15
Sara
I fall asleep in Peter’s embrace as soon as we lie down, and I wake up sometime later to the feel of him sliding into me from behind, his muscular arm looped around my ribcage to hold me still. I’m not wet enough, and the first few thrusts burn, but then his hand moves down to my sex, finding my clit, and my body softens, melting for him as the fire ignites in me again.
It takes only a couple of minutes for me to come, and he’s right behind me, his thick cock jerking inside me as he reaches his peak with a muffled groan. He holds me then, not bothering to pull out, and I fall back asleep like that, with him still buried in my body. In my dreams, he kisses my temple and tells me how much he loves me, but when I wake up in the morning, I’m alone in bed, with the bright light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
As I shower, I find traces of dried semen on my thighs—evidence that we didn’t use protection once again. I wash it off quickly, trying not to give in to the panic bubbling inside me, and get dressed to go looking for Peter.
He has to get me that pill.
He has to keep his promise.
To my surprise, he’s nowhere to be found downstairs. Neither are any of his men.
My pulse jumps, then settles into a rapid rhythm. Could it be? Could they have left me alone and gone to take care of some business? Before I let myself get too excited, I grab my boots and go outside to check if they might be training there.
Nothing.
Everyone’s gone, and so is the chopper.
“They’ll be back this afternoon,” a man’s voice says behind me, and I jump up with a startled squeak.
Spinning around, I face Ilya, who’s stepping out of the house behind me. He must’ve been in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs—the only places I didn’t check yet.
Taking a breath to settle my racing pulse, I ask, “Did Peter go too?”
The big Russian nods, his tattooed skull gleaming in the sunlight as he leans against the doorway. “He left breakfast on the stove for you.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
He goes in, and I follow him back into the house, shivering from the cold wind. I’ll definitely have to dress warmly when I make my escape, with layers and everything. And I might get the chance sooner than I expected.
With any luck, Ilya won’t be watching me too closely today.
Sure enough, he doesn’t join me for breakfast. Instead, he disappears into his room upstairs while I scarf down the oatmeal Peter left for me and then clean up. When Ilya still doesn’t return a few minutes later, I quietly go upstairs, layer on two sweaters and a parka, grab a hat, and just as quietly go downstairs. I still don’t know the area, but I can’t pass up this kind of opportunity. Dropping by the kitchen, I hurriedly grab a water bottle, a packet of peanuts, and an apple, and stuff everything into a plastic bag that I zip up in my parka.
My boots are by the front door, so I pull them on, and then I exit the house, careful not to make any noise as I close the door behind me.
I don’t take a full breath until the house is out of sight and I find the trail I saw on the west side yesterday. I keep to the side of it, ready to dive deeper into the forest at the first sign of pursuit, but none seems to be forthcoming.
Maybe my luck will hold and Ilya won’t realize I’m gone until some time from now.
The air is cold and clear as I half-walk/half-run on the trail. I’m not in good enough cardio shape to keep that pace for long, but my goal is to get as far down the mountain as I can before anyone discovers I’m missing. I don’t delude myself that I can evade a team of former Spetsnaz soldiers without a significant head start, but it’s worth a shot.
Maybe I can at least get to a phone before they catch me.
I push myself all through the morning, stopping only for a five-minute bathroom/drink break around noon. Then I resume my rushed pace, ignoring the burning in my leg muscles and my lungs. By the time the sun is at an early afternoon angle in the sky, I’m forced to slow to a walk. It’s fortunate that I’m hiking down the mountain, or I wouldn’t have lasted this long. Though the trail is wide enough for a car, it seems to have gone unused in recent years, and it’s filled with obstacles I have to navigate around, everything from fallen tree trunks to enormous pot holes and ditches filled with water. It must be because of that landslide Ilya mentioned. I’ll have to go around, through the forest, when I get to that point, but for now, the trail is easier, even with all the obstacles.
Just a little longer, I tell myself as I clamber over another fallen tree and skid down a steep part of the trail, nearly tripping over a rock as I fight to remain upright. Soon, I’ll stop to drink again and eat a snack, but not yet.
I have to get farther before they start searching for me.
I force myself to keep going for another hour, at which point I sink to the ground, exhausted. For the past twenty minutes, I’ve had the unsettling sensation that I’m being followed, but I’m pretty sure I’m just being paranoid.
My captors wouldn’t bother following me; they’d just grab me and bring me back.
Regardless, I carefully inspect my surroundings, ready to jump up and run at any moment. As I’d suspected, though, everything is quiet, the giant cedar trees swaying slightly in the chilly breeze. Relaxing, I unzip my parka and take out the plastic bag I stuffed there. Opening the water bottle, I gulp down what water I have left and then eat the peanuts and the apple I brought with me.
It’s not much, but it will suffice.
Feeling marginally better, I stand up and, for the second time today, jump up with a startled scream.
A gray, pink-faced monkey is staring at me from the trees.
Or more precisely, it’s staring at me and the apple core I left on the ground, its gaze darting between me and the potential food.
I burst out laughing, both at the expression on the monkey’s face and my own reaction. My skin is tingling from the adrenaline surge and my heart is pounding like I just got attacked by a bear, but I’m so relieved I could kiss that little pink face.
A mountain monkey has been stalking me, not a Russian mercenary.
“You can have it,” I tell the monkey, gesturing toward the apple remnants when I’m finally able to stop laughing. “It’s all yours.”
“How generous of you, ptichka,” a familiar voice drawls from behind, and I freeze, my pulse skyrocketing again.
I was wrong not to trust my instincts.
With a sinking feeling, I turn around and face the man I fled from.
Peter Sokolov is leaning against a tree, his sensuous lips curved in a sardonic smile.