Sara

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As fall progresses and the weather continues to cool, my life with Peter begins to remind me of an extended honeymoon, albeit one where we share our mountain retreat with other people. His attentiveness shows no signs of lessening, and though I keep reminding myself that I’m not here of my own free will, I can’t ignore the fact that Peter is doing his best to ensure my pleasure and comfort. Aside from his profession and the small matter of keeping me captive, Peter Sokolov is everything one could ever wish a husband to be: thoroughly domesticated and so caring I feel like a princess most days.

Every morning now starts with him bringing me breakfast in bed. Like the skilled interrogator that he is, Peter has learned everything I like and dislike when it comes to food, and he indulges me with my favorites daily. Russian-style crepes with raisins and sweet cheese, fluffy omelets, quiches, platters of exotic fruit—I get it all, plus fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee. For lunch and dinner, I’m equally spoiled, so much so that the guys have taken to begging me to claim their favorites as my own.

“You liked shashlik that time, right? Those lamb kebobs Peter made before Nigeria?” Ilya makes a scary-looking attempt at puppy eyes as he corners me in the kitchen.

At my nod, he grins and says, “Then please tell him to make them soon, okay? Just hint that you enjoy lamb in spicy sauce. Please?”

I laugh and promise to do so, as I already promised Anton with apple pie. Despite their role in my abduction, I’m starting to like Peter’s men, and I’m pretty sure they’re starting to like me. That’s a good thing as far as I’m concerned, but Peter seems to be of a different opinion. I’ve noticed him glaring at the guys when they get particularly friendly, as though he’s afraid they might steal me away.

His possessiveness is one of our main problems these days, and one evening, it boils out of control.

“Keep your fucking eyes above her neck,” he roars at Anton after I finish singing my variation of Lady Gaga’s latest hit. I dressed up for this performance, wearing one of the low-cut party dresses Yan got for me, and as Anton and Peter stand up, glaring at each other, I realize that might’ve been a mistake.

“Peter, he wasn’t doing anything,” I say, desperate to diffuse the bristling tension. “I was just singing and he was listening, that’s all.”

“He was fucking drooling, that’s what he was doing.” Peter shoves the chair between them aside. “And it wasn’t the first time, either.”

“Fuck you, man.” Anton’s dark beard quivers with rage as the two lethal men square off, fists clenched and teeth bared. “Nobody’s doing anything they shouldn’t; you’re just too fucking obsessed to see straight.”

Peter growls a response in Russian, and Yan says something too, his tone coolly amused as Ilya shakes his head, grinning. A moment later, Anton storms outside, with Peter on his heels.

Frustrated, I round on the twins. “Where are they going?” I hate it when the guys switch to Russian to hide something from me. “What did you all say?”

“Peter wants to break every bone in Anton’s face, and I suggested he do so outside, so we don’t have to make costly repairs in the house,” Yan says, grinning as widely as his brother. “It seems they listened.”

“What? They’re going to fight?”

Horrified, I rush outside and am promptly greeted by the sound of fists striking flesh. Peter and Anton are rolling on the ground, arms and elbows swinging as they batter one another. Flecks of blood fly into the air as Peter lands a particularly brutal hit, and I gasp as I catch a glimpse of savage fury on his face.

They’re not sparring; this fight is for real.

“Stop them, please,” I beg Yan and Ilya, who came out to stand next to me. “They’re going to kill each other.”

“Nah.” Yan waves dismissively. “They’ll just break a few bones. We don’t have a major job until next month, so it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Gritting my teeth, I turn to Ilya. “If you ever want shash-whatever again, you’ll stop this right now. If you don’t, I’m going to develop a lamb allergy.” I poke his massive chest with my finger. “Do you hear me?”

Yan bursts into laughter, but Ilya looks suitably worried. “All right, all right,” he mutters and starts toward the combatants.

I exhale in relief as he bravely wades into the fray, but neither Peter nor Anton respond well to his attempts to pry them apart. Before long, all three men are rolling on the ground, exchanging brutal blows, and when I turn to Yan, he holds up his hands, palms facing out.

“I’m not going near there,” he says, and I know he means it.

I’m on my own.

Desperate, I consider hosing them down with cold water, but decide to go for a more expedient solution.

“Help,” I yell at the top of my lungs and bend over, as though in pain. “Owww! Peter, help!”

It works even better than I expected. The men instantly spring apart, and Peter jumps to his feet, the fury on his face transforming into frantic worry as he rushes toward me. “What happened?” he demands, gripping my hands as his eyes scan me from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes, by you acting like a barbarian,” I snap, trying to pull away as he starts a full-blown pat-down. “Now let me go so I can see how badly you’ve damaged each other.”

His eyebrows pull together as he pauses. “You’re not hurt? You just wanted to stop the fight?”

“Of course. How would I get hurt?” I ignore Yan, who’s laughing so hard he can’t stand up straight, and head toward Anton and Ilya, who look much worse for the wear than Peter. Ilya has a split lip, and Anton’s face is already swelling up, his bleeding nose slightly off-center.

“Hey.” Peter catches my wrist before I can take more than two steps. “You’re going to treat them first?” He sounds so outraged I’m tempted to deny it—the last thing I want is to provoke another fight—but some devil makes me nod.

“They did not attack themselves.” I tug at my wrist in a futile attempt to get free. “And you don’t look hurt to me.”

If Peter thinks I’m going to reward caveman behavior with tender nursing, he’s very much mistaken.

His frown deepens, and he has the gall to look wounded as he releases my wrist. “I am hurt. See?” He tugs up his shirt to show me a red spot on his ribcage. “And this.” He displays the back of his right hand, where the knuckles are indeed beginning to look swollen.

Despite my anger, my healer’s instincts kick in. “Let me see.” Carefully, I feel around his torso—it’ll be a nasty bruise, but his ribs seem okay—and then turn my attention to his knuckles.

“Does this hurt?” I ask, pressing on the middle knuckle. Peter shakes his head, silver eyes gleaming, so I examine the rest of his hand. To my relief, I don’t feel any broken bones.

“You’ll be okay,” I say, then notice a bleeding scrape by his left ear. I’ll have to clean it in the house, where I have medical supplies, but first, I need to see about Anton’s nose and make sure Ilya didn’t get another concussion.

The guys have already gone inside, so I follow them in, ignoring Peter’s dark expression. I don’t understand what got into him. I know he’s possessive, but Anton is Peter’s friend, and as far as I can tell, he’s never acted inappropriately toward me. Nor have any of the others, though they’re virile, healthy men who’ve been without female companionship for months.

My bravado lasts until I get into the kitchen and see the extent of damage done to Anton’s face. Peter wasn’t joking about breaking every bone; he didn’t succeed, but he made a very good attempt. With the violence flaring up so suddenly, I didn’t have a chance to process the stunning brutality of the fight, but as I work to put Anton’s nose back in place, my hands begin to shake, the adrenaline spike aftermath hitting me as hard as if I’d been the one in the fight.

I’ve become complacent in the last few weeks, let all the domesticity lull me into forgetting what Peter and his men are. This wasn’t a drunken brawl at a bar, where someone might land a lucky hit or two. Peter is a trained assassin, and he went after his friend with the intent of inflicting serious damage. If I hadn’t broken up the fight, someone could’ve gotten badly hurt—killed, even.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as Anton winces at the pain of my ministrations. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“It’s okay.” His voice turns nasal as I stuff cotton into his nostrils to stop the bleeding. “Was bound to happen; bastard’s too crazy about you.” There’s no rancor in his tone; if anything, he sounds amused by his friend’s attempt to maim him out of misplaced jealousy.

“That’s right,” Peter growls, coming to stand next to me. “So do not fucking stare at her. Ever. Got it?”

To my shock, Anton’s swollen mouth curves in a bloody smile. “Got it, you crazy fucking asshole.”

I stop what I’m doing, my gaze swinging incredulously from one man to the other. Am I hallucinating, or did they just make up?

Sure enough, Peter slaps his friend’s shoulder and turns to Ilya, who’s perched on a barstool next to us, holding an ice pack against his lip. “Same goes for you and”—he gives Yan, who just joined us, a dark glare—“you.”

Both brothers nod, and Ilya says, “Got it. She’s all yours.”

Ignoring that atavistic statement, I finish taping Anton’s broken nose, give him ice packs to apply all over his face, and reach for his shirt to examine his ribcage.

“I’m fine there,” he says nasally, stopping me before I can lift the shirt more than an inch. With a wary look at Peter, he adds, “You can take a look at Ilya now, if you want.”

I frown but turn to Ilya as suggested. “Let me see this,” I say, moving the ice pack away from his lip. “Did you get hit anywhere else in the head?”

“No, just this,” Ilya says, wincing as I feel around his swollen jaw.

“All right,” I say when I conclude my examination. “You don’t have a concussion, but you still have to take it easy. Blows to the head aren’t good for your brain—just ask all the NFL players.”

“Yes, Dr. Cobakis.” Ilya smiles as much as his split lip allows. “I’ll be careful.”

I smile back at him, ignoring a snort from his brother, and then turn to Peter, who still appears to be in a dark mood.

“Let me see this,” I say, tugging him down on another barstool so I can reach the top of his ear. “Looks like you scraped some skin off there.”

Peter sits still, letting me clean and bandage the scrape before examining him for more minor injuries. By the time I’m done, my hands are steady again, the familiar work lessening the lingering shock from the explosion of violence.

Unfortunately, my newfound calm doesn’t last long. The second I put away all the medical supplies, Peter hops off the barstool and bends down to pick me up. Ignoring my startled squeak and the guys’ ribald wolf calls, he lifts me into his arms and claims my mouth with a deep, fiercely hungry kiss.

Then, holding me pressed against his chest like the prize of war he believes me to be, he heads toward the stairs.