by Anna Zaires
“Shall we?” I offer my arm to Sara as the majority of the younger guests hurry toward the music, oohing and aahing over the chance to see their idols live.
“Of course.” Her slim hand slips into the crook of my elbow as she gives me a cautious smile. “Let’s go.”
We didn’t prepare a dance, but at the urgings of Sara’s new coworkers, I take her into my arms and we sway together to a slow, romantic song, one that I recognize as being a classic rather than one of the band’s own numbers. Again, I have to be careful, have to keep my touch light and gentle, to maintain the appropriate distance instead of yanking Sara to me and ripping off that elegant white dress to take her right here and now, on this soft green lawn.
Thankfully, the slow song ends before my self-control starts to crumble, and the band launches into one of their most popular numbers. Sara’s bandmates and a few other guests join us, laughing and clapping, and we end up dancing in a group before Sara’s friend, Marsha, tugs her away to dance with her and two of the other nurses.
I wait until the song is over, and then I signal to the catering staff to start bringing out the appetizers.
Since there are only about two dozen of us, we have three tables: a small round one for me and Sara, and two bigger oval ones for the rest of the guests. I didn’t bother with assigned seating, so Sara’s parents end up with their friends, and the majority of Sara’s friends and coworkers congregate at the other table.
The food is outstanding, as it should be from a Michelin eight-star chef, and as we all start eating, the majority of the guests appear to be having a good time. Sara must think so too, because she says quietly, “Thank you for organizing everything. This is one of the nicest weddings I’ve been to.”
I smile at her calmly, even though all I want is to bend her over the table. “I’m glad, my love. I want you to be happy.”
And she will be, once she gets over whatever remaining doubts she has about us. I will make sure of that. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy.
The only thing I won’t do is set her free.
In any case, I don’t think she wants that—not deep down, where it truly matters. I don’t know what spooked her this afternoon, but I have one suspicion.
Could she have found out about Sonny Pearson’s death?
I don’t see how, as she hasn’t been to the clinic in the last couple of days, but it’s the one thing that makes sense. Either way, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.
Tonight.
As soon as we’re alone.
After we fill up on food, Sara and I cut the cake—a gorgeous seven-tier creation with sour cream frosting—and then everyone goes back to dancing and picture-taking. The brief introductions Sara performed before the ceremony were clearly not enough for everyone, and I soon find myself surrounded and fielding prying questions from guests whose bravery appears equal to their alcohol consumption.
“How did you two meet again?” Marsha demands, all but swaying on her feet as she downs yet another glass of champagne. “Sara said you’ve been dating on and off for a while…?”
“Yes, exactly,” Joe Levinson chimes in, his jaw set in a pugnacious line. “When and how did you meet? None of us knew Sara was in a relationship.”
I remind myself that the knife strapped to my ankle isn’t for slicing this man’s throat. “We met in a club in Chicago some months ago,” I answer calmly and surreptitiously signal Anton. “Since I traveled a lot for work, we decided to keep our relationship low-key until we were certain it was going somewhere.”
“And you’re from Russia?” Andy, the red-headed nurse, studies me with a confused frown. “As in, the same place as—”
“There you are!” Anton slaps me on the back. “I was looking everywhere for you. The guys need you for a moment.”
“Excuse me,” I tell the guests politely and follow Anton to the spot by the lake where my teammates camped out with an expensive bottle of vodka.
“Thanks for the rescue,” I say when we get out of the earshot of Sara’s friends. “I’m not in the mood to deal with their questions today.”
“You’ll need to eventually,” Anton says, and I shrug, though I know he’s right.
In order to integrate with these people, I’ll have to give them some kind of answers.
“So how does it feel to be a married man again?” Ilya asks, pouring me a shot of vodka.
I knock it back instead of replying, feeling the familiar burn down my throat. I don’t drink much—never have—but it’s tempting today. I want to forget how it felt when I heard Sara’s hesitant voice on the phone, telling me that she needed more time.
“Pour me another one,” I say, holding out the empty shot glass, and Ilya obliges.
I down it again, then hand the glass back to Ilya.
“More?” he asks dryly, and I shake my head.
“I’m good, thanks.”
This will have to do as far as taking the edge off. My self-control is already on thin ice, and I’m not about to risk hurting Sara when I finally get her alone.
I’m not that much of a monster.
“So this is it, huh?” Anton gestures toward the people mingling by the gazebo. “This is what you want?”
“She is what I want.” I sit down on the grass, watching Sara go from group to group, laughing and chatting, doing a great imitation of a happy bride. “She just comes with all this attached.”
“Maybe,” Yan says, reaching for the bottle. Unscrewing the top, he takes a swig straight from the opening. “Or maybe not.”
I give him a sharp look. “An expert on my wife, are you?”
He shrugs and takes another swig. “She may yet surprise you. You think she’s all that different from us? All sweetness and goodness and light? You think any of those people”—he gestures toward the guests with the bottle—“are all sweetness and light?”
I turn my gaze back to Sara instead of answering, and he sighs. “It surprises me that you, of all people, don’t see it. She wants you, right? Loves you, even though she knows all about the kind of man you are?”
I don’t answer that either, and he continues. “Why do you think she’s drawn to you? Because she sees something good in you? Or because she secretly craves the bad?”
Anton snorts. “Oh, please. Not that shit again. Every single time you have vodka—”
“My bet is on the latter,” Yan says as though Anton hadn’t spoken. “She’s more like you than you imagine, and all that shit”—he waves the bottle at the gazebo again—“is what she’s been trained to think will make her happy, not what she wants for real.”
I get up, brushing a few specks of grass off my pants. “There’s more vodka on our table,” I tell Ilya, who’s enviously watching his brother drain the bottle. “You better go get it if you want it. We’re going to be wrapping this up soon.”
As fun as it is to listen to Yan’s drunken ramblings, I’d much rather take my new wife home to bed.
68
Sara
I feel like Peter and I are in a play, each of us acting out our roles. He’s the gracious groom, reserved but exceedingly polite, and I’m the beaming bride, bubbly and excited. Or at least I’m that after three glasses of champagne; they really help with the bubbly-and-excited bit, which in turn helps with avoiding my friends’ overly probing questions.
I can always flit away to another group of guests, laughing and encouraging everyone to dance—something they gladly do, given the source of the music.
“How are you feeling, darling?” Mom asks when I join their little circle for a minute. “Any more tummy issues?”
“No, all good, Mom.” I give her and Dad my sunniest smile. “How are you guys?”
Mom smiles and reaches over to take Dad’s hand. “Having a great time, like everyone else. Your Peter did a wonderful job.”
“Thank you, Mom.” I beam at them both. My parents’ reaction was my biggest worry, and I’m hugely relieved that they seem to have accepted my relat
ionship—at least outwardly. I didn’t give them a lot of choice, of course, but it’s still nice to know that they’re willing to give Peter a chance.
“There you are,” a familiar accented voice murmurs as a long arm wraps around my waist.
I look up to meet my husband’s silver gaze and grin, forgetting to be wary for the moment. “Hi. Where have you been?”
“Over with the guys,” he says, nodding toward the lake shore, and I laugh as I see the three Russians passing around what looks like a vodka bottle.
“So the stereotypes are true?” Dad asks, following my gaze, and Peter nods, smiling.
“For the most part. Personally, I prefer beer, but sometimes you really need to feel the burn.” He glances down at me, his lips still curved. “How are you feeling, ptichka?”
My breathing quickens as I notice the dark undertone in that sensuous smile. “Oh, I’m… I’m good.”
“Good.” He faces me fully and tenderly brushes his knuckles across my jaw. “I was worried.”
I swallow as my heart rate jumps another notch. We’re approaching the moment of reckoning, I can feel it.
“Why don’t you do the bouquet toss, and then we’ll say goodbye to the guests?” he suggests, as though reading my mind. “It’s been a long day, and you still might not be well.”
“Yes, darling,” my mom chimes in, happily oblivious to the undercurrents. “Why don’t the two of you head out? It’s been a wonderful party, and I’m sure everyone has had enough to eat and drink.”
I glance at the sun setting over the lake. “But—”
“Come, my love.” Peter’s arm tightens warningly around my waist, even as his smile remains in place. “Let’s go.”
“Okay.” I look at my parents. “Bye, guys. We’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, darling.” Mom takes a step toward me, and Peter releases me long enough to let me hug her and then Dad. “Congratulations again.”
“Thank you.” I give them another bright smile, and Peter leads me away to toss the bouquet and say goodbye to all the other guests.
“So, are we moving?” I ask as we exit the car next to my apartment building. My voice is a little too thin, but all the liquid courage has worn off on the ride here, leaving my heart hammering faster the closer we get to home.
“Do you want to?” Peter looks at me, his gaze veiled as we approach the building. “As I told you, I’ve found a few nice places, but I didn’t want to take the leap without consulting you.”
His tone contains no hint of mockery, but I sense it anyway. If today demonstrated anything, it’s that he still has all the power—and makes all the rules.
I decide to go along with his pretense. “Yes, I think I’d like to move. This place is too small for the two of us—and it might be nice not to have so many neighbors.”
“I agree.” His eyes take on a brighter gleam, and his voice deepens as he murmurs, “I want to have you all to myself.”
Blushing, I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment, he bends and smoothly picks me up, ignoring my startled gasp.
“Tradition,” he tells me, grinning darkly, and walks into the lobby, carrying me with his customary ease.
We pass my young female neighbors on our way to the elevator, and I hide my face against Peter’s neck as they squeal and yell out, “Congratulations!”
We definitely need to move somewhere with fewer people.
“You can set me down,” I tell Peter once we’re inside the elevator, but he just looks at me, his eyes darkening.
“Why?” he murmurs, his arms tightening around me. “I like you like this.”
My pulse spikes again as my earlier nervousness returns, and I push at Peter’s shoulders. “No, really, set me down, please.”
“Why?” His jaw hardens, all playfulness leaving his expression. “So you could run? Hole up somewhere and lie that you’re ill?”
“I was ill!” I glare up at him, anger displacing my anxiety. “Ask my mom if you don’t believe me. I threw up and had to take Pepto-Bismol.”
His dark eyebrows snap together. “What?”
“Mom told you that already. On the phone—I heard her tell you.” I push at his shoulders again as the elevator doors open and he steps out, carrying me down the hallway. “My stomach was unsettled.”
His frown deepens as he stops in front of my apartment door. “Yes, she mentioned that, but I thought…” He carefully lowers me to his feet and reaches into his pocket for the keys.
“You thought it was an excuse? No, it happened.” Not because I was ill, though. I bite the inside of my cheek, then decide not to start our married life with a lie—even one by omission.
I wait until we enter the apartment, and then I say in a calmer tone, “Peter… there’s something you should know. Agent Ryson came here today, right before I left.”
He turns into a statue, then pivots to face me, incredulous. “What?”
“Not in any official capacity,” I hasten to reassure him. “He just wanted to talk to me.”
His big hands clench at his sides. “Why?”
“I think… I think he was frustrated. Over how everything turned out. He thinks I lied to him, and that we”—I swallow, my throat burning—“conspired to kill George. That I wanted you to get rid of George because he was brain-damaged and an alcoholic I was already planning to divorce.”
Peter swears low under his breath. “That fucking ublyudok. I should’ve—” He stops and takes a calming breath. In a softer tone, he asks, “Did he upset you, ptichka?” Stepping toward me, he gently captures my chin, making me look up at him. “Is that why you were going to bail?”
I manage a tiny nod. “I’m sorry about that. I really am. It was already happening so fast, and then he came and…” I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them to meet his storm-gray gaze again. “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking straight.”
Peter moves his hand across my jawline, the touch soft and tender. “What else did he tell you, my love?”
“Nothing. He was just— Oh, he did say that if you do anything else of criminal nature, the deal would be null and void… and that they now have my number as well.”
Peter’s gaze hardens again. “I see.” He steps back, dropping his hand, and I realize that he’s angry—as angry as I’ve ever seen him.
Suddenly worried, I step forward, catching his hand in both of mine. “You’re not going to do anything to him, right? I told you this because I don’t want to have any kind of lies between us—not because I want you to punish Ryson.”
He doesn’t respond, but I glean my answer in the tight set of his jaw and the rigidity of his palm in my hold.
“Peter, don’t, please. Listen to me…” I squeeze his hand. “He’s a federal agent, and he wants you to slip up. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why he came here today: to provoke you and make sure that you violate the terms of the deal. Don’t play his game. It’s not worth it.”
Peter’s expression doesn’t change. “Are you worried about him or me?”
I release his hand. “Both, of course. I don’t want you to hurt him—and I definitely don’t want you to get in trouble because of him.”
“Hmm.” Peter gently strokes the side of my face again. “I wonder.”
I moisten my lips. “Wonder what?”
“Would you be happy if I just went away and let you be? If I got in trouble and had to leave for good?”
I blink at him. “But… you wouldn’t do that. You’d take me with you, right? If you had to leave?”
His gaze darkens. “Maybe. Is that what you would want, ptichka?”
My chest tightens, constricting my breath. “Peter… I…”
“You still can’t bring yourself to say it, can you?” He captures my chin again, making me meet his gaze. His voice holds a strange note. “You can’t admit that this is mutual, that I’m not the only one who’s mad.”
I swallow thickly and back away, twisting out of his hold. “It’s not like tha
t.”
“No?” He comes after me, as relentless as a shark. “Tell me why you nearly ran today, then. Tell me what it is about Ryson’s visit that got to you like that.”
I keep backing away until my back presses against the wall. “I already told you. I told you everything.”
“Not everything.” He presses his palms on the wall on either side of me, caging me once more. His tone is both cruel and tender as he murmurs, “Not nearly everything, my love.”
I stare up at him, my pulse beating in my temples. I don’t understand what he’s after, what it is that he wants from me. “Peter, please. I’m sorry about today. I really, truly am. I was so upset I wasn’t thinking, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have…” I shake my head.
“No, you really shouldn’t have,” he agrees, his eyes darkening further, and then, with no warning, he hooks his hand into the bodice of my dress and yanks it down with startling savagery, ripping the handmade lace and sending the pearl buttons skittering on the tile floor.
Gasping, I clutch at the top of the torn dress, but Peter spins me around, pressing my face against the wall. “You really, really shouldn’t have,” he growls in my ear and yanks the dress all the way down, making it pool around my knees.
I’m left in my white strapless bra and thong underwear—sexy, lacy pieces I wore to match the dress. They don’t last more than a moment either, as Peter rips them off me, leaving me completely naked.
Panting, I press my palms against the wall, expecting him to kick my legs apart and fuck me, but instead, his powerful arm slides around my ribcage, lifting me out of the remnants of the dress. My shoes, with their thin straps around the ankles, remain on my feet, even as my legs flail in the air as he ruthlessly carries me to the bedroom.
He throws me on the bed face down, and I scramble to turn over as he steps back to remove his own clothes. I glimpse a flash of metal and hear a heavy thud as he throws aside his jacket—was he armed at our wedding?—but then my focus shifts to something far more dangerous.
