Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  “No, wait! I could eat.”

  A smile curves his lips. “I thought so. After you.”

  He gestures in a courtly semi-circle, and I walk over to the table, trying to swallow my heart back into my chest as he turns off the overhead light, leaving only candlelight as illumination, and follows me to the table.

  He pulls out a chair, and I sit in it. Then he walks over to the chair across from me and takes a seat himself. I notice that the table is set with two plates and my formal silverware—the one George liked me to use only for holidays and parties.

  Silently, I watch George’s killer expertly cut up the chicken and put one of the drumsticks—my favorite part of the chicken—on my plate, along with several spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and a generous portion of the salad.

  “Where did you get all this food?” I ask as he loads his own plate.

  “I made it.” He looks up from his plate. “You like chicken, right?”

  I do, but I’m not about to tell him that. “You cook?”

  “I dabble.” He picks up his knife and fork. “Go ahead, try it.”

  I push my chair back and get up. “I have to wash my hands.” I just came in from the garage, and the OCD doctor in me won’t let me touch food without first washing off the hospital germs.

  “All right,” he says, putting down his utensils, and I realize he intends to wait for me.

  My stalker has excellent table manners.

  I go into the nearby bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing between each finger and around my wrists like I always do. By the time I return to the table, he’s already poured us each a glass of wine, and the crisp smell of Pinot Grigio mixes with the delicious aromas of the meal, adding to the bizarreness of the situation.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’re on a date.

  “How did you know I’d come here instead of going to a hotel?” I ask when I’m seated.

  He shrugs. “It was an educated guess. You’re bright, so you’re unlikely to make the same mistake twice.”

  “Uh-huh.” I pick up my fork and try a bite of mashed potatoes. The rich, buttery flavor is bliss on my tongue, jumpstarting my appetite despite the anxiety roiling my stomach. “That’s a lot of cooking to do on an educated guess.”

  “Yes, well, no risk, no reward, right? Besides, I’ve seen how you think and reason, Sara. You don’t do stupid, pointless things, and going to another hotel would’ve been precisely that.”

  My hand tightens around my fork. “Is that right? You think you know me because you’ve stalked me for a few weeks?”

  “No.” His eyes gleam in the candlelight. “I don’t know you, ptichka—at least not nearly as well as I’d like to.”

  Ignoring that provocative statement, I focus on my plate. Now that I’ve had a bite, my mouth is watering for more. Despite what I told Peter earlier, I’m starving, and I gladly dig into the delicious spread on my plate. The chicken is perfectly seasoned, the mashed potatoes are generously buttered, and the green salad is refreshingly tangy with an unusual lemony dressing. I’m so absorbed in eating that I’m halfway done with my plate when a frightening thought occurs to me.

  Putting down my fork, I look up at my tormentor. “You didn’t drug this or something, right?”

  “If I did, it would be too late for you,” he points out with amusement. “But no. You can relax. If I were going to drug or poison you, I’d use a syringe. No need to spoil perfectly good food.”

  I try to not react, but my hand shakes as I reach for my glass of wine. “Great. Glad to hear it.”

  He smiles at me, and I feel a warm, melting sensation between my legs. To hide my discomfort, I take several gulps of wine and put the glass down before refocusing on my plate.

  I am not attracted to him. I refuse to be.

  We eat in silence until our plates are empty; then Peter puts down his fork and picks up his wine glass. “Tell me something, Sara,” he says. “You’re twenty-eight now, and you’ve been a full-fledged doctor for two and a half years. How did you manage that? Were you one of those child geniuses with a super-high IQ?”

  I push my empty plate aside. “Your stalking didn’t tell you that?”

  “I didn’t do a deep dive into your background.” He takes a sip of wine and puts down his glass. “If you’d rather I do that, I can—or you can just talk to me, and we could get to know each other in a more traditional manner.”

  I hesitate, then decide it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. The longer we sit at the table, the longer I can postpone bedtime and all that it could entail.

  “I’m not a genius,” I say, taking a small sip of wine. “I mean, I’m not dumb, but my IQ is within the normal range.”

  “Then how did you become a doctor at twenty-six when it normally takes at least eight years after college?”

  “I was an oops baby,” I say. When he continues looking at me, I explain, “I was born three years before my mom went through menopause. She was almost fifty when she got pregnant, and my dad was fifty-eight. They were both professors—they met when he was her Ph.D. advisor, actually, though they didn’t start dating until later—and neither of them wanted children. They had their careers, they had a great circle of friends, and they had each other. They were making plans for retirement that year, but instead, I happened.”

  “How?”

  I shrug. “A couple of drinks combined with the conviction that they were too old to worry about a broken condom.”

  “So they didn’t want you?” His gray eyes darken, steel turning to gunmetal, and his mouth tightens.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s angry on my behalf.

  Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I say, “No, they did. At least, once they got over the shock of learning about the pregnancy. It wasn’t what they wanted or expected, but once I was there, born healthy despite all odds, they gave me everything. I became the center of their world, their personal little miracle. They had tenure, they had savings, and they embraced their new role as parents with the same dedication they gave their careers. I was showered with attention, taught to read and count to one hundred before I could walk. By the time I started kindergarten, I could read at fifth-grade level and knew basic algebra.”

  The hard line of his mouth softens. “I see. So you had a huge leg-up on the competition.”

  “Yes. I skipped two grades in elementary school and would’ve skipped more, but my parents didn’t think it would be good for my social development to be meaningfully younger than my classmates. As it was, I struggled to make friends in school, but that’s neither here nor there.” I pause to take another sip of wine. “I did end up finishing high school in three years because the curriculum was easy for me and I wanted to start college, and then I finished college in three years because I’d earned a lot of college credits by taking Advanced Placement classes in high school.”

  “So that’s the four years.”

  I nod. “Yes, that’s the four years.”

  He studies me, and I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with the warmth in his eyes. My wine glass is mostly empty now, and I’m starting to feel the effects, the faint buzz of alcohol chasing away the worst of my anxiety and making me notice irrelevant things, like how his dark hair looks thick and silky to the touch, and how his mouth is soft and hard at the same time. He’s looking at me with admiration in his gaze… and something else, something that makes my skin feel hot and tight, as though I’m running a fever.

  As if sensing it, Peter leans in, his lids lowering. “Sara…” His voice is low and deep, dangerously seductive. I can feel my breathing picking up as he covers my hand with his big palm and murmurs, “Ptichka, you’re—”

  “Why do you think George hurt your family?” I yank my hand away, desperate to douse my growing arousal. “What happened to them?”

  My question is like a bomb exploding in the sexually charged atmosphere. His gaze turns flat and hard, the warmth disappearing in a flash of icy rage.

  “My fami
ly?” His hand clenches on the table. “You want to know what happened to them?”

  I nod warily, fighting the instinct to jump up and back away. I have the terrifying feeling I just provoked a wounded predator, one who could rip me apart without even trying.

  “All right.” His chair scrapes across the floor as he stands up. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

  21

  Peter

  * * *

  She remains seated, frozen in place. A fawn caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle. I know I’m scaring her, but I can’t bring myself to care—not with the pain and rage tearing me up inside.

  Even after five and a half years, thinking of Pasha and Tamila’s deaths has the power to destroy me.

  “Come here,” I repeat, stepping around the table. Grabbing Sara’s arm, I pull her to her feet, ignoring her stiff posture. “You want to know? You want to see what your husband and his cohorts did?”

  Her slim arm is tense in my grasp as I reach into my pocket with my free hand and take out my old smartphone. I always carry it with me, though it’s not on any network and can’t be used to make phone calls. Swiping across the screen with my thumb, I navigate to the last set of pictures.

  “Here.” I thrust the phone into her free hand. “Take a good look.”

  Sara’s hand shakes as she lifts the phone to her face, and I know the exact moment she lays eyes on the first picture. Her face turns white, and she swallows convulsively before swiping across the screen to view the rest of the photos.

  I don’t glance at the phone myself—I don’t need to. The images are burned into my retinas, etched into my brain like a gruesome tattoo.

  I took these pictures the day after I escaped from the soldiers who dragged me away from the scene. They’d already relocated the remaining villagers, but the investigation was just starting, and they hadn’t cleaned up the bodies yet. When I returned, the corpses still lay there, covered by flies and crawling insects. I photographed everything: the burned-out buildings, the dark blood stains on the grass, the decomposing bodies and torn limbs, Pasha’s tiny hand curled around the toy car… There were things I couldn’t capture, like the stench of rotting flesh that hung thickly in the air and the desolate emptiness of an abandoned village, but what I did record is enough.

  Sara lowers the phone, and I take it from her bloodless fingers, slipping it back into my pocket.

  “That was Daryevo.” I release her arm, each word like sandpaper scraping across my throat. “A small village in Dagestan where my wife and son lived.”

  Sara takes a step back. “What…” She swallows audibly. “What happened there? Why were they killed?”

  I take a breath to control the violent anger churning inside me. “Because of some people’s arrogance and blind ambition.”

  Sara gives me an uncomprehending look.

  “It was a sting operation designed to capture a small but highly effective terrorist cell based in the Caucasus Mountains,” I say harshly. “A group of NATO soldiers acted on information provided by a coalition of Western intelligence agencies. Everything was done under the radar so they wouldn’t have to share the glory with the local counterterrorist groups—like the one I headed for Russia.”

  Sara covers her trembling mouth, and I see she’s beginning to understand.

  “That’s right, ptichka.” Stepping toward her, I capture her slender wrist and pull her hand away from her face. “You can guess who was involved in getting the soldiers that false information.”

  Her eyes are full of horror. “The terrorist cell wasn’t there?”

  “No.” My grip on her wrist is punishingly tight, but I can’t make myself relax my fingers. With the memories fresh in my mind, I can’t help thinking of her as my dead enemy’s wife. “Nothing was there but a peaceful civilian village, and if your husband and the other operatives on his team had checked in with my team, they would have known that.” My voice grows rougher, my words more biting. “If they hadn’t been so fucking arrogant, so greedy for glory, they would’ve sought help instead of thinking they knew everything—and then they would’ve learned their source was planted by the terrorists themselves, and my wife and son would still be alive.”

  I can feel the rapid flutter of Sara’s pulse as she stares up at me, and I see she doesn’t believe me—not completely, at least. She thinks I’m mad, or at best, misinformed. Her doubt enrages me further, and I force myself to release her wrist before I crush her fragile bones.

  She immediately backs away, and I know she senses the violence pulsing under my skin. When I first learned the truth of what happened, I couldn’t punish the NATO soldiers or the operatives involved—the cover-up was remarkably fast and thorough—so I took out my fury on the terrorist cell that fed them the false information, followed by anyone dumb enough to stand in my way.

  My son’s death unleashed the monster within me, and it still roams free.

  When there’s a meter of distance between us, Sara stops backing away and regards me warily. “Is that why…” She bites her lip. “Is that why you became a fugitive? Because of what happened back then?”

  My hands clench into fists, and I turn away, returning to the table. I can’t discuss this for even a second longer. Each sentence is like a spray of acid over my heart. I’ve gotten to the point where I can go several hours without thinking about my family’s violent deaths, but talking about what happened brings back the devastation of that day—and the rage that consumed me.

  If we stay on this topic, I might lose control and hurt Sara.

  One movement at a time. One task at a time. I blank out my mind like I do when I’m on a job, and focus on what needs to be done. In this case, it’s clearing the table, putting the leftovers in the fridge, and stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. I focus on those mundane activities, and gradually, my boiling fury eases, as does the urge to do violence.

  When I start the dishwasher and turn back toward Sara, I see her watching me warily. She looks like she’s about to bolt at any moment, and the fact that she hasn’t already means she understands her predicament.

  If she runs right now, I won’t be gentle when I catch her.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” I say and walk toward her. “It’s time to go to bed.”

  * * *

  Her hand is icy in my grasp as I lead her up the stairs, her beautiful face pale. If I didn’t feel so raw inside, I’d reassure her, tell her I won’t hurt her tonight either, but I don’t want to make promises I may not be able to keep.

  The monster is too close to the surface, too out of control.

  “Take off your clothes,” I order, releasing her hand when we get to her bedroom. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a loose ivory sweater, and though she looks phenomenal in the simple outfit, I want it gone.

  I want there to be no barriers between us.

  Instead of obeying, Sara backs away. “Please…” She stops halfway between me and the bed. “Please don’t do this. I’m sorry about what happened to your family, and if George was in any way responsible—”

  “He was.” My tone is cutting. “It took years, but I got the names of every soldier and intelligence officer involved in the massacre. There’s no mistake, Sara; my list came directly from your very own CIA.”

  She looks stunned. “You got it from the CIA? But… how? I thought you said they were involved, that George was one of them.”

  “There are many divisions and factions within the organization. One hand doesn’t always know or care what the other one is doing. I know an arms dealer who has a contact there, and he—or rather, his wife—provided the list. But that’s neither here nor there.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Take off your clothes.”

  Her eyes dart to the bed, then to the door behind me.

  “Don’t. You don’t want to test me tonight, trust me.”

  Her gaze returns to my face, and I can feel her desperation. “Please, Peter. Please don’t do this. What happened to your family was awful,
but this won’t bring them back. I’m sorry about them, I truly am, but I had nothing to do with—”

  “This is not about that.” I uncross my arms. “What I want from you has nothing to do with what happened.” Except even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. My actions are not those of a man courting a woman; they’re of a predator stalking its prey. If she weren’t who she is—if she were just a random woman—I wouldn’t be forcing myself into her life like this.

  My desire for her would’ve been gentle and restrained instead of dangerously obsessive.

  Sara gives me a disbelieving look, and I realize she understands that too. I’m not fooling anyone. What’s happening between us has everything to do with the dark past we share.

  So be it.

  I step toward her. “Remove your clothes, Sara. I won’t ask again.”

  She backs away again, then stops, likely realizing she’s getting closer to the bed. Even with the thick sweater concealing her curves, I can see her narrow chest heaving as her hands clench and unclench convulsively at her sides.

  “All right. If that’s how you want it…” I start toward her, but she raises her arms, palms facing me.

  “Wait!” Her hands shake as she reaches for her sweater. “I’ll do it.”

  I stop and watch as she pulls the sweater off over her head. Underneath, she’s wearing a tight blue tank top that bares her slender shoulders and highlights the soft curves of her breasts. They’re not the biggest I’ve seen, but they suit her ballerina-like frame, and my cock hardens as I recall how those pretty breasts felt resting on my arm last night.

  Soon, I’ll know how they feel in my hands—and how they taste.

  “Go ahead,” I say when Sara hesitates again, her gaze darting past me to the door. “Tank top, then jeans.”

  Her hands shake as she obeys, pulling the top off over her head before reaching for the zipper of her jeans. Under the tank top, she’s wearing a utilitarian white bra, and I have to force myself to remain still as she pushes her jeans down her legs, revealing light blue panties. Though I felt her bare skin against mine last night, and saw her undressed several times on the cameras, this is my first time seeing her naked up close, and my heart rate jacks up as I hungrily take in every graceful line and curve of her body.