Sara

---

I wake up to a peculiar mixture of wellbeing and malaise, and it takes a solid minute to recall why.

Peter.

He left for Nigeria this morning after making love to me all night.

It feels surreal now, like a dream I’m waking up from. I can’t believe I came on to him like that, and then what followed… Groaning, I roll over onto my side and swing my legs off the bed. My stomach is cramping in full force, and when I get to the bathroom, I’m not surprised to discover that my period is starting. What does shock me is that we again forgot condoms last night, and no alarm bells rang in my mind.

It’s like I subconsciously want to get pregnant.

No. I shove away the horrifying thought. I definitely do not want a child like this. I just wasn’t thinking clearly last night. After listening to the men talk about the dangers they’ll face, I was so sick with worry, and so desperate to distract myself, I all but attacked Peter, seducing him despite how shitty I was feeling. I’m pretty sure he would’ve left me alone last night—he’s always considerate when I feel ill—but I needed a distraction, and that’s precisely what I got. By my second orgasm, I forgot all about Nigeria and not feeling well, and by the fourth, I could barely recall my own name.

I’m in desperate need of a shower, so I ignore the twisting discomfort in my stomach and step into the stall to wash from head to toe. Then I towel off, brush my teeth, and trudge back into the bedroom to get dressed. To my surprise, I discover a glass of water and Advil on the dresser—Peter must’ve left them there for me this morning.

Feeling pathetically grateful, I swallow the medicine and lie down, waiting for the worst of the discomfort to pass. It’s stupid, but I already miss my captor… miss his attentiveness and care. I know it’s just because I’m feeling low, but I want him here to rub my belly, to hold me and make me feel like I’m the center of his world.

I want him here and not halfway around the world, where bullets fly and bombs explode.

No. No, no, no. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. The anxiety I thought I banished returns with a toxic blast, the panic tightening my chest and throat. It’s stupid, utterly irrational, but I don’t want to see my tormentor dead. I can’t even imagine it. His impact on my life is so absolute, so all-encompassing, I can’t picture it without him.

I don’t want to picture it.

My chest squeezes even tighter, and I focus on my breathing, trying to relax my tense muscles and slow my wildly beating pulse. I tell myself that Peter will be fine, that he can handle whatever comes his way. Danger is his comfort zone, assassinations his chosen profession. There’s no reason to think that something will go wrong, no reason to imagine he will not return.

Except he got hurt on that Mexico job.

No. Breathing deeply, I force away the insidious reminder. It’s stupid to worry just because of a one-time slip. Over the years, Peter has done plenty of dangerous jobs without getting hurt.

In fact, he killed my husband and his three guards without getting so much as a scratch.

My stomach roils, worsening my cramps, and my throat fills with bile at the recollection. How could I have let myself forget, even for an instant, what kind of man Peter is and what he’s done? Up here on this mountain, my old life may seem less real, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

It doesn’t mean the husband I loved did not exist.

Closing my eyes, I focus on George and the happy memories we had together. There were so many: our first dates, the trip to Disney World, the barbecues at my parents’ house… My parents loved him, thought the world of him, and for years, so did I. We laughed and cried together, went out and stayed in. He was there for my college graduation, and I was there for his. Then things got tough: my med school and my residency, his never-ending trips abroad. And still, we were together, our love bolstered by the knowledge that our lives were just beginning, that we were young and could withstand it all.

Of course, that was before the drinking and the moods… before his secrets destroyed our marriage and brought Peter to our door.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the now-familiar pain of betrayal. I wish I could forget that part, to pretend that everything Peter told me is a lie, but I can’t deny the facts.

The boy I met in college wasn’t the man I married, and for years, I had no idea why.

Spy, not journalist. It still seems so impossible to believe. Would George have ever told me? If the tragedy at Daryevo and all the things that followed hadn’t happened, would I have ever learned about his real job? Or would he have kept me in the dark our entire lives, lying to me with a smile?

Realizing my thoughts are veering toward bitterness, I try to focus on the happy times, but it’s useless. What George and I had might’ve been good once, but it wasn’t toward the end, and I can’t forget that. I can’t wipe away the pain and the guilt, the shame and the despair I battled as our marriage slowly fell apart, crushed by the weight of his addiction. I lost my husband long before the accident that broke his skull, before Peter showed up with his deadly plans of vengeance.

I lost him when Peter lost his family; I just didn’t know it at the time.

My stomach is still cramping, but the pills are starting to kick in, so I get up and start getting dressed. I can’t bear to think about George any longer, because even the happy memories are now tainted by the knowledge that it was all a lie, that I never truly knew the man I married.

The man whose killer I’m worrying about now.

Desperate to suppress a fresh swell of anxiety, I grab the iPad Peter gave me and turn on a music video, singing along with Ariana Grande as I put on my clothes and brush my hair. The music lifts my mood slightly, and by the time I go downstairs, I’m able to greet Yan, who’s sitting behind the counter with a laptop, with a normal-sounding, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he replies, looking up from the screen as I start making myself coffee. As always, Ilya’s brother is dressed as though for work at an investment firm, his brown hair neatly styled and his face smoothly shaven. He’s smiling at me, but his green gaze remains cool as he says, “Peter left oatmeal for you on the stove.”

“Oh, thanks.” My chest squeezes with unsettling warmth as I walk over to the stove and ladle the oatmeal into a bowl. I should be used to it by now, but it still amazes me how Peter never seems to tire of taking care of me. This morning, of all days, he must’ve had so many more important things on his mind, yet he thought of me, leaving me Advil and now this breakfast.

“Any news?” I ask Yan as I sit down at the table. “Have you heard anything from them?”

The Russian shakes his head. “It’s eight more hours before they land.” His tone is light, but I catch a note of tension underneath.

In his own possibly psychopathic way, he’s worried.

My anxiety ratchets up again, my appetite disappearing, but I force myself to eat as Yan turns his attention back to the computer screen. Peter might be gone for a couple of days or more, and I can’t starve myself just because I’m worried sick. Nor does it make sense for me to worry about a man I should hate, but I’m giving up on that battle.

Foolish or not, I don’t want to see Peter hurt or dead.

Finishing my meal, I go upstairs and distract myself by reading and watching the music videos Peter downloaded onto the iPad for me. Between that and some light household chores, I keep busy until lunchtime, at which point I go downstairs again.

Yan is nowhere to be seen, so he must be either in his room or training somewhere outside. For a second, I’m tempted to repeat my escape attempt—the weather is much warmer now, and as far as I know, no storm is coming—but I decide against it. I’m still not familiar enough with the topography of this mountain, and blindly stumbling around cliffs doesn’t seem like a great idea, especially when I’m feeling shitty from my period.

At least that’s what I tell myself to explain why I push all thoughts of escape out of my mind and pop another Advil before making myself a sandwich.

---

When I come down again for dinner, Yan is there, finishing a bowl of leftover oatmeal and setting up what looks like audio recording equipment—a pair of bulky, over-the-ears headphones with an attached microphone that plugs into the computer.

“Anything?” I ask, walking over to the fridge after I take another Advil, and Yan shakes his head.

“Should be soon, though,” he says before gulping down the rest of his tea. “I’ll let you know when they land.”

“Thank you,” I say and get busy making myself a veggie stir-fry. I can feel the tension gathering between my shoulder blades, the anxiety I battled all day returning as I chop and dice vegetables before seasoning them liberally with soy sauce.

“Do you want some?” I ask Yan when he glances up to see what I’m doing, and he politely declines, putting on the headphones for what appear to be some audio reception tests. He still looks unusually tense, his expression grimly focused as his fingers fly over the keyboard of the laptop.

When the stir-fry is done, I sit down to eat and covertly observe Yan, my unease growing with each bite. By my calculations, it’s already been eight hours since breakfast, and the tension radiating off the usually suave Russian doesn’t help.

“Do you normally keep in touch with them throughout the mission?” I ask when I can’t bear the silence any longer. “Or do you wait for them to contact you?”

Yan looks up from the screen and removes the headphones. “I’m usually with them,” he says, swiveling the barstool to face me, and I realize why he seems so on edge.

He’s used to being there, in the thick of things, not watching from the sidelines.

“I’m sorry you had to babysit me,” I say, pushing my half-eaten plate away. I might as well try to get to know my remaining jailer instead of obsessing about Peter’s fate. “I’m sure you must be worried about your brother.”

Yan shrugs, an expression of cool amusement veiling the tension on his face. “Ilya can take care of himself.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Picking up my own cup of tea, I ask, “Is he your younger or older sibling?”

His amusement appears to deepen. “Older by three minutes.”

“Oh.” I blink. “He’s your twin?”

He nods. “An identical one, if you can believe that.”

“Wow. You guys don’t look anything alike.” Sipping the tea, I study his clean, vaguely aristocratic features. Now that I look closer, I see the similarities to Ilya’s bone structure, but there are quite a few differences too. Yan’s nose is straighter, and his square jaw is more proportional—not quite as chiseled as Peter’s, but still strong and nicely defined. The biggest difference, though, is the hair.

Yan has a full head of it, with not a hint of skull tattoos in sight.

“My brother’s been unlucky in some fights,” he explains, noticing my scrutiny. “Had his nose broken and his face bashed in quite a bit. Also, he did some steroids when we were young and stupid—wanted to bulk up.”

“I see.” Steroids would account for some of the differences, including that of size. Not that the man sitting before me is small by any means. He’s roughly Peter’s height, and just as muscular. His twin brother, however, is massive, as big as any bodybuilder I’ve seen.

“Is he your only sibling?” I ask, and Yan nods.

“Yeah, it’s just the two of us.”

I put down my cup. “Do you have any other family?”

“No.” His expression doesn’t change; there’s nothing to indicate either grief or regret. He might as well have been answering whether he has an extra pair of socks.

I want to dig deeper into that, but there’s another topic that interests me more. “When did you meet Peter?” I ask, leaning forward on my elbows. “You worked together before, right?”

“We did.” Yan closes the laptop, swiveling the barstool to face me fully. “Ilya and I were part of his team for three years prior to Daryevo.”

The mention of the village reminds me of the horrific images on Peter’s phone, and the stir-fry sours in my stomach. “Did you know them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. “His wife and son, I mean?”

“No.” The Russian’s green eyes are as bright as gems, and just as cold. “Anton is the only one who’s met them. The rest of us didn’t know Peter had a family until they were killed.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. Clearly, Peter didn’t trust the man sitting in front of me—at least not enough to risk exposing his most precious secret. Yet here they are, working together again.

“If I were him, I would’ve kept it on the down low too,” Yan says, a hard-edged smile spreading across his face, and I realize he caught on to my discomfort. “We don’t do families and babies in our world.”

“Really?” So it wasn’t a trust issue so much as a deviation from the accepted lifestyle on Peter’s part. “Then I take it none of you have ever been married?”

“Only Peter,” Yan confirms. “And you know how that turned out.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for my tea again. “Yes. I do.”

Yan watches me drink the rest of the tea before saying quietly, “This won’t last either, you know.”

I lower the cup. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He waves his hand, indicating me and our surroundings. “Whatever this is, it won’t last.”

I stare at him, confused. “You mean… he’ll let me go?”

“No.” The Russian’s gaze is cold again, utterly unreadable. “That he won’t do. He’s an obsessive man, and you are his obsession. He’ll never let you go, Sara. Not unless one or both of you are dead.”

I suck in a sharp breath, but before I can respond, something pings and Yan turns away, facing the laptop.

“They landed,” he says, putting on the headphones. “Now the fun can begin.”