by Anna Zaires
I open my mouth to thank her, but I end up coughing painfully instead. My throat is desert dry, and the heavy balloon that is my head throbs with agony. There also seems to be something across my face that’s preventing me from opening my eyes. A thick bandage on my forehead, maybe?
“Here. You must be thirsty.” A straw touches my lips, and I latch on to it, greedily sucking down the tepid liquid.
“What happened? Where am I?” I croak out when I’ve drained the cup of water. My voice is weak and hoarse, but at least I can speak again.
“You’re in a private clinic in Switzerland,” Yulia explains gently. “You were in a car accident. Do you remember?”
I nod and immediately regret it. “Yes,” I gasp out when the agonizing wave of pain passes. “There was a dog and—”
“Yes, that’s right.” She sounds relieved. Is it because I have a head injury? I wonder how bad it is, and then tense, my lungs seizing as I recall something far more important.
Frantically, I ask, “Where’s Peter? Is he—”
“I’m afraid so,” Yulia says, and my heart crumbles at the genuine regret in her voice. “I’m sorry,” she continues in the same tone. “He’s on his way back. There was nothing I could do.”
My lungs expand on a shaking breath. “You mean he’s… all right?” My voice is strained, my extremities tingling from a violent spike of adrenaline. “He didn’t get hurt?”
There is a moment of silence. Then Yulia says slowly, “No, he didn’t. Sara… did you just ask me this because you’re afraid that he didn’t get hurt—or that he did?” At my confused nonresponse, she clarifies, “Do you have feelings for this man?”
I moisten my cracked lips, aware of an unwelcome creep of guilt. I didn’t mean to lie to Yulia or take advantage of her kindness, but that’s essentially what I did when I emphasized the negative aspects of my complex relationship with Peter.
Not only did I fail to get away, but I got her into a world of trouble. The worst part, however, is that I’m secretly relieved I failed, glad I wasn’t able to escape Peter and the future I both want and dread.
“It’s… complicated,” I finally say, echoing her words from that day.
She inhales sharply and stands up. “I see.”
“Yulia, wait,” I say as I hear her footsteps, but it’s too late.
She’s gone, and before long, the drugs claim me again.
52
Peter
A dislocated shoulder and a gash on her forehead.
Logically, I know neither of those injuries is life-threatening, but as I look at Sara in the hospital bed, her pale face bruised all over and half-covered by a bandage, fear and rage churn in my chest, defying all attempts at logic.
The four-hour flight to Switzerland was among the longest of my life. Once we changed course, I called Lucas again, demanding more details and explanations, and though he repeatedly assured me that Sara’s condition is stable and she’s being treated by the best doctors in Europe, I didn’t fully believe him until I saw her.
Fate has never been kind to me before.
Sitting down on the edge of her bed, I carefully clasp her hand in both of mine, feeling the fragile warmth of her skin and the delicacy of her slender bones. My own hands are trembling, my emotions too extreme to be controlled.
A dog.
She nearly died because of a fucking dog.
My heart cracks in half again, the pain as intense as when I thought her dead. If the guardrail hadn’t been as strong, if the car didn’t have airbags, if the shard of glass that sliced her forehead had gone into her eye instead… I shudder, picturing all the cruel ways she could’ve died and the debilitating injuries she could’ve suffered.
And it’s all because of me.
I can’t hide from that brutal reality, can’t push away the suffocating guilt.
I wasn’t there, and Sara ran.
She stole a car and raced to freedom, so desperate to get away from me she didn’t care if she lived or died.
The fury boiling in my chest is only partially for Lucas. He’ll pay for his negligence, of course, but I can’t pretend he bears the lion’s share of blame.
That belongs solely to me.
It was my selfish need to have her, to cage her and possess her, that drove Sara to take that risk. I nearly killed the woman I love, and I don’t know how to atone for that.
I don’t know if, even now, I can let her go.
Her swollen lips part on a gentle exhalation, and I sink to my knees on the floor, cradling the back of her hand against my stubble-roughened cheek as I close my eyes. Her skin is so soft, her fingers so small compared to mine. My chest squeezes agonizingly. I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in longing and despair. Why can’t she just love me? Why can’t she accept that we belong together? There were times when I thought she might, when I was sure that she was getting close.
And maybe she was. Maybe she still might. The monster inside me snarls, demanding that I hold her, that I keep her no matter what it takes… no matter what it ultimately does to her. With time, she’ll come around, understand that we are meant to be.
That if she gives me a chance, I’ll make her happy… her and the child I so badly crave.
A faint moan jolts me out of my thoughts, and I open my eyes to find Sara’s lips moving.
“P-Peter?” she whispers, and a supernova explodes in my chest. Just that one word, and my world is a thousand degrees warmer, a million watts brighter. All the grief and pain are extinguished, the darkness gone instead of sucking at my soul.
“Yes, ptichka,” I answer hoarsely, pressing her hand against my lips. “I’m here.”
Her slender fingers twitch as I kiss them one by one. “Are you… Did everything go okay?” She sounds groggy from the painkillers. “Did anyone get hurt?”
A pang of agony stabs my chest. “No, my love. Nobody but you.”
“That’s good.” Her lips curve in a small, blissed-out smile. “I’m glad.”
I draw in a strained breath, the guilt and anguish overwhelming me again. In some ways, it would be easier if Sara hated me, if all she felt for me was loathing and fear. Then I could walk away, try to curtail my obsession so I could let her live her life while I went back to the cold emptiness of mine. But Sara doesn’t simply hate me; it’s more complex than that.
She needs me. She’s admitted it to me.
“Why did you run?” I ask raggedly, staring at the bruises on her jaw. “Is it because of what I said about the condoms? Do you dread a child with me that much?”
I have to understand what prompted her to do this.
I have to know if there’s any hope for us.
Her fingers curl in my hold. “I… yes. I mean, no. I don’t know. It’s not what I want, but maybe…” She trails off, still high on painkillers.
“But maybe?” I prompt, my heart thumping painfully in my chest.
“But maybe in a different life, I would.” Her voice is fading, turning into a cracking whisper. “In a different world, the one where I’d been born yours, it would be different. You wouldn’t be a fugitive assassin… you wouldn’t have abducted me after killing George. You’d be my husband, and I’d be your loving wife, and we could have a dog behind a picket fence… We’d take our children to the park and celebrate my parents’ birthdays… There’d be friends and barbecues and music… and you would love me, really love me… love me so much you wouldn’t steal my life.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, her words twisting inside me like a killer’s blade. It shouldn’t hurt, her drugged admission; I should be glad she wants all that with me. But all I can think about is that I’ll never truly have her, never give her the life she wants. Even if I succeed in making us a family, even if Sara warms to me more over the years, the past will always lie between us like a chasm, the lifestyle of a fugitive forever a source of strife and stress. There are no barbecues and picket fences in our future, no dogs and children playing in the yard.
Sh
e’ll love our child, but it won’t make her happy.
I could give her everything I have, and it won’t be enough.
A monitor beeps softly as Sara’s breathing evens out, and I open my eyes to find her asleep again, the painkillers helping her rest and heal.
A shallow breath escapes me, an impossible weight compressing my aching lungs.
I should get up, give my men an update and send them after Henderson, but I can’t bring myself to move.
I can’t do anything but kneel at Sara’s bedside, holding her hand as hollow darkness presses in.
53
Sara
When I wake up again, this time without the thick bandage across my eyes, Peter is there, sitting on a chair next to my bed with a computer on his lap. He looks exhausted, more weary than I’ve ever seen him. Dark shadows circle his bloodshot eyes, and his stubble-covered cheeks are hollow, as though he’s lost some weight. He’s working on the laptop, but the moment I stir, his gaze snaps to mine like metal to a magnet.
“You’re awake.” His voice is hoarse as he sets his laptop aside and stands. “How are you feeling, ptichka? Do you need anything? Here, drink some water.” He picks up a cup with a straw from the table next to my bed and bends over me, helping me to a half-sitting position as he presses the straw against my lips.
I’m still a little woozy from the drugs, and I gratefully suck down most of the water. “How long have I been under?” I croak out when he takes the cup away.
Even after drinking, my throat feels like it’s been scraped with sandpaper, my mouth so dry my tongue keeps sticking to my cheeks.
“Three days,” Peter answers, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “The doctors thought it would speed your healing.”
I run my tongue over my chapped lips, feeling the painful swelling on one side. Now that I’m more awake, I realize there’s still a bandage across my forehead—I can feel it pressing down on my eyebrows—and my left shoulder is stiff and sore. “How bad is it?” I ask, wincing as I try to move.
Peter’s jaw flexes. “A shard of glass cut a deep gash across your forehead, and you dislocated your left shoulder. Luckily, you had a seatbelt on, and the airbag absorbed most of the impact from the crash. Still, you’re bruised all over, including over most of your face.” His voice roughens as he speaks, his own face tightening with pain.
Blinking against the sudden sting of tears, I carefully reach up with my right hand, feeling the bandage across my forehead. I should probably worry about how I’ll look with an ugly scar, but all I can focus on is the anguish in Peter’s silver gaze.
I hurt him, this lethal, indomitable man.
I hurt him when he’s been so badly hurt already, when suffering is all he’s ever known.
“It won’t leave a scar,” he says hoarsely, following the movement of my hand. “They have the best plastic surgeons here, and they’re going to fix it. I promise you, my love—I’m going to make it right.”
I stare at him, my eyes burning with an onslaught of emotions. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the painkillers, but I can’t stand the pain in his gaze, can’t bear the knowledge that I hurt him. Because no matter what I’d like to tell myself, I’m fiercely glad to see him, so relieved he wasn’t killed I want to fall to my knees and cry.
If I had to choose between him and my freedom at this moment, I would give up everything to have him in my life.
A knock on the door is followed by two nurses entering the room, and I suck in a ragged breath as Peter rises to his feet.
“Wait!” Ignoring a wave of dizzying pain, I sit up, grabbing his tattooed wrist. “Stay with me… Please, Peter, stay.”
He immediately sits down, covering my hand with his big palm. “Of course.” His voice is deep and soft, as warm as the dark flame in his gaze. “Anything you wish, my love.”
He stays with me while the nurses change the bandage on my head, and when they try to shoo him away, claiming I need rest, I beg him to stay and hold me. I know it makes no sense, but I’m past all attempts at sense and reason. I can’t give up on trying to escape—if nothing else, I owe it to my future child and my parents—but right now, I need Peter with me.
I want to crawl into his arms and never leave.
He stays with me throughout the rest of the day and all of the following night, spooning me gently while I sleep, and when I wake up the next morning, I chase away the nurses and he helps me shower before settling me on his lap to watch TV.
I cling to him like that for the next two days, unable to let go, and he lets me, though he must think it strange. There’s so much left unsaid between us, so many things still unresolved, but all I care about at the moment is that I have him.
He’s mine to love and hate, no matter what.
To my annoyance, I heal slowly, the gash on my forehead requiring another surgery to minimize the scar and my shoulder paining me with every move. After another week at the clinic, however, I refuse to stay in my room all day, and Peter nearly kills the doctor who allows me to get up and walk down the hallway unsupervised.
Or at least, unsupervised by him.
I’m not the only one behaving irrationally after the accident. From what the nurses have told me, Peter hasn’t let me out of his sight for more than a few minutes since arriving at the clinic. He even tries to accompany me to the bathroom on the pretext that the painkillers make me dizzy. When I categorically refuse, he insists that at least one of the nurses be present, so he can be informed immediately if something goes wrong. He has to know this level of concern is not entirely sane, but like me, he can’t seem to help himself.
“I have to know you’re safe. I have to see you, touch you at all times,” he explains grimly when I assure him that I’m feeling better, and it’s okay to leave me for an hour for a business meeting with his men.
“You’re losing it,” Anton told him in front of me yesterday when Peter put off an important call with a potential client so he could be there for my bandage change. “Sara has eight nurses looking after her, and at least four doctors. Do you really think she needs you there?”
I actually do, but I remained silent, not wanting to add to our mutual madness. I’m pretty sure Peter hasn’t been neglecting his responsibilities to the team—whenever I wake up, I find him on his laptop or discussing business with his men—but the nurses have told me that all the Russians’ meetings have been held in the room next to mine while I sleep, with Peter looking in on me every ten minutes.
“Your husband is so devoted to you,” a young German nurse gushes when Peter leaves her to watch me while he showers. “I wish my fiancé was this crazy about me.”
I’m tempted to correct her, to tell her that Peter is my kidnapper, not my husband, but I can’t bring myself to burst her bubble. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. The doctors and the nursing staff at this clinic must be paid exceptionally well for their discretion, because no one I’ve spoken to so far has been willing to call the authorities on my behalf. Not that I’ve tried all that hard to convince them. Not only am I pathologically incapable of being apart from my captor, but I also feel terrible that I already landed Yulia in hot water.
I desperately hope Peter won’t add her or Lucas to his list.
I consider talking to him about it, explaining that they’re in no way to blame for my accident, but whenever Peter’s men bring up Cyprus or the Kents, he gets such a hard, dangerous look in his eyes that I don’t dare press the issue. For the moment, Peter seems focused solely on my health, and I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.
I can’t have my dark knight going on another rampage—not when it’s all my fault.
In general, we haven’t spoken about my escape attempt or the events preceding it. Neither one of us can bear to bring it up. I don’t know if Peter still intends to force a child on me, or whether he even knows that himself. Either way, he hasn’t touched me—not in any sexual way at least.
I was glad at first—I was definitely in no condition to
have sex those first few days—but now that I’m feeling better, I’m starting to wonder. My captor still wants me; I can feel his erection when I lie in his embrace. But he doesn’t do anything about it, doesn’t so much as kiss me on the lips. Even after I expressly cleared it with the doctors, he abstains, and I know it’s because he blames himself for the crash. We might not have talked about what happened, but it’s there between us, my injuries a constant reminder of what occurred that night. I see the torment in his eyes when he looks at my fading bruises, the same anguished guilt that consumed me after George’s accident.
What happened may have brought us closer, but it’s tearing Peter apart inside.
54
Peter
By the time we’ve been at the clinic for ten days, Sara insists on walking around on her own, and I let her, though Yan hijacks the hallway cameras so I can watch her on my laptop when she does.
I’m so consumed with Sara it’s crowding out everything, even my need for vengeance. I did manage to send my team to New Zealand a few hours after arriving at the clinic, but predictably, by the time they got there, Henderson had figured out his wife’s mistake and disappeared again. Normally, that would’ve enraged me, but I couldn’t work up enough energy for that. I still can’t. Even Lucas, who prudently flew home as soon as I got to the clinic, isn’t currently on my radar for his negligence with Sara. I still intend to make him pay, but for now, all that matters is that she’s alive and healing well.
I watch her all the time now, day and night. It’s gotten to the point where I barely eat or sleep. I don’t know what to do, how to turn off this obsessive fear for her safety. Every time I close my eyes, I dream about Lucas telling me she’s hurt, only when I get to the hospital, I find out he lied and she is dying.
It’s my new nightmare, and I can’t make it stop, any more than I can bring myself to let her go home.
