8
Sara
Bundled in Peter’s thick sweatshirt that goes down to my knees, and with my feet sliding around inside Peter’s giant sneakers, I step carefully through the woods, Ilya at my side. He’s talking to me, telling me something about local vegetation, but I only half-listen, focusing on memorizing the way to the trail I spotted to the west. It’s wide enough to let a vehicle through and appears to lead down the mountain.
“—but was blocked by the landslide,” Ilya rumbles, and I snap to attention, realizing he’s telling me something useful.
“A landslide?”
His shaved head bobs. “Yes, from the earthquake. It had a big impact here, completely changed this mountain.”
“Changed it how?” I ask, hugging myself to draw the sweatshirt closer to my body. It’s less windy here among the trees than by the house, but it’s still cold from the high elevation. We’ve been walking in wide circles around the house for almost an hour, and I’m ready to head back inside, where it’s warm.
With the Russian assassin dogging my heels, I won’t escape today anyway, and when I do, I’ll have to make sure I’m properly dressed.
“Other than blocking the road, you mean?” Ilya asks, and I nod, frowning. I hope he doesn’t mean the trail I just saw. So far, it’s the only thing I noticed that resembles a road. If it’s blocked, I’ll have to hike down through the woods—a much iffier proposition.
Ilya stops and points at a cliff on the opposite side of the lake below us. “See that? It was a gradual slope before. And there are many like that on this mountain too. Very dangerous. The forest goes right up to the edge of some of these cliffs, so if you don’t look where you’re going…”
“Right. Dangerous. Got it.” That only reinforces my conviction that I need to be well prepared before attempting my escape. The last thing I want is to fall off a cliff. I’ll have to take a couple of days to get to know the area, explore it some more so I can know where I’m going. Maybe find out more about this region and learn which way is the closest settlement or whichever place would let me call the U.S. Embassy.
Either way, I have to be smart about my escape, so I don’t lose what little freedom I possess.
By the time we return to the house, I’m shivering and the tips of my ears feel like icicles. Peter is nowhere to be seen, so I go upstairs and run a hot bath for myself, figuring that should warm me up.
The tall white tub is unusually shaped: square and narrow but deep, with a built-in step inside. I can’t lie down in it like in my oval tub at home, but I can sit on the step and have the water cover me up to my neck. It’s actually more comfortable this way, I decide, closing my eyes as the heat of the water seeps into me, chasing away the chill and the tension in my muscles. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe my current state as relaxed, but I’m definitely feeling better.
If I weren’t here against my will, I’d almost consider this a vacation.
“You like the Japanese tub?” a familiar deep voice murmurs behind me, and my eyes snap open as strong hands descend on my shoulders, massaging my slick skin. Instantly, my pulse jumps, the relaxed feeling giving way to the confusing mix of anger, longing, and fear that I always experience in Peter’s presence.
Twisting around, I wrap my arms around my torso as I pull out of his reach. He’s seen me naked a hundred times, but I’m still conflicted about this intimacy between us, still acutely aware of the sheer wrongness of it all. Because if our relationship was twisted before, it’s doubly so now that my stalker—the man who waterboarded me at our first meeting—is my captor.
I’m completely in his power, and we both know it.
He stands by the tall tub, his big, sun-bronzed hands resting on the porcelain edge. The sleeves of his thermal shirt are rolled up, exposing the tattoos decorating his left arm. The ink goes from the wrist all the way up to his shoulder, the intricate designs flexing with each ripple of his well-defined muscles. His thick dark hair is mussed, as if he just ran his fingers through it, and his hard jaw is shadowed by a hint of stubble.
He looks all kinds of dangerous, and so uncompromisingly male that my insides tighten. Sexy is too weak of a word to describe Peter Sokolov; what he possesses is pure animal magnetism, a raw, harshly masculine appeal that speaks to something disturbingly primitive within me.
With effort, I shut the mental door on that thought and scoot back as far as the tub allows. “Please go away. I’m bathing.”
“I can see that.” His gaze travels over my body before returning to my face, his metallic eyes dark with hunger. “So what?”
“So leave me alone.” I do my best to hold his stare without flinching. “Unless privacy isn’t something your prisoners are allowed?”
His eyes narrow, his fingers tightening on the edge of the tub. Silkily, he says, “My prisoners aren’t allowed many things, baths included. My woman, however, can do what she wants—as long as she understands one simple fact.”
“And what’s that?”
“That she’s mine.” He steps back, and before I can respond, he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor before taking off his socks. Then he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans.
I suck in a breath, my arms tightening around my breasts. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He pushes down his jeans and steps out of them, then does the same thing with his briefs, revealing a thick, hard cock that curves up to his ridged abdomen. The sight floods me with adrenaline even as unwelcome heat gathers between my legs.
I can’t do this with him. Not again.
“I’m not having sex with you.” Water sloshes over the rim of the tub as I stand, no longer caring that he’s seeing me naked.
I have to get out, get away.
Peter catches my arm before I can swing my leg over the rim, and then he steps into the tub, his big body crowding me in the small square space as he pulls me back down into the water. More water sloshes over the rim, displaced by his weight, and I gasp as I find myself ensconced on Peter’s lap, my back pressed against his chest and his erection nestled between my ass cheeks. Panicked, I begin struggling, and he loops an arm around my ribcage, holding me in place.
“Oh, ptichka…” His voice is gently mocking in my ear. “Who said anything about sex?”
His teeth graze over my earlobe, and his free hand cups my breast, his thumb stroking possessively over my hard, aching nipple. I freeze, clutching at the muscled band of his arm as my heart drums against my ribs. I’m not afraid of him as much as I’m terrified of my own reaction, of the way my body melts and softens at his touch. And this is so much more than touch. Peter’s cock is like a steel pole between my ass cheeks, his balls are pressing against my sex, and his thumb is torturing my nipple as his tongue invades my ear, making me shiver with helpless pleasure.
We might not be having sex by the strict definition of the word, but the net effect is just as devastating.
“Peter, please…” I resume struggling, desperate to get away before I lose sight of what matters. The water makes our bodies slippery, enhancing the erotic sensation of skin rubbing against skin as I tug futilely at his arm. “Please, stop.”
“Stop what?” His breath heats my neck as his hand leaves my breast and travels lower, to where my muscles are coiled tight, my flesh pulsing and aching for his touch. “This”—he licks the outer shell of my ear, sending goosebumps down my side—“or this?” His callus-roughened fingers part my folds and press against my clit as his middle finger dips into me, pushing in to the first knuckle. My nails dig into his forearm, my inner muscles clenching greedily at the shallow intrusion, and he chuckles as a faint moan escapes my lips. I want to tell him to stop all of it, but my mind goes blank as his fingers move farther back, past my sex. Oh, God, surely he’s not—
His finger finds the tight ring of muscle between my cheeks and presses on the tiny opening. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs, his voice dark and sinfully soft as I tense at the stinging pressure. “Maybe it’s this you want me to stop. Am I right, ptichka?” The pressure on my anus eases as his finger rubs the tightly clenched flesh, as if soothing the attempted violation. “Are you a virgin here, my love?”
The endearment confuses me nearly as much as the foreign sensations rocketing through my body. Something almost like sympathy warms his deep, crooning voice, yet I can hear the lust in it too, a hunger tinged with dark possessiveness. He likes it, the possibility that he’d be my first in this, and the knowledge intensifies the coiling tension inside me, the treacherous heat that thrums low in my core. I shouldn’t find this intriguing, shouldn’t want it in any way, but I can’t deny a certain perverse curiosity. At one point, when George and I were still dating, I brought up the idea of anal sex, but George seemed disinterested and we never discussed it again.
I am a virgin in this regard, but if I admit that to my captor, I probably won’t be for long.
Gathering the crumbling pieces of my willpower, I yank at his tormenting hand with all my strength. “Just stop.”
To my surprise, Peter complies, withdrawing his hand and lifting his other arm. “Go then.” His voice is tight. “Get out.”
I scramble out of the tub, my legs shaking. My wet feet slide on the cool tile as I rush out of the bathroom, barely pausing to grab a towel on the way, and it’s not until I’m standing in the bedroom, fully dressed and with the towel wrapped around my wet hair, that my heart slows its frantic beating.
He let me go. I should be glad for the reprieve, but I feel strangely unsettled, frustrated in more ways than one. Once again, my tormentor is pretending like I have a choice, like this is a normal relationship where I can say no. And maybe I can—for a while, at least. So far, he’s never physically forced me. But I don’t delude myself. He can do whatever he wants with me, and eventually, I will end up in his bed, either through more subtle forms of coercion or my own lack of willpower.
I’d almost rather he forced me—because then I could pretend too.
I could imagine I’m normal and sane, a woman who hates the man who ruined her life instead of craving him.