Sara

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The first two weeks are the toughest. I cry almost every day, my anger and despair so intense I want to yell and throw things. But I don’t. Instead, I walk around Peter on eggshells, determined to avoid further punishment—and to make sure my captor lets me keep in contact with my parents.

I still don’t understand what happened that night, how that blowjob broke me so completely. Sex with Peter has always had an element of darkness, but I thought that I could handle it, that I was used to the rollercoaster of fear, shame, and need. But that night was something different, something more perverse… something that cracked me open and twisted me up inside.

That night, I danced with Peter’s inner monster, and in the process, discovered one in me.

He hasn’t touched me like that since, though each time we have sex, I sense the desire in him, the need to dominate and torment. It’s there no matter what he does, no matter how tenderly he treats me. It’s part of him, this darkness, this urge to punish and avenge. He might fight it, but it’s there—because regardless of what Peter says, the past does influence our present.

He’ll never forget my husband’s role in the massacre of his family, and I’ll never get past what he did to George.

The good news is that we’re back to using condoms. I don’t know if Peter saw the wisdom in avoiding extra complications at this stage of our fucked-up relationship, or if he’s actually respecting my wishes, but despite the copious amount of sex we’re having daily, there haven’t been any further slip-ups. Still, I anxiously count the days until my period, and when it arrives, two and a half weeks into my captivity, I sob with relief, for once grateful for the cramps and the discomfort. Peter doesn’t seem nearly as pleased, but when we resume having sex after the worst of my symptoms are over, he continues to use protection.

Another positive is that my failed escape attempt hasn’t lost me any outside contact privileges. Every afternoon, Peter lets me watch the recordings from my parents’ house, and every couple of days, he lets me call them. The calls are always brief, both as an extra precaution against the FBI tracing them and because there’s not much I can say. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m jetting around the world with my lover, happily oblivious to the danger he presents and to my responsibilities back home. Pretty much all I can do on those calls is assure my parents that I’m fine and inquire after their well-being before swiftly hanging up to avoid their endless questions and entreaties.

“You know, you can elaborate on our love affair a little,” Peter says after listening to the calls for about a week. “Give them some color to make it seem more authentic.”

“Really? Should I tell them how often you fuck me, or describe how big your cock is?”

Peter grins at my sarcasm—the one bit of defiance he doesn’t mind on occasion. “If you want,” he says, leaning back on the couch. “Or you can say that I make breakfast for you every day. I’m no expert on parents, but that seems like something they’d appreciate more.”

I bite back another sarcastic remark and do as he suggests on the next few calls, telling my parents about some of the little things Peter does for me. It can’t be anything that would point to our location, so I stick to more personal stuff, like the fact that he’s a great cook and his back rubs are amazing. Neither is a lie; now that we’re settled in the new place, Peter is back to making gourmet meals for me, and I’m beyond pampered with daily massages. I think it’s because he can’t keep his hands off me, and since we can’t have sex twenty-four-seven, he settles for touching me in other ways, using every opportunity to stroke and rub me from head to toe. Especially toe. I’m beginning to suspect my captor might have a little foot fetish, given how often he gives me the best foot rubs of my life.

I don’t tell my parents about the foot rubs—despite my sarcastic query, I’m not comfortable discussing anything remotely sexual with them—and I also keep quiet about the more intimate ways he takes care of me, like brushing my hair and washing me in the shower. It’s like I’m his human doll, something between a child and a sex toy. He did that back home as well, but I worked so much it was more of an occasional thing. Now, however, it’s a daily occurrence, and though I should probably find that kind of attention disturbing, I enjoy it too much to object.

I’ve been self-sufficient and independent for so long it feels good to let Peter baby me.

Of course, no amount of pampering can make up for losing my life and the job that defined me. I went from working upward of eighty hours a week to total leisure, and I have no idea how to fill that extra time. Peter takes up some of it—now that I’m always within his reach, he fucks me two or three times daily—and with the fresh mountain air, I sleep more, at least nine or ten hours a night. I also share leisurely meals with Peter and his men, and weather permitting, I go on long walks with him or whoever he assigns to guard me.

It’s not a bad routine, and we do have books and movies, but three weeks in, I’m ready to climb walls.

“Don’t you feel cooped up?” I ask Peter during one of our morning walks. The air is chilly, but fortunately, it’s neither rainy nor windy, as was the case for the last few days—another reason for my aggravation. “I mean, I know you work on your laptop, but still…”

Peter shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’m enjoying this downtime. It’s rare, so my guys and I take advantage while we can. We have a big job coming up, so we won’t be resting for long.”

“What kind of job?” I ask, driven by a dark curiosity. “Another assassination?”

He stops and gives me an even look. “Do you really want to know?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yes. I do.” It’s not as if I’m ignorant of what Peter is or what he does. I experienced his lethal skills firsthand the night we met. If some drug lord paid him and his team an obscene amount to take out another dangerous criminal, I might as well hear all about it.

If nothing else, it might be entertaining, in a horror flick/James Bond thriller kind of way.

“There’s a banker in Nigeria who’s stepped on some toes,” Peter says, reaching over to take my hand as he resumes walking. “One of those toes hired us to take care of the problem.”

“A banker? That doesn’t sound like someone who’d require your particular skillset.” Or like the ruthless crime lord I pictured. Not that I delude myself that Peter’s job is something noble. Still, some naïve part of me must’ve been hoping that most of his targets are at least somewhat deserving of what comes their way.

“This particular banker has a small army and pretty much owns the little town he lives in, as well as most of the local law enforcement,” Peter explains as we head toward a narrow trail I never noticed before. “By all indications, he’s one of the richest men in Nigeria, and he didn’t get there by making car loans.”

“Oh.” I readjust my mental image of the man. “So he’s not a nice guy?”

A humorless grin flashes across Peter’s face. “You could say that. At last count, he’s murdered over a dozen of his opponents and tortured or maimed at least fifty more, not counting their families. The man who hired us is a cousin of one of the victims; his daughter was gang-raped to teach his family a lesson.”

Horror constricts my throat, and I’m suddenly savagely glad Peter is going after this monster.

Glad and irrationally worried, because this is far more dangerous than I thought.

“How will you…?” I stop, not knowing how to phrase it.

“Get to him?”

I nod, glancing up at his coolly amused face. “Yes.”

“The usual way. We’ll find out everything we can about his security, learn his routines, and when the time is right, we’ll strike.”

I push down the irrational bubble of fear in my chest. Peter and his guys are highly trained, and in any case, it’s stupid to worry about the safety of the assassin who abducted me. Instead, I focus on what’s most relevant to my situation. “So you’re going to be gone for a while?”

“No, not unless something goes wrong. Anton and Yan will fly over there next week for reconnaissance, but Ilya and I will only get involved in the final stages of the operation. I’m guessing that will be in a week or two, and I shouldn’t be gone for more than a couple of days.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “What about me? Are you going to leave me here while you go to Nigeria?”

“Yan will stay behind with you,” Peter says, turning off the trail toward a clearing as I try to hide my disappointment. Despite what he told me the day of the storm, I haven’t completely given up on the idea of escape. Yes, he showed me that one cliff, and during our walks, I’ve seen a few more, but that doesn’t mean the entire mountain is impassable. There might be a way down that Peter doesn’t want me to know about, and given enough time and freedom, I might find it. What I would do afterward—how I would stay out of Peter’s clutches even if I made it back home—is a different matter, but I need to focus on one problem at a time.

I have to have some hope, or the despair will swallow me whole.

“Don’t you need your entire team?” I ask, doing my best to sound only mildly interested. “I thought you guys operated as a unit.”

“We do, but we’ll adjust.” Peter shoots me a sardonic look as we enter the clearing. “Don’t worry, ptichka. We won’t leave you stranded here alone.”

I don’t respond, because there’s no point—and because we’ve reached our destination: a cliff with a magnificent view of the lake below.

“Wow.” I exhale, taking in the stunning scenery as we stop a few feet from the cliff’s edge. “How gorgeous.”

After the rain of the past few days, the air is crystal clear, and the sky is a perfect pale blue, without a cloud in sight. In the absence of wind, the lake below us is so still it looks like a giant mirror, reflecting the majestic mountains surrounding it.

If I weren’t here against my will, I’d think it’s the prettiest place on Earth.

“Yes, gorgeous,” Peter agrees, his voice unusually husky as his hand tightens on mine, and I turn to see his metallic gaze burning with hunger. My heart skips a beat as answering heat ripples through my body, chasing away the high-altitude chill.

It’s always like this now. One look, one touch, and I’m a goner. Even when we’re just holding hands, my heart beats a little faster, and when he looks at me like this, my bones turn soft and liquid, my body quickening with arousal.

Flushing, I pull my hand out of his grasp and step back to avoid swaying toward him. We had sex less than two hours ago, and I’m still sore. It’s disturbing how much I want him and how little control I have over my response. The chemistry between us has always been explosive, but ever since that blowjob, there’s something different about my desire, something that seems rooted in the very wrongness of it all.

No. I force the thought away, refusing to give in to it. Peter was wrong. I don’t want to be his captive. This isn’t a sexual game we’re playing; it’s my life, my future. Everything I’ve worked for is gone, stolen by the man looking at me with those burning silver eyes. Whatever twisted cravings he’s awakened in me, I’ll never be okay with this forced relationship.

I can’t be.

Yet as he reaches for me, drawing me back toward him, I don’t resist. I don’t fight as he bends his head and crushes his lips against mine. The fire sweeping through my veins burns away all reason, all morality and common sense. My fingers tangle in his hair, my body molding against his, and as he backs me up against a tree, I give in and embrace the darkness, letting my own inner monster roam free.