Destiny Mine

by Anna Zaires

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

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

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

  “What course of action?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I fell for him.

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

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

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

  His hard, fully aroused body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I’m naked from the waist down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  5

  Peter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  They know this will destroy her.

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

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

  I have to catch Sara before she comes down.

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

  6

  Sara

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

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