I force myself to look away from the hypnotic movement of the wine. “Sure. Who doesn’t?” The anticipation is eating me alive, so I distract myself by picking up my own wine glass and taking a big sip. Please mimic me subconsciously and drink. Come on, just take a few sips.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe a little girl who’d much rather be a ballerina or a singer?”
I blink, briefly distracted from his non-drinking. “A singer?” Why would he say that? Nobody outside of my seventh-grade counselor knew of that particular ambition.
Even at ten, I knew better than to bring up something so impractical with my parents—especially after they told me their views on ballet.
“You have a beautiful singing voice,” Peter says, still toying with his wine glass. “It’s only logical that at some point, you might’ve considered performing. And unlike a dancer’s, a successful singing career doesn’t have to end early. Many older singers are highly respected.”
“I suppose that’s true.” I eye his glass again, my frustration growing. It’s like he’s torturing me, seeing how long I can take before cracking. To tame my impatience, I take a big sip of my own wine and say, “How do you even know what kind of singing voice I have? Oh, wait, never mind. Your listening devices, right?”
He nods, not the least bit remorseful. “Yes, you often sing when you’re alone.”
I gulp down some more wine. At any other time, his casual disregard for my privacy would’ve maddened me, but right now, all my attention is on the stupid wine. Why isn’t he drinking it?
“So you really think I have a good singing voice?” I ask, then realize I should probably sound more outraged. In a more acerbic tone, I add, “Since I unwittingly performed for you, you might as well give me your honest opinion.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he lowers the glass again. “Your voice is beautiful, ptichka. I already told you so, and I have no reason to lie.”
Oh my God, just drink the fucking wine! To prevent myself from yelling that out loud, I take a breath and paste a pretty smile on my lips. “Yes, well, you are trying to get into my pants. Like any woman will tell you, flattery helps with that.”
He laughs and picks up his glass again. “True. Except I have a feeling I could compliment you from now ’till eternity, and it wouldn’t change a thing.”
“You never know.” I keep my tone light and flirty despite the cold sweat sliding down my spine. If he’s not drinking on his own, I have to force his hand.
We can’t end this dinner until he takes at least a few good sips.
Lifting my glass, I smile wider and say, “Why don’t we drink to that? To women’s vanity and you flattering me?”
“Why don’t we, indeed?” He lifts his glass and clinks it against mine. “To you, ptichka, and your gorgeous voice.”
We each bring our glasses to our lips, but before I can take a sip, his fingers loosen around the stem of his glass.
“Oops,” he murmurs as the glass tips forward, spilling the wine in front of him in the exact replica of my earlier goof. His eyes gleam darkly. “My bad.”
I cease breathing, my blood crystallizing in my veins. “You… you—”
“Knew that you added a little something to my drink? Yes, of course.” His voice remains soft, but I can now discern the lethal note within. “You think no one’s ever tried to poison me before?”
My pulse is in hyperdrive, yet I can’t make myself move as he stands up and circles around the table, approaching me with the sleek grace of a predator. All I can do is stare at him, seeing the rage simmering in those metallic eyes.
He’s going to kill me now. He’s going to kill me for this. “I wasn’t…” Terror is a toxic burn in my veins. “It wasn’t—”
“No?” Stopping next to me, he reaches into my bag and pulls out the empty vial. I should run, or at least make an attempt at it, but I’m not brave enough to provoke him further. So I remain still, scarcely breathing as he brings the vial to his nose and sniffs it.
“Ah, yes,” he murmurs, lowering his hand. “A little diazepam. I couldn’t smell it in the wine, but it’s clear like this.” He puts the vial on the table in front of me. “You got it at the hospital, I assume?”
“I… Yes.” There’s no point in denying it. The evidence is literally in front of me.
“Hmm.” He props his hip against the table and gazes down at me. “And what were you going to do when you had me knocked out, ptichka? Deliver me to the FBI?”
I nod, the words frozen in my throat as I stare up at him. With his big body looming over me, I feel like the little bird he compared me to: small and terrified in the shadow of a hawk.
His sensuous mouth twists in a parody of a smile. “I see. And you think it would’ve been that easy? Just knock me out and done?”
I blink up at him, uncomprehending.
“You think I don’t have a contingency plan for that?” he clarifies, and I flinch as he lifts his hand. But all he does is pick up a lock of my hair and brush the ends of it against my jaw, the gesture tender yet cruelly mocking at the same time. “For you trying to kill or disable me in some way?”
“You… you do?”
His lids lower, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “Of course.” The lock of hair brushes over my lips, the ends tickling the sensitive flesh, and my stomach contracts into a hard ball as he says softly, “At this very moment, my men are monitoring your house and everything in the ten-block radius, as well as the little screen that displays my vital signs.” His eyes meet mine. “Do you want to guess what they would’ve done had my blood pressure dropped unexpectedly?”
I mutely shake my head. If Peter’s men are anything like him—and they must be, to do his bidding—I’d rather not know the specifics of what I just narrowly avoided.
His smile takes on a dark edge. “Yes, that’s probably wise, ptichka. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”
I gather the scraps of my courage. “What are you going to do to me?”
“What do you think I’m going to do?” He tilts his head, the smile darkening another fraction. “Punish you? Hurt you?”
My heart drums in my throat. “Are you?”
He looks at me for a few long moments, his smile dimming, then shakes his head. “No, Sara.” There is a strangely weary note in his voice. “Not today.”
Pushing away from the table, he begins gathering the dishes, and I sag in my chair, relieved yet drained of all hope.
If he’s not lying about his men—and I have no reason to think he is—I’m even more trapped than I thought.
Chapter 27
Peter
It shouldn’t hurt, knowing that she wants to get rid of me. It shouldn’t feel like blades of fire slicing across my chest. Any person in Sara’s situation would fight back; it’s only logical and expected.
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does, and no matter what I tell myself as I lead Sara upstairs, the monster inside me snarls and howls, demanding that I do exactly as she feared and punish her for this transgression.
When we get to the bedroom, I don’t make her take her clothes off in front of me again; I’m too close to the edge to guarantee my self-control. I already tested it too much during dinner, playing along with her innocent, I didn’t just drug your wine routine. I knew what she did right away—the wine spill was too out of character for her—but I wanted to see how good of an actress she is, and so I continued to converse with her, to pretend I was clueless and gullible, an idiot about to fall for one of the oldest tricks in the book.
“You can take a shower,” I say, nodding toward the bathroom when she stops next to the bed, her gaze darting nervously from me to the bed and back. “I’ll be here when you return.”
Relief flashes across her face, and she disappears into the bathroom. I use the opportunity to go downstairs and take a quick rinse in one of the other bathrooms.
Though I showered after today’s job, I want to be extra clean for her.
She’s still
showering when I return to the bedroom, so I carefully fold my clothes and leave them on the dresser before getting into bed. I gave myself a quick release with my hand earlier today, but my desire for Sara hasn’t abated, and I know I won’t be able to play this game much longer.
I’m going to take her and make her mine.
If not tonight, then very soon.
Sara’s shower is long, so long that I know she’s using it as a way to avoid me, but I don’t mind. I use the time to empty my mind and cool the residual anger burning inside me. By the time she finally emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, I have the monster under control and can smile at her coolly.
“Come,” I say, patting the bed next to me. I’m trying like hell not to think about how slick and soft her pussy felt yesterday, but it’s impossible. I want to feel that silky wetness wrapped around my cock, want to hear her moan as I drive into her. I want to taste that plush mouth and see her hazel eyes go soft and unfocused as I bring her to her peak again and again.
I want her, and I can’t have her.
Not yet, at least.
She approaches uncertainly, as wary as a wild gazelle, and just as graceful. I want to grab her and drag her into bed, but I remain still, letting her come to me of her own accord. This way, I can pretend that she doesn’t hate me, that seeing me imprisoned or dead wouldn’t give her the greatest joy.
This way, I can imagine that someday, she may choose to be with me.
“Take off that towel and come here,” I order when she pauses half a meter away from the bed, but she doesn’t move, her hands clutching the towel in front of her chest.
“Are we going to sleep? Just sleep?” she asks in an unsteady voice, and I nod, though I’m painfully hard just from seeing her. If I could be sure that I would maintain control throughout, I’d take her tonight, or at least give her another orgasm, but the best I can do is hold her and force myself to go to sleep. Even that will be torture, but I’ll bear it. I won’t force her when she’s expecting me to hurt her; no matter how difficult it is, I won’t live up to her fears.
“Just sleep,” I promise, and hope she can’t hear the raging hunger in my voice. “We’re just going to sleep.”
She hesitates for another second, then steps up to the bed, dropping the wet towel on the floor as she slips under the blanket. All I see is a flash of naked skin, but it’s enough for lust to punch me in the gut. Bracing myself, I pull her against me and bite back a groan as her soft ass nestles against my groin, her skin damp and extra warm from the long shower. She has a beautiful ass, my little doctor, tight and shapely, and my dick throbs with the need to be inside her, to feel those smooth cheeks pressing against my balls as I pound into her, taking her again and again.
Closing my eyes, I inhale the sweet scent of her shampoo and concentrate on controlling my breathing. After a while, I feel the tension in her muscles easing, and I know she’s starting to relax, to believe I won’t assault her despite the hard cock she must feel pressing against her.
Slow and easy, I tell myself as I breathe in and out. Control and focus. Pain means nothing. Discomfort means nothing. It’s a mantra I taught myself during my time in Camp Larko, and it’s true. Pain, hunger, thirst, lust—it’s all chemistry and electrical impulses, a way for the brain to communicate with the body. Wanting Sara won’t kill me, any more than the six months I spent in solitary did when I was fourteen. The torture of unfulfilled desire is nothing compared to the hell of being locked in a room barely big enough to be called a cage, with no one to talk to and nothing to do. It’s nothing compared to the agony of a shiv slashing through your kidney, or a giant fist nearly knocking out your eye.
If I survived juvenile prison in Siberia, I’ll survive not having Sara.
For a little bit longer, at least.
Chapter 28
Sara
“How about you, Sara?”
“Huh?” I look up from my plate to stare blankly at Marsha, who must’ve just asked me something.
Andy rolls her eyes. “She’s in la-la land again. Leave her alone, Marsha.”
“Sorry, I’m just distracted,” I say, pushing back a lock of hair that escaped from my ponytail. I’m pretty sure my hair is a crooked mess today, but I keep forgetting to get to a mirror to fix it. In general, all I can think about this morning is that when I go home tonight, he will be waiting for me there.
Peter Sokolov, the man I can’t escape.
“I asked if you want to join me and Tonya this Saturday,” Marsha says, looking more amused than annoyed. “Andy just said she’s in; she’ll hang out with her boyfriend some other time. How about you, Sara?”
“Oh, sorry, I can’t,” I say, pushing my plate away. I ran into the nurses in the cafeteria while grabbing a quick breakfast, and they talked me into joining them for a sit-down meal. “I promised my parents I’ll go see them.”
That last part is a lie, but I figure it’s better than explaining that I don’t want to put my friends on the radar of a certain Russian killer—or whoever he’ll have watching me.
“That’s too bad,” Marsha says. “Tonya’s going to get us back into that club. You seemed to like it there, I recall. Tonya says that cute bartender has been asking about you.”
I frown. “He has?”
“Yep,” Tonya confirms. “He said something weird, though. He thought he saw some guy with you, acting all proprietary, like he was your boyfriend or something. I told him he must’ve been mistaken, because you definitely left alone that night. Right? You don’t have a secret boyfriend stashed somewhere, do you?”
Ice trickles down my spine even as my face turns uncomfortably hot. “No, definitely not.”
“Really?” Marsha says, sounding fascinated. “Then why are you blushing? And clutching that fork like you want to stab someone?”
I glance down at my hand and see that she’s right. I’m gripping the utensil so hard my knuckles have turned white. Forcing my fingers to relax, I give an awkward laugh and say, “Sorry. I was drunk that night, and I’m a little embarrassed about that. I think I must’ve danced with some random guy, and that’s what your bartender friend saw, Tonya.”
Andy frowns. “Is that random guy the reason you ran out of there like that? You looked almost… frightened.”
“What? No, I was just drunk.” I force another embarrassed laugh. “You know how it is when you think you’re going to puke at any moment? Well, that was me that night.”
“Okay,” Tonya says. “I’ll tell Rick—that’s the bartender—that you’re available. In case you ever join us at the club again, that is.”
“Oh, I…” My face heats up again. “No, that’s okay. I’m not really ready to date and—”
“No worries.” Tonya pats my hand, her slim fingers cool on my skin. “I won’t give him your number or anything. You can maintain your ‘princess in a tower’ mystique. Only makes them hotter, if you ask me.”
“What?” I gape at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“She means that you have the whole untouchable thing going on,” Andy says through a mouthful of eggs. “It’s hard to describe, but it’s like you give off this ice princess vibe, only not cold, you know? Kind of like if Jackie-O and Princess Diana decided to slum it by working among us regular folks, if that makes sense.”
“No, not really.” I frown at the red-headed girl. “You’re saying I come across as stuck-up?”
“No, not stuck-up, just different,” Marsha says. “Andy didn’t explain it well. You’re just… classy. Maybe it’s all that ballet you did when you were younger, but you look like someone taught you to curtsy and walk with a book balanced on your head. Like you know which fork to use at a formal dinner and how to make small talk with the ambassador of whatever.”
“What?” I burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous. I mean, George and I had been to a few formal fundraisers, but that was his thing, not mine. If I had a choice, I’d live in yoga pants and sneakers; you know that, Marsha. For God’
s sake, I listen to Britney Spears and dance to hip-hop and R&B.”
“I know, hon, but that’s just the way you look, not the way you are,” Marsha says, taking out a small mirror to reapply her red lipstick. Swiping on a coat with a practiced hand, she puts away the mirror and the lipstick and says, “It’s a good thing, trust me. Take me, for instance. I could try to class it up all I want, but guys take one look at me and decide I’m easy. Doesn’t matter what I wear or how I act; they just see my hair, tits, and ass, and figure I put out.”
“That’s because you do put out,” Tonya points out with a grin.
Marsha huffs and flicks back her blond waves. “Yeah, but that’s neither here nor there. My point is, she”—she jerks her thumb at me—“couldn’t look easy if she tried. Any guy looking at her knows—he just knows—he’s going to have to work for it. Like dinners with parents and ring on the finger kind of work.”
“That’s not true,” I object. “I slept with George long before we got married.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but how long were you dating before you slept with him?”
“A few months,” I say, frowning. “But I was just eighteen, and—”
“See? A few months,” Tonya says, elbowing Marsha. “And how long do you make them wait?”
Marsha chuckles. “At least a few hours.”
“Well, there you go,” Andy says. “And you wonder why those jerks never call you again. My mom always said, ‘The fastest way to lose a guy is to sleep with him.’ Sara’s got it right: act cool and distant, so when you so much as smile at a guy, he falls all over himself.”
“Oh, please.” I busy myself with the remnants of my breakfast. “It’s the twenty-first century. I think men know better than to—”
“Nope,” Marsha says cheerfully. “They don’t. If something comes easy, they don’t value it as much. I know that, and I’m okay with being a good-time girl. Most of the time, I don’t want those jerks to call me, and the couple of times that I do…” She sighs. “Well, it’s just not meant to be, I guess. In any case, life’s too short to waste it being something other than what you are. By the time you get to be my age, you figure that out.”
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