is possible.
“Peter…” She sits up again, this time covering her breasts with one slender arm. “We need to talk about this—about everything, really. You just came back yesterday, and I still don’t really know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. Where are Anton and the twins? Are they here with you?”
“No.” I take a deep breath and tamp down on the instinct that demands I carry her off to Vegas this very second. Sara is right; there’s a lot we haven’t discussed. “They’re in Europe, but they’ll fly in for our wedding,” I explain and stand up.
She follows my example, and I wrap a towel around her as she steps out of the tub. She looks impossibly small like this, with her head bent and the thick towel wrapped all around her slender body.
It makes me aware of how defenseless she is, how breakable.
Reminds me of how I once wanted to punish her… and how I still sometimes do.
“Let’s eat and talk,” I say, reining in the dark impulse. “I’ll tell you everything.”
None of it, though, will change what’s about to happen.
Before the end of this week, one way or another, Sara will be my wife.
52
Sara
Our dinner tonight is a mix of Russian and Asian cuisine, with juicy pelmeni—Russian-style meat dumplings—served with sour cream as an appetizer and a vegetable stir-fry topped with chili-marinated tofu as the main dish.
Lunch was forever ago, and the bout of intense sex combined with the hot bath further depleted my stores of energy. I’m so ravenous that as soon as Peter sets the food on the table, I dig in, devouring five large dumplings and two servings of the spicy stir-fry before looking up from my plate.
“Hungry?” Peter asks wryly as I go in for serving number three, and I flush, realizing I’ve been so focused on the food I’ve barely said a word.
“This is really good,” I say apologetically, and he grins, his metallic eyes as warm as I’ve ever seen them.
“Enjoy, ptichka. I love seeing you eat the food I’ve made.”
“You’re an amazing cook,” I tell him sincerely, and his smile widens further.
“I’m glad you think so, my love.”
“What if you open a restaurant?” I ask impulsively. “You know, like Yulia did? Or a café of some kind?”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “No, ptichka. That’s not for me. But I will feed you anytime you want.”
“No, but seriously…. what are you going to do here?” I put down my fork and study him intently. “Do you have some ideas of what you’d like to do career-wise? You said you quit your job. I assume that means you’re no longer a… um…”
For some reason, the word sticks in my throat, and he lifts his eyebrows, looking deeply amused.
“An assassin? No, ptichka. I’m done with that part of my life.” He spears a piece of bok choy with his fork. “I’m a law-abiding citizen going forward.”
“Really?” I stare at him, both hopeful and disbelieving. I initially thought he might be going straight, but then we had that conversation about Monica. Does that mean I misunderstood? I could’ve sworn there was an implicit promise to do something to the stepfather, but if Peter says he’s going legit, then maybe those were just empty, soothing words, the kind that any guy might say to calm his girlfriend.
Thinking about Monica instantly sours my mood, killing what remained of my appetite, and I push my plate away as Peter grins and says, “Really. That’s one of the conditions of the deal: no more crimes going forward.”
“Oh. Good.”
His eyebrows lift again. “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“What? No!” I force away the heavy feeling blanketing my chest at the thought of Monica and smile brightly. “I’m ecstatic you’re going straight. How could I not be?”
I mean it, too, even if I have to squash that tiny kernel of guilt-tinged hope about a permanent solution for Monica’s dilemma.
There’s no way I wanted that.
I refuse to believe it.
“I don’t know, ptichka.” Peter cocks his head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Is there something that worries you about that?”
“Everything worries me,” I say bluntly. “How are you going to handle this kind of life? What are you going to do with your time? You say you want to marry me this Saturday, but then what? And what about your revenge? Did you find that last—”
“It’s over.” His tone is bolt-cutter sharp, his face darkening abruptly. “There’s nothing to discuss on that front.”
I stare at him, the food I ate turning into a boulder in my stomach. “What happened?”
He stands up and picks up his half-empty plate, then mine. “Nothing.” Striding to the sink, he deposits the dishes so hard they rattle, then returns to the table to get more.
I get up too, my nerves strung tight as I watch him prowl around the kitchen with poorly controlled violence. “Peter….” Gathering my courage, I catch his wrist the next time he strides by me. “What happened?” I repeat softly, looking up to meet his steely gaze.
The tendons in his thick wrist flex, and I know it would be child’s play for him to break my grip. “Nothing,” he answers instead, and this time, I catch the undertone of bitter grief and rage. “Absolutely fucking nothing.”
I dampen my dry lips. “What does that mean? You didn’t find him?”
His mouth twists, and he carefully extricates himself from my grip. “Let’s just drop it, ptichka.”
I want to, but I can’t. Not if we’re to build a life together.
I won’t marry another man whose secrets could destroy us.
“Please, Peter.” I recapture his hand, squeezing it between my palms. Holding his gaze, I say quietly, “Just tell me the truth.”
His fingers curl in my grasp, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opens them, the bitter rage is gone, veiled by a lack of expression. “I told you—nothing happened,” he says evenly. “And nothing will. Henderson will go back to his regular life, safe and sound, because that’s part of the deal I made.” And as I stare at him, stunned, he says, “It’s over, Sara. There’s nothing more to say.”
I start to speak and stop, unable to come up with the right words. With any words, really. My heart feels like it’s crumbling into pieces, my chest so tight I can’t pull in a breath.
He gave up a chance to fully avenge his family.
For me.
He did all this for me.
“Don’t,” he says tightly, and I realize I can feel a trickle of wetness on my face. The watery blur in front of my vision must be tears.
“I’m sorry.” I let go of his hand and swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks. “I’m just… It’s fine.”
He stares at me, then turns away, resuming kitchen cleanup like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just rip my heart out of my chest and put it in his pocket.
I give myself a couple of minutes to calm down, and then I walk over to my bag and pick up my phone.
“What are you doing?” Peter asks as I press my parents’ number, and I hold up my finger to my lips in a universal silencing gesture.
“Hi, Mom,” I say when I hear the familiar hello. “How are you? How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, honey.” She sounds puzzled. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”
I look up at the clock and wince when I see it’s after ten. “Yeah, everything is fine. Sorry to call so late—I had a shift at the clinic and lost track of time. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Me? Oh, no. I was just reading before bed. Your dad is already asleep, though. Did you want to talk to him? I can wake him up if you—”
“No, no, it’s fine. Let him sleep.” I take a deep breath. “Mom, what are you and Dad doing tomorrow night? Are you free for dinner?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peter go still, then resume loading the dishwasher.
“Well, we were thinking of going to Bingo Night, but we don’t have to,” Mom says. “Why, honey? You’re not working tomorrow?”
“I have a light schedule,” I say, and it’s almost true. I’m not on call tomorrow, nor do I have any surgical procedures. And as far as my clinic shift goes, I’ll reschedule it for another day. “Do you guys want to come over for dinner?”
A moment of silence, then: “To your place?”
“Yes. There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” I say as Peter turns to look at me.
This will be only the second time my parents visit my new apartment. I’ve never been particularly good at hosting, so usually, I either come over to their house or we go out for lunch or brunch. With Peter in the picture, though, I figure it’s best if we’re at my place.
My parents are more likely to be on their best behavior this way.
“Oh.” Mom’s voice fills with obvious excitement. “Yes, of course, honey, we’d love to. Do you want us to bring anything, or will we order in?”
“We got it, Mom. Don’t worry about anything,” I say as Peter continues staring at me. “See you tomorrow at six, okay?”
I hang up, and he comes toward me, his movements slow and vaguely predatory, like the lazy stride of a jungle cat.
“That was my mom,” I say, instinctively backing up. “I invited them here for dinner tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you? We can order in, or—” My words end on a squeak as Peter picks me up and places me on the counter, then pulls apart my robe.
“Peter, wait…” I lick my lips as he pushes the robe down my arms, baring me completely. “We should decide what we’re going to—ahh…” I moan, my head falling back as he kisses the sensitive area around my collarbone at the same time as his hand invades the aching nook between my legs, two rough fingers pushing into me without mercy. I’m not yet wet and it hurts, yet my body clenches on a flash of heat, on a burst of violent sensation.
“You’re marrying me. This Saturday,” he growls, fucking me with those fingers, and I moan my
agreement, my body igniting anew.
This Saturday, tonight, tomorrow—it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done fighting, done resisting.
He was right all along.
I’m his, and he’s mine.
This was meant to be.
53
Peter
She’s sleeping, exhausted, when I carefully climb out of bed and gather the clothes I left folded on a chair. I dress quietly, taking care not to wake her, and then I pad out of the bedroom on sock-clad feet.
My boots are by the entrance, so I pull them on and pat my jacket pocket to make sure my phone is there.
I’ll need it to navigate to the current location of one Mr. Samson “Sonny” Pearson, Monica Jackson’s stepfather.
Danny is already waiting for me in the parking lot, so I pull up the email from my hackers and give him an address a few blocks away from where Pearson lives—which happens to be at his ex-wife’s apartment.
Monica’s mother clearly has no qualms about letting her daughter’s rapist crash with her.
It’s a risk I’m taking, doing this myself. It would’ve been smarter to hire someone to carry out a discreet hit in a few months, when no one could possibly connect Pearson’s death to his stepdaughter’s visit to the nonprofit women’s clinic. However, my ptichka was crying today—crying because of this ublyudok—and I can’t let that stand.
He’s going to die tonight, and his stepdaughter will finally be free.
“Drop me off here,” I tell Danny when we reach the address I gave him, a building that’s a few blocks from my real destination. The guy is loyal and quite willing to operate outside the law, but I don’t trust him like I do my own men.
It’s better if I do this alone, with no witnesses.
Amira Pearson’s apartment is on the second floor of a rundown four-story building. There is a faint smell of piss and vomit in the lobby, and the paint on the stairs is chipping, reminding me of Soviet-era buildings back in Russia. However, the apartment door I stop in front of is made of regular wood, not two layers of steel as is common in my corruption-ridden home country.
