Peter

---

Sara is standing by the helipad as we land, her slender figure small and fragile next to Yan’s solid frame. My chest squeezes at the sight, my longing for her painfully sharp, and it’s all I can do not to grab her as soon as our helicopter skids touch the ground. Instead, the first thing I do upon jumping out of the chopper is help Ilya out. The wound where the bullet grazed his skull is no longer bleeding, but he’s still weak from loss of blood and more than a little concussed.

If the banker’s mistress had used something other than a pearl-handled .22 revolver and had better aim, we’d be bringing him home in a body bag.

My overworked shoulder burns and my bruised ribs ache as Ilya leans on me—my bulletproof vest stopped two bullets during our escape—but I don’t complain. I’m lucky. Fuck, all three of us are lucky. The shit definitely hit the fan, and it was spectacularly shitty. Between the banker’s mistress finding the revolver under the mattress and some vigilant guard hearing the gunshot, our way out of the compound was as rough as the way in was smooth.

On a scale of one to ten, this job ended up as a seven—not as bad as some, but definitely worse than others.

“Here, I got him,” Yan says, stepping in to support Ilya, and I step aside, letting him help his brother. Anton is coming out of the chopper behind us, but I pay him no attention. He caught some shrapnel from the grenade in his arm and shoulder, but I know he’ll be fine. Instead, I focus on the one person I can’t live without.

Sara.

My beautiful little songbird.

The wind is blowing her chestnut hair around her face, the sun highlighting shades of red within the rich brown waves. Her gaze is solemn as she stares at me, her face devoid of all expression. Yet I sense her longing, feel it deep within my bones.

She might not admit it, but she needs me.

She feels our connection, too.

Five long strides, and I scoop her up, lifting her into my arms as I crush my mouth to hers. Behind us, Anton lets out a low wolf whistle, but I tune him out. I don’t give a fuck what the guys think, don’t care that they see my weakness. Nothing matters but the way her slim arms fold around me, and the sweet, hot burn as I taste her lips. The minty flavor of her breath, the slick glide of her tongue, her warm Sara scent—I absorb it all, filling the emptiness inside me, pushing the darkness of my world away.

I don’t deserve her, but I have her.

She’s mine to love and cherish, mine to hold.

I don’t know how long I kiss her, but by the time I lift my head, the others are already entering the house. Reluctantly, I lower Sara to her feet, but I can’t bring myself to let go of her.

“Did you miss me, ptichka?” I ask softly, my hands resting on her supple waist. “Did you worry when I was gone?”

The sun brings out the greenish flecks in her soft hazel eyes, highlighting the turmoil within them. “I…” She licks her kiss-swollen lips. “I didn’t want to see you dead.”

“So you’ve said. But did you miss me?”

She gives me a tortured look, then pushes at my chest, stepping out of my hold. “I have to go,” she says tightly. “Ilya’s head won’t stitch itself.”

Turning, she runs into the house, and I follow, both disappointed and encouraged.

She’s not yet ready to admit it, but sooner or later, I will break her.

I will make her love me, no matter what it takes.

---

Sara follows the Ivanov twins into Ilya’s room, and I go into our bedroom to take a shower before I crash. I washed up on the plane, but I still feel the urge to scrub off all the violence and death.

I don’t want the ugliness of my world to taint Sara in any way.

It takes me over twenty minutes to shower and change—with the numbing effects of adrenaline wearing off, my sore muscles and bruised ribs object to every movement—and by the time I get to Ilya’s room, Sara is halfway done with his stitches. I stop in the doorway and watch her work, enjoying the tiny frown of concentration on her face. I had cameras installed in her office at the hospital, so I’m intimately familiar with that expression. She’d often wear it when taking notes on her patients or reading some new study that had come out in her field.

“Hand me that gauze,” she tells Yan when she’s done, and I grin at her authoritative tone. My little bird is in her element, and for the first time in weeks, I see a hint of her former spark. Yan was right to suggest this; not only is having Sara take care of Ilya’s wound infinitely safer for us, but it’s good for her mood, too.

Her movements are quick and efficient as she bandages Ilya’s head, and my teammate closes his eyes, looking blissed out as the painkillers we gave him earlier kick in.

“Any other injuries?” Sara asks, glancing over her shoulder at me and Yan.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” Yan says. “I know Anton caught a little shrapnel, so you might want to take a look at him. I think he’s in his room.”

She nods and gets up. “What about you, Peter?”

I want her hands on me, so I shrug and promptly wince from the movement. “Just some scrapes and bruises,” I say, doing my best to sound stoic but in pain.

Yan, who’s seen me walk around with broken bones without a peep, gives me an “are you fucking kidding?” look, but is smart enough not to say anything as Sara frowns and comes up to me.

“Show me,” she orders, reaching for my shirt, but I catch her slender wrists before she can start an examination right then and there.

“How about we go to our room so I can sit down?” I suggest, ignoring Yan’s open eye roll. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”

Sara frowns up at me, apparently divining my agenda. “I still have to examine Anton. Here, sit.” Twisting her wrists out of my hold, she grabs my hand and leads me to a chair in the corner as Yan—the cock-blocking bastard—snickers quietly.

“Let me see,” Sara says, deftly pulling my shirt up over my head, and I wince for real as the movement pulls at my sore shoulder.

It’s all worth it, though, because in the next moment, Sara’s cool, gentle hands press against my torso, carefully feeling each rib for breaks. Her touch should hurt, but as her delicate fingers glide over my bruises, all I feel is a surge of warmth, mixed with an aching tightness in my groin.

“Does this hurt?” she murmurs as her hands move up to my shoulder, and I shake my head, mesmerized by the green striations in her soft hazel eyes.

“It’s just—” I clear my throat. “Just muscle soreness, I think.”

“Hmm.” Carefully, she lifts my arm and moves it in a circular motion. “No pain like this?”

“No.” I breathe in deeply, inhaling her sweet scent. “Just some soreness.”

“Okay.” She gently lowers my arm and, to my disappointment, steps back. “Looks like you’re right—it’s just some bruising.”

“I also scraped my back,” I say, turning to show her. “Might need to be bandaged.”

Sara leans in, her hands grazing my shoulders before moving down to mid-back, where I feel the faint stinging.

“This?” she asks, touching the wounded area lightly, and I nod, though the pain is barely noticeable.

“It looks like it’s already healing, so no bandage required,” Sara says as I turn back to face her. “I’m guessing someone already cleaned it?”

“Anton did that on the plane,” I admit grudgingly. For once, I wish my team and I weren’t so well versed in first aid. “Are you sure you don’t need to bandage it?”

“No. It will heal better like this. Anything else?”

I lift my hands to show her the scrapes on the bottom of my palms, and Yan bursts out laughing.

“What do you want her to do with that? Kiss it and make it better?” he says in Russian, ignoring my furious glare. “Seriously, man, you want to indulge in doctor-patient play, do it later. Let her finish treating actual wounds first.”

Sara frowns at us both before asking Yan, “What did you just say?”

“I told him that Anton needs your attention,” Yan replies, still grinning. “And that he shouldn’t hold you up with his kinky sex games.”

Sara’s face pinkens, and she turns away, grabbing the first aid kit to stuff the gauze and other supplies back in. “I’ll go take a look at Anton right now,” she says stiffly, and hurries out of the room without looking at either one of us.

I get up and put my shirt on. “I’m going to smash your fucking face into your skull at training tomorrow,” I tell Yan grimly. “As soon as I get some sleep, you’re going to be eating your own teeth.”

The asshole just laughs as I stalk out of the room, following Sara, and even Ilya seems to have a smile on his face as I loudly slam the door behind me.

Anton better not enjoy Sara’s ministrations as I just did.

I’ll kill that motherfucker if he does.