Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  After a minute, I get up to get rid of the condom, and when I return, Sara is sitting up in bed, her slim form wrapped in a blanket like the last time. Only today, there are no tears; her eyes are dry, her gaze locked defiantly on my face as I cross the room.

  Maybe she’s beginning to accept the reality of us, to understand there’s no shame in wanting me.

  “Why are you back?” she asks as I sit down next to her, and I hear the despair behind the bravado.

  I was wrong. She’s still far from accepting me.

  Lifting my hand, I tuck a shiny strand of hair behind her ear. With the blanket wrapped around her and her chestnut waves in disarray, my pretty doctor looks young and vulnerable, more girl than woman. Seeing her like this makes me want to protect her, shelter her from the cruelty of my world.

  Too bad I’m part of that world—and maybe the cruelest of them all.

  “I never left,” I answer, lowering my hand. “At least I didn’t mean to leave—not for this long. I had a job to do, but it should’ve only taken a day or two.”

  “A job?” She blinks at me. “What kind of job?”

  I consider not telling her, or at least glossing over some of the harsher realities of my work, but I decide against it. Sara’s opinion of me can’t get much worse, so she might as well know the full truth.

  “My team carries out certain missions,” I say carefully, observing her reaction. “Jobs that few others can handle with the same level of skill and discretion. Our clients generally operate in the shadows, and so do the targets we’re paid to eliminate.”

  The post-sex flush on her cheeks fades, leaving her face starkly pale. “You’re an assassin? Your team… kills people for hire?”

  I nod. “Not just anyone, but yes. Our targets tend to be quite dangerous themselves, often with multiple layers of security that we have to penetrate. That’s how I ended up with this.” I point to the fresh scar on my stomach and see her eyes widen as she takes it in—likely for the first time. I doubt she got a good look at me as I was fucking her.

  “How did this happen?” she asks, looking up from my stomach. Her face is even paler now, her porcelain skin taking on a greenish tint. “Is that a knife wound?”

  “Yes. As to how, a moment of inattention on my part.” It still pisses me off that I didn’t see the guard behind me reach for his knife while I was dealing with his gun-wielding partner. “I should’ve been more careful.”

  She swallows and studies my scar again. “If it’s so dangerous, why do you do it?” she asks after a moment, her eyes returning to my face.

  “Because hiding from the authorities isn’t cheap,” I say. So far, Sara’s taking my revelation better than I expected, though I guess seeing me kill those two druggies might’ve prepared her for something like this. “The work pays extremely well, and it’s a good fit with my skill set. I used to consult for some of our clients before this, but running my own business is better. I have more freedom and flexibility—something that became important to me when I got my list.”

  Her lips tighten. “The list that my husband was on?”

  “Yes.”

  Her gaze drops to her lap, but not before I glimpse a flash of anger in the soft hazel depths. It bothers her that I feel no remorse about that, but I’m not about to fake it. That ublyudok—that bastard husband of hers—deserved a much worse death than he received, and the only thing I regret is that he was a vegetable when I came for him. That and the fact that, for a brief instant, I hesitated before pulling the trigger.

  I hesitated because I thought of Sara instead of my dead wife and son.

  The recollection fills me with familiar rage and pain, and I force myself to take a slow, deep breath. If I didn’t feel so relaxed after fucking her, it would’ve been next to impossible to contain the agony flooding my chest, but as it is, I’m able to control myself—even when Sara gets up and excuses herself to go to the bathroom, still wrapped in the blanket.

  She’s giving me the silent treatment, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s already after midnight, and there will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow.

  Stretching out on the bed, I wait for Sara to return. It’s just as well she chose to cut short our little powwow. Though I barely exerted myself today, I feel as tired as after a mission. My body is still in recovery mode, a fact that frustrates me. I hate it when I’m not in battle-ready shape; weakness of any kind makes me feel antsy and unsettled.

  Sara takes her time in the bathroom, but eventually, she reappears and lies down next to me, pointedly not sharing the blanket with me. Equal parts annoyed and amused, I pull the blanket off her and arrange it over both of us when I have her where she belongs: in my arms, with her tight little butt pressing against my groin.

  “Good night,” I murmur, kissing the back of her neck, and when she doesn’t respond, I close my eyes, ignoring the twitching of my hardening cock.

  As much as I’d like to fuck her again, I need rest, and so does she.

  I can be patient. After all, I’ll have her again tomorrow—and every day after that.

  37

  Sara

  * * *

  I wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon and the feeling of sunlight on my face. Confused, I open my eyes and see that it’s a half hour before my alarm is due to go off. As I attempt to process that, memories of last night invade my mind, and I groan, pulling the blanket over my head.

  My Russian stalker is back—and cooking breakfast in my house.

  After a minute, I convince myself to get up and go through my usual morning routine. Yes, my husband’s killer fucked me again last night—and made me come—but the world didn’t end, and I have to act accordingly.

  I have to ignore the self-loathing knotting my insides and go to work.

  Ten minutes later, I go downstairs, dressed and freshly showered. It’s strange, but I don’t feel any differently about Peter now that I know what he does for work. I’ve been thinking about him as a killer for so long that knowing he and his team do it for money hardly fazes me. However, it does reinforce my conviction that he’s dangerous—and that I need to tread carefully if I’m to avoid putting those I care about in his crosshairs.

  “I hope you like bacon and scrambled eggs,” he says as I enter the kitchen. Like me, he’s fully dressed, minus shoes and the leather jacket hanging on one of the kitchen chairs. Once again, his clothes are dark, and the sight of him by the stove, so powerfully male and lethally handsome, jacks up my pulse and makes my stomach clench with something unsettling.

  Something that feels suspiciously like excitement.

  Pushing the thought away, I fold my arms in front of my chest and prop my hip against the counter. “Sure,” I answer evenly, ignoring my racing heartbeat. “Who doesn’t?”

  As good as it would feel to throw the food in his face, I don’t want to provoke him until I figure out a new strategy.

  “That’s what I figured.” He skillfully plates the eggs and bacon, then pours us each a cup of coffee.

  Deciding that I might as well help out, I pick up the cups and carry them to the table. He brings the plates, and we sit down to eat breakfast.

  The eggs are excellent, flavorful and fluffy, and the bacon is perfectly crisped. Even the coffee is unusually good, as though he used some secret recipe with my Keurig. Not that I expected anything else; each meal he’s fed me has been outstanding.

  If the assassin/stalker thing doesn’t work out, my tormentor could consider a career as a chef.

  The thought is so ridiculous I snicker into my coffee, prompting Peter to look up from his plate, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  “I was just thinking that you could do this professionally,” I explain, shoving a forkful of eggs into my mouth. Maybe this is another betrayal of George’s memory, but I can’t help remembering that my husband had never once made breakfast for me. A couple of times while we were dating, he attempted a romantic dinner—takeout Chinese with some candles—but otherwise, I either c
ooked or we went out.

  “Thank you.” A smile touches Peter’s lips at my compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Uh-huh.” I focus on consuming what’s on my plate and trying not to flush as I recall how those sculpted lips felt on my neck, my breasts, my nipples… I want to believe that he caught me off-guard last night, that my response to him was the result of a sleep-clouded mind, but the excitement humming in my veins this morning belies that assumption.

  Some sick part of me is glad to see him—and relieved that he’s alive.

  Idiot, I chastise myself. Peter Sokolov is a wanted fugitive, a monster who took two lives in front of me after torturing me and killing George. A stalker whose presence in my life introduces innumerable complications and poses a threat to everyone around me.

  It’s not just wrong to want him here; it’s downright pathological.

  Still, as I finish my eggs and gulp down my coffee, I’m aware of a peculiar lightness in my chest. The house no longer feels huge and oppressive around me, the kitchen bright and warm instead of cold and threatening. He fills the space now, dominating it with his large body and the frightening force of his personality, and though he’s the last person I should want for companionship, I don’t feel the crushing pressure of loneliness when I’m with him.

  A dog, I remind myself. All you need is a dog. And in the next breath, I realize there could be a problem with that—and with my new life plan in general.

  “You know I’m moving out in a couple of weeks, right?” I say, putting down my empty cup. “I signed papers to sell the house.”

  Peter’s expression doesn’t change. “Yes, I know.”

  “Of course you do.” My hands curl on the table, my nails digging into my palms. “You probably had me watched while you were gone. Those eyes on me—that wasn’t my imagination, was it?”

  “I couldn’t leave you unprotected,” he says with an unapologetic shrug.

  “Right.” I take a breath and consciously relax my hands. “Well, I’m moving to an apartment soon, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to come and go like this—at least not without the neighbors seeing you every day. So you might as well find some other woman to torture and stalk. There are plenty who live in semi-rural areas.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch. “I’m sure there are. Too bad I don’t want any of them.”

  I drum my fingers on the table. “Really? What about the rest of the people on your list? Or did you murder them all?”

  “There’s one left, and he’s proving elusive so far,” he says, and I stare at him blankly before shaking my head.

  I’m not prepared to go there today.

  “Fine,” I say in an attempt to regroup. “So what’s it going to take for you to leave me alone?”

  “A bullet to the brain or the heart,” he answers, unblinking, and my stomach lurches as I realize he’s completely serious.

  He has no intention of walking away from me. Ever.

  All the lightness and excitement fade, leaving me with the stark terror of my reality. No amount of delicious meals, mind-blowing orgasms, or tender cuddling makes up for the fact that I’m a de-facto prisoner of this lethal man, a killer who doesn’t blink at violence and torture. His obsession with me is as dangerous as the man himself, his feelings as twisted as the dark past we share.

  A monster is fixated on me, and there’s no escape.

  My legs are unsteady as I get up, pushing my chair back. “I have to go to work,” I say tightly, and before he can object, I grab my bag and hurry to the garage.

  Peter makes no move to stop me, but as I’m getting into the car, he comes to stand in the doorway, his darkly handsome face set in an unreadable mask.

  “I’ll see you when you get back,” he says as I start the car, and I know he means it.

  My tormentor is back, and he’s not going away.

  38

  Sara

  * * *

  True to his word, Peter is there when I get home from work that day, and I’m so tired and stressed that I’m tempted to just give in and eat the dinner he made—a savory-smelling rice pilaf with mushrooms and peas. But I can’t. I can’t keep playing along with this madness, acting as though this is somehow normal.

  If my stalker is not going to leave me alone, there’s no point in my compliance. I might as well make things as difficult for him as I can.

  Ignoring the table he set, I go upstairs while he’s pouring us wine. Entering the bedroom, I lock the door and go into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

  I’ve tried everything except outright resistance, and I’m desperate enough to try that.

  Face freshly washed, I come out and sit down on the bed, waiting to see what’s going to happen next. I have no intention of unlocking that door and letting him in, or of cooperating in any way.

  I’m done playing house with a monster. If he wants me, he’s going to have to force me.

  My stomach growls with hunger, and I kick myself for not eating before coming here. I was just so frazzled from thinking about Peter all day that I drove home on autopilot, my mind occupied with my impossible situation. Now that I know about his team and their assassination missions, I’m even less convinced that the FBI would be able to protect me if I went to them.

  I don’t think anyone can protect me from him.

  A knock on the bedroom door drags me out of my despairing thoughts.

  “Come down, ptichka,” Peter says from the other side. “Dinner is getting cold.”

  My whole body tenses, but I don’t respond.

  Another knock. Then the door handle rattles. “Sara.” Peter’s voice hardens. “Open the door.”

  I get up, too unsettled to sit still, but I make no move toward the door.

  “Sara. Open this door. Now.”

  I remain standing, my hands flexing at my sides. Before coming home, I considered getting a weapon, but I remembered what he told me about his men monitoring his vitals and dismissed the idea. I don’t know how the monitoring works, but it’s entirely possible he’s wearing some kind of device that measures his pulse and/or blood pressure. Maybe even an implant. I’ve heard of things like that, though I’ve never encountered them. In any case, if what Peter told me is true, I can’t hurt him in any meaningful way without risking my own life and possibly the lives of those close to me.

  Men who kill for money wouldn’t hesitate to avenge their boss in the most brutal ways.

  “You have five seconds to open this door.”

  Fighting a sense of déjà vu, I sink my teeth into my lower lip but keep still, even as my heart thuds sickly and cold sweat pours down my spine. As much as I don’t want him to hurt me, I don’t want to live like this either, too afraid to stand up for myself, meekly going along with a madman’s demands. The last time I locked a door on him, I was in shock, so overwhelmed and terrified from seeing him kill those two men that I acted on autopilot. Now, however, my action is deliberate.

  I need to know how far he’ll go, what he’s willing to do to get his way.

  He doesn’t count out loud this time, so I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five… I wait for his kick to rattle the door, but instead, I hear footsteps heading down the hall.

  The breath I’m holding escapes in a relieved whoosh. Is it possible? Could he have given up and decided to leave me alone tonight? I wouldn’t have expected that, but he’s surprised me before. Maybe his reluctance to force me still holds; maybe he’s drawing a line at breaking down the bedroom door and—

  The footsteps return, and the door handle rattles again before something metallic scratches against it. My heart skips a beat, then resumes its furious thudding.

  He’s picking the lock on the door.

  The cool deliberateness of that action is somehow scarier than if he’d simply kicked down the door. My tormentor is not acting out of anger; he’s fully in control and knows exactly what he’s doing.

  The metallic scratching lasts for less than a mi
nute. I know because I watch the blinking numbers on the alarm clock on my nightstand. Then the door swings open, and Peter steps in, his gait radiating restrained rage and his face set in cold, hard lines.

  Fighting the urge to run, I raise my chin and stare up at him as he stops in front of me, his big body towering over my much shorter frame.

  “Come to dinner.” His voice is quiet, soft even, but I hear the pulsing darkness underneath. He’s hanging on to his control by a thread, and if I had any hope left, I’d back down out of self-preservation. But I’m all out of strategies, and at some point, self-preservation has to take a back seat to self-respect.

  Recklessly, I shake my head. “I’m not doing this.”

  His nostrils flare. “Doing what? Eating?”

  My stomach chooses that moment to growl again, and I flush at the unfortunate timing. “I’m not eating with you,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “Nor am I sleeping with you—or doing anything else for that matter.”

  “No?” Dark amusement creeps into the gray iciness of his gaze. “Are you sure about that, ptichka?”

  My hands ball at my sides. “I want you out of my house. Now.”

  “Or what?” He steps closer, crowding me with his large body until I have no choice but to back up in the direction of the bed. “Or what, Sara?”

  I want to threaten him with the police or FBI, but we both know that if I could’ve gone to them, I would’ve already done so. There’s nothing I can do to force him out of my life, and that’s the crux of the matter.

  Ignoring the icy sweat trickling down my back, I lift my chin higher. “I’m done with this, Peter.”

  “This?” He steps closer, cocking his head to the side.

  “This sick relationship fantasy you’ve cooked up,” I clarify. He’s too close for comfort, invading my personal space like he belongs there. His masculine scent surrounds me, the heat coming off his big body warming my insides, and I step back again, trying to ignore the melting sensation between my thighs and the aching tautness of my nipples.