by Anna Zaires
“Uh-huh.” Not meeting his eyes, I gulp down half of the water bottle, eat a handful of nuts, and wash them down with the rest of the water. I’m not surprised to hear about the lack of food on the plane; the wonder is that he had a plane on standby, period. I know he and his team get paid ridiculous sums of money to assassinate crime lords and such, but the cost of this mid-sized jet must be well into eight figures.
Unable to contain my curiosity, I glance at my captor. “Is this yours?” I wave a hand to indicate our surroundings. “Did you buy it?”
“No.” He closes the laptop and smiles. “I got it as payment from one of our clients.”
“I see.” I look away, focusing on the dark sky outside the window instead of that magnetic smile. Now that I’m feeling better, I’m even more bitterly aware of what Peter has done—and how hopeless my situation is.
If I was at my tormentor’s mercy at home, where I was afraid of what might happen if I went to the authorities, I’m now doubly so. Peter Sokolov can do anything to me, keep me captive until I die if he’s so inclined. His men won’t help me, and I’m about to enter a country where I don’t speak the language and don’t know anything or anyone.
I love sushi, but that’s as far as my familiarity with Japan extends.
“Sara?” Peter’s deep voice cuts into my thoughts, and I instinctively turn to look at him.
“Buckle up.” He nods toward the seatbelt lying unfastened at my side. “We’ll be landing shortly.”
I pull the seatbelt over my lap before turning my attention back to the window. I can’t see much in the darkness—we must’ve flown long enough for it to be night in Japan despite the time difference—but I keep my eyes on the sky outside, both in the hopes of seeing something and out of the desire to avoid conversing with Peter.
I’m not going to act like we really are lovers going on a trip, to pretend that I’m okay with this in any shape or form. The leverage he had over me—his threat to steal me away if I didn’t play along with his domestic bliss fantasy—is gone, and I have no intention of being his compliant victim again. I was beginning to give in, to fall under his twisted spell, but that’s all over now. Peter Sokolov tortured me and killed my husband, and now he’s kidnapped me. There’s nothing between us except a fucked-up past and an even more fucked-up future.
He might have me, but he won’t enjoy it.
I’ll make sure of that.
4
Peter
My cheekbone still smarts from Sara’s blow as we land at a private airport near Matsumoto and transfer to the helicopter waiting for us there. I’ll have a black eye tomorrow—an idea I find amusing now that the initial shock of anger is past. The pain Sara inflicted is minor—I’ve suffered worse in routine training—but the unexpectedness of my pretty little doctor physically lashing out is what got to me.
It was like being scratched bloody by a kitten, one you just want to cuddle and protect.
She’s still angry with me. It’s obvious in her rigid posture, in the way she doesn’t speak to me or even glance my way as the helicopter takes off. Though it’s still dark, I see her staring at the sights below, and I know she’s trying to memorize where we’re going.
She’ll attempt to escape at the earliest opportunity, I can tell.
Anton pilots the chopper, and Ilya sits in the back with me and Sara while Yan is up front. We’re not expecting any trouble, but we’re armed, so I keep a careful eye on Sara to make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish, like trying to grab a gun from me or Ilya.
Given the mood she’s in, I wouldn’t put anything past her.
Our Japanese safe house is located in the sparsely populated, mountainous Nagano Prefecture, at the very peak of a steep, heavily forested mountain overlooking a small lake. On a clear day, the view is breathtaking, but the main reason I acquired the property is that this particular mountaintop is only accessible by air. There used to be a dirt road on the west slope—that’s how a wealthy Tokyo businessman built his summer home up there back in the nineties—but an earthquake-triggered landslide made the slope into a cliff, cutting off all ground access to the property and destroying its value.
The businessman’s children were beyond grateful when one of my shell companies purchased the house last year, sparing them from the burden of paying taxes on a place they neither wanted nor had the means to visit regularly.
“So why Japan?”
Sara’s tone is flat and disinterested as she gazes out the chopper window, but I know she must be dying of curiosity to break the hour-long silence and actually speak to me.
It’s either that, or she’s fishing for information that could help her escape.
“Because this is the last place anyone would think to look for us,” I answer, figuring there’s no harm in telling her the truth. “Nothing connects me to the country. Russia, Europe, the Middle East, Africa, the Americas, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines—at one point or another, I’ve blipped on the authorities’ radar in all those places, but never here.”
“Also, it makes for a pleasant hideout,” Ilya says in English, speaking to Sara for the first time. “Much better than holing up in some cave in Dagestan or sweating our balls off in India.”
Sara gives him an indecipherable look, then turns her attention back to the view outside. I don’t blame her. The sky is lightening with the first hints of dawn, and it’s possible to make out the mountain slopes and forests below. By the time we reach our mountaintop retreat, she’ll get the full impact of the view—and realize she can give up all hope of escape. Because that’s another reason for my choice of Japan: the remote location of this specific house.
My little bird’s new cage will be both pretty and impossible to flee from.
We land forty minutes later on a small helipad next to the house, and I watch Sara’s face as she takes in the sight of our new home—a starkly modern wood-and-glass construction that blends seamlessly with the untouched nature surrounding it.
“Do you like it?” I ask, catching her gaze as I help her out of the chopper, and she looks away, pulling her hand out of my grasp as soon as her sock-clad feet are planted on the ground.
“Does it matter? If I said no, would you take me back?” She turns and starts walking toward the edge of the helipad, where the mountainside forms a cliff drop to the lake below.
“No, but if you hate it here, we can consider some of our other safe houses.” Following her, I catch her wrist before she gets to the edge of the pad. I don’t think she’s upset enough to jump off a cliff, but I’m not about to risk it.
“Where? In Dagestan or India?” She finally looks up at me, eyes narrowed. Though it’s late spring, it’s winter cold at this altitude, the chilly morning wind whipping her chestnut waves around her face and molding the loose black T-shirt against her slender torso. I can feel her shivering, her wrist thin and fragile in my grasp, but her delicate jaw is set in a stubborn line as she holds my gaze.
She’s so vulnerable, my Sara, but so strong too. A survivor, like me, though she probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.
“Dagestan and India are two of the possibilities, yes,” I say, letting her hear the amusement in my voice. She’s trying to antagonize me, make me regret taking her with me, but no amount of sarcasm or silent treatment will do that.
I need Sara like I need air and water, and I’ll never regret keeping her.
Her soft mouth compresses and she twists her arm, trying to break my grip on her wrist. “Let me go,” she hisses when I don’t immediately release her. “Take your fucking hand off me.”
Despite my resolve to remain unaffected, a twinge of anger bites at me. Sara chose me, if not precisely this, and I’m not about to put up with her treating me like a leper.
Instead of releasing her wrist, I tighten my grip and pull her toward me, away from the edge of the helipad. When she’s sufficiently far from the drop, I bend down and pick her up, ignoring her startled squeak of protest.
&nbs
p; “No,” I say grimly, pressing her against my chest. “I’m not letting you go.”
And ignoring her attempts to twist out of my hold, I carry the woman I love to our new home.
5
Sara
Peter doesn’t release me until we’re inside the house, and even then, when he sets me on my feet, he keeps his steely fingers wrapped around my wrist, chaining me to his side as I take in my gorgeous new prison.
And it is gorgeous. Even with the anger and frustration choking me up inside, I can appreciate the clean, modern lines of the open floor plan and the postcard-pretty views of the mountains and the lake visible through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. In the middle of the space, next to an ultra-modern kitchen, a set of plank-style hardwood stairs spirals to the second floor—and that’s where Peter leads me, his hand still possessively holding my wrist.
“A Japanese businessman built this twenty years ago, but I renovated it when I bought it last year,” Peter says as we go up the steps. “I didn’t know we’d be coming here so soon, but I figured it’s best to be ready.”
I don’t respond, because if I try to talk, I might break down and cry. At this very moment, the FBI could be telling my parents about my disappearance, and I undoubtedly have dozens of missed calls and messages from my work, as well as the clinic where I volunteer. One of my patients is supposed to go into labor this week, and I have a C-section scheduled for tomorrow. Or is it today? It’s early morning in Japan; does that mean it’s evening back home? I don’t know what the time difference is, but I can’t imagine it’s less than ten hours. If so, I must’ve already missed a full day, and people are looking for me. Maybe even checking with my parents to find out where I am and why I’m not responding to any of their calls or messages.
My poor parents must be sick with worry.
“Can I call them?” I ask thickly as Peter leads me into a spacious bedroom. One of the walls is made entirely of glass, revealing a breathtaking view of snow-capped mountains in the distance and the lake spread out below. Or at least the view would be breathtaking if I could concentrate on it, instead of the suffocating lump in my throat.
Please let my dad be all right.
“Not yet,” Peter says, his expression softening as he releases my wrist. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he shares my concern about my parents. “We need to review the camera feeds to see what’s been happening, and then find a way to reach out to your family without alerting anyone of our whereabouts.”
I swallow and turn away before he can see the tears filling my eyes. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t come home, if I’d confided in Karen in that locker room, everything would’ve been different. Yes, my parents and I would’ve had to go into protective custody, and most likely relocate, but that would’ve still been preferable to this nightmare. I don’t know what I was thinking when I drove home from the hospital last night. Did I imagine that if I showed up at home as normal, Peter wouldn’t know that the FBI had spoken to me? That the Feds might not realize that the man they’re hunting had been all but living with me, and we’d go on as before?
That if I warned my tormentor about the impending danger, he’d thank me and quietly go on his merry way?
“Don’t, Sara.” He steps in front of me, forcing me to look up to meet his gaze. His jaw is tight, his eyes gleaming darkly as he says in a low, hard voice, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t want this. I know you’re scared and you’re having second thoughts, but you chose me; you chose us. That’s why you told me they were coming for me, why you came home at all instead of letting them whisk you far away. I waited for you. I knew they were close, and I still waited, because I needed to see if you truly hated me… if you wanted me gone from your life. But you didn’t, did you?” He cups my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “Did you, ptichka?”
“I did.” My voice shakes, and to my shame, hot tears trickle down my face. I don’t want to show weakness, but I can’t help the toxic cauldron bubbling in my chest. “I was exhausted, and I had a headache. I wasn’t thinking straight. On any other day—”
“Oh, really?” His mouth twists with cruel amusement as he drops his hand. “Is that the lie you’re telling yourself? That I took you against your will… that you didn’t want any of this?”
“I didn’t!” I step back, staring at him incredulously. He can’t seriously believe what he’s saying. “I would never agree to this. My parents, my patients, my friends, my whole life—it’s all back there. You abducted me, Peter. There’s no ambiguity here. You stuck a needle in my neck and you carried me away while I was drugged unconscious. How can you possibly think I came along voluntarily? Did you miss the part where I screamed and pleaded for you to leave me behind when I woke up? Were you deaf when I cried and begged you not to do this?” I’m beyond furious, but the tears won’t stop flowing, and I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand, trembling with rage from head to toe.
Peter’s lips flatten into a hard, dangerous line, and I again glimpse the terrifying stranger who broke into my house and tortured me. Only this time, I’m too angry to feel any fear. If he wants to punish me for this, let him.
I’ll only hate him more.
He makes no move toward me, but his voice is harsh as he says, “So why did you do it? Why warn me, Sara? You knew I wouldn’t leave you behind. And don’t give me that bullshit about not thinking straight. You knew full well what kind of risk you were taking. Why do it if you didn’t want to be with me?”
I drag in a shuddering breath and turn away, determined to control the tears that keep streaming down my face. The rage that filled me is dissipating, leaving me weary to the bone and hollow with despair. I want to stand my ground, deny what he’s saying, but I can’t. Maybe my thinking wasn’t as clear as it should’ve been, but I did know what I was doing.
I wasn’t surprised when the needle pricked my neck.
I feel Peter behind me, though I didn’t hear him move. “Tell me, ptichka.” His voice is soft again, his touch gentle as he clasps my shoulders, drawing me against his hard body. “Tell me why.” His stubble rasps across my cheek as he bends his head to kiss my temple, and I tense, fighting the urge to lean back against him and let him cuddle and caress me until I forget that I lost everything.
Until I no longer care that he took away my life.
Lifting his head, Peter turns me around to face him, his gray eyes peering at me intently, and I know he won’t let the matter drop. He won’t rest until I admit my weakness, that irrational, insane impulse that made me sabotage my chance at freedom.
I lick my lips, tasting the salt of my tears. “I…” I swallow thickly. “I didn’t want to see you dead.” Even now, the horrifying images won’t leave me, my brain visualizing how everything might’ve gone down in grisly detail. I can almost smell the coppery tang of blood as the SWAT team’s bullets rip through Peter’s muscled body, can almost see the armor-clad agents bursting through the bedroom door and dragging him off my bed.
Can almost feel the stark, crushing loneliness that would’ve been my life without my tormentor.
No. No, no, no. I shake off the thought, push it away like the lunacy that it is. I did not want this. Just because I missed Peter when he was on one of his assassination missions doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have moved on eventually. And it wasn’t even him I missed. It was the deceptive comfort he provided, the illusion of love and caring. What I felt for him wasn’t real, and neither is what he thinks he feels for me. A sick lie is all it’s ever been between us, a pathological obsession on his end and an equally perverse neediness on mine.
Peter’s eyes narrow, his hands tightening on my shoulders as he processes what I said. “So you warned me out of the goodness of your heart? You were being a Good Samaritan?”
I nod, blinking rapidly to hold back a fresh wave of tears. That wasn’t the only reason for my lapse of judgment, but it’s the only one I’m willing to admit to.
My captor’s face hardens, and he dro
ps his hands, stepping back. “I see.”
If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought I hurt him.
In the next instant, however, he continues as if nothing happened. “This is our bedroom.” His voice is cold and flat, utterly emotionless. “The bathroom is through there.” He gestures at a door in the back of the room. “You can wash up and relax while we unpack some supplies and prepare breakfast. I’ll have clothes brought here for you tomorrow, but in the meantime, there should be a robe in the bathroom and some of my clothes in the closet.” He nods toward a set of doors on the opposite side of the room. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Breakfast will be ready in a half hour.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, thanks.”
He exits the room, and I walk over to the window, my chest aching with grief for everything I lost—and for what I just glimpsed in Peter’s eyes.
Pain.
I did hurt him, and for some reason, that hurts me.
6
Peter
“She’s not happy, huh?” Anton says quietly in Russian as I take out an oversized carton of eggs he just loaded into the fridge, set it on the counter next to the stovetop, and begin hunting for a frying pan.
“No.” I barely restrain myself from slamming the cupboard door when I don’t find the frying pan there. “But she’ll get used to it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I finally locate the pan in one of the pull-out drawers by the stove. “Then she’ll stay fucking miserable.” Grabbing the pan, I shove the drawer shut, then curse myself when I see a hairline crack appear in the glossy white wood. Renovating the house one helicopter load at a time was a bitch, and I can’t afford to vent my anger on the kitchen counters. Anton’s face at training later today will be a much better target.
