Sara

---

It feels strange to walk to the helicopter with Peter and know that I’m leaving the mountain for the first time in four and a half months. For some reason, I didn’t do that math before, didn’t add up all the days and weeks that have been passing by, but now that I have, I realize it’s been a year since Peter came into my life… a year since he broke into my home and tortured me to get to George.

I haven’t seen my family in four and a half months, and if I don’t escape, I may never see them again.

Unless Peter gets killed, an insidious whisper reminds me, and my heart falters for a beat. Worry for my captor is a constant heavy band around my lungs, unbreakable and suffocating, and no matter how much I reason with myself, I can’t make the fear go away.

I don’t want my freedom.

Not at this price, at least.

I haven’t given up on the idea of escape, but given these new developments, my new plan is to get away in Cyprus. I don’t know what kind of security this Lucas Kent has in place, but there’s a chance he’ll be more careless than Peter and his men, less invested in keeping me away from the internet and phones. He might even have qualms about acting as my jailer, though I’m not counting on that.

Men in Peter’s world don’t seem to care about a woman’s freedom.

As the helicopter takes off, I watch our mountain retreat grow smaller in the window, but instead of hope, all I feel is dread. I should welcome this change, should seize the opportunities it offers, but while I intend to do precisely that, I can’t help wishing we weren’t going.

I can’t help fearing what happens next.

---

I don’t sleep on the plane this time—I can’t—and by the time we land on a private airstrip in Cyprus, my eyes burn from dryness and exhaustion. Peter didn’t sleep either, spending most of the thirteen-hour flight going over last-minute logistics with the twins, but he looks as fresh as the moment we stepped on the plane—and so do his men.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think all Russians are superhuman.

It’s pleasantly warm when we step off the plane, the tropical breeze carrying a hint of salt and sea. A black limo is waiting for us by the air strip, and it takes us on a scenic ride through a sparsely populated area. A couple of times, I even spot what looks like a wild donkey. The drive itself, however, makes me nervous. Not only do we drive on the left side of the road, like in the UK, but the roads are narrow and winding, occasionally stretching alongside some dangerous-looking cliffs.

Finally, we reach an automatic gate, and at the end of a long driveway, I see a Mediterranean-style house on a bluff overlooking the beach—Kent’s home, according to Peter. It’s large and beautifully maintained but not nearly as ostentatious as I expected from a wealthy arms dealer.

“Don’t let the size of the house fool you,” Peter says when I mention that to him. “Kent doesn’t like to have live-in staff, but he owns all the land as far as the eye can see, including the beach below, and he has extraordinary security measures in place. Right now, there are several dozen guards patrolling the area, and upward of fifty military-grade drones surveilling us. If Kent thought we were in any way a threat, we wouldn’t get within a kilometer of his place without getting blown into bits.”

“Oh.” I glance up, my stomach tightening. Though it’s only late afternoon in this timezone, the sky is covered with clouds, and that makes it even more threatening somehow, the fact that something so deadly is hovering above us unseen.

“Don’t worry,” Yan says, apparently divining my thoughts. He’s walking behind me and Peter, carrying a bag slung casually over his shoulder. “If Kent wanted us dead, we wouldn’t still be walking.”

“Shut it, you idiot,” his brother mutters, casting a worried glance at Peter, but his boss is not listening. Instead, he’s looking at the tall, broad-shouldered man who just opened the front door and is coming down the steps toward us.

I stare at him too, fascinated by the granite hardness of his features and the iciness of his pale eyes. His light-colored hair is worn short, almost in a buzz cut, and his skin is darkly tanned. Like Peter, he looks to be in his mid-thirties, and like my captor, he must also be former military. I can see it in the way he carries himself and the keen alertness of his gaze.

This is a man used to danger.

No, I realize as he comes closer, a man who thrives on danger.

It’s not anything specific that gives that impression—he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with no weapons or tattoos in sight—but I feel certain of my conclusion. There’s just something about men who are intimately acquainted with violence, a kind of fearless ruthlessness that civilized people lack. Peter and his teammates have it in spades, and so does this man.

“Lucas,” Peter says in greeting, stopping in front of him. “It’s good to see you.”

The blond man nods, his smile as hard as his face. “Sokolov.” His pale gaze flicks toward me. “And you must be Sara.”

I nod warily. “Hello.” For some reason, I didn’t expect an American accent, but that’s precisely what I hear in Lucas Kent’s voice as he greets Peter’s teammates.

“Congrats on your recent wedding,” Peter says as our host leads us up the stairs to the entrance. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to send a gift.”

Kent seems amused by that. “It’s probably for the best. Esguerra was barely restraining himself as is.”

“Ah.” Peter grins. “So he still has it in for your bride?”

“You know how he is,” Kent says laconically, and Peter laughs.

“Better than most, I’m sure. Where’s your new wife, by the way?”

“In the kitchen, cooking up a storm,” the arms dealer says, his tone warming slightly for the first time. “You’ll meet her in a minute.”

I listen quietly as they continue talking, mentioning people and places I don’t know. I’m curious what Kent meant when he said that his boss/partner was barely restraining himself. It sounded as if this Esguerra doesn’t like Kent’s new wife, and if so, I wonder why that is.

When we enter the house, a savory aroma of cooking meat and various spices makes my stomach growl. We ate sandwiches on the plane, but that was hours ago, and I’m starving again. I doubt Mrs. Kent’s cooking will come anywhere near Peter’s delicious concoctions, but if tonight’s dinner tastes half as good as it smells, it’ll hit the spot.

Peter and his men are flying out immediately after dinner—they have some scouting to do tonight—so Lucas directs Anton and the twins to a bathroom by the entrance before leading me and Peter to the room where I’ll be staying. As we walk through the spacious living room, I note that the interior of Kent’s mansion is modern but surprisingly cozy, with overstuffed couches and warm wood finishes softening the sharp lines of Scandinavian-inspired furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in a tremendous amount of light and display gorgeous views of the Mediterranean Sea below, while the walls are covered with pictures of a smiling couple—our host and a beautiful young blonde who must be his wife. A teenage boy frequently appears in those pictures too, his resemblance to Mrs. Kent leading me to think he’s her brother.

The gorgeous woman in those photos doesn’t look old enough to have a teenage son.

“Here we are,” Kent says as we enter a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom and another big window overlooking the sea. “Towels are in the bathroom, and sheets are already on the bed. If you need anything else tonight, talk to Yulia.”

“Yulia?” I ask.

“My wife,” Kent clarifies as Peter walks over to stand by the window. “She knows where everything is, not me.”

“Got it,” I say, doing my best to hide my sudden amusement. In Japan, I’ve become so used to Peter and the guys handling all the domestic chores that I’ve forgotten most men aren’t like that. My dad still asks my mom where he can find the ice cream scooper, and George didn’t know how to make anything except barbecue and cheese sandwiches.

At the unexpected recollection, my chest tightens, my mood darkening as I realize that I once again compared my dead husband to his killer. It’s something I’ve caught myself doing more often lately, and each time, I feel ashamed and angry with myself. The comparisons are rarely flattering to George, and that’s not fair. What George and I had was a regular relationship, with liking, respect, and a normal kind of attraction. My husband wasn’t in any way obsessed with me, and I didn’t feel for him even a fraction of the contradictory emotions Peter stirs up in me.

And that was a good thing, I tell myself as I go into the bathroom to freshen up. What I have with Peter is too intense, too overwhelming. What he’s willing to do to have me is terrifying, as is my inability to resist him despite the awful things he does. The very idea of us together is wrong on every possible level. And if I needed further proof of that, those photos on the walls today provided it. Even our host, the illegal arms dealer, seems to have a happy marriage—something I’ll never have with Peter.

I doubt Lucas Kent was ever cruel enough to keep his beautiful wife captive, much less kill her husband.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Kent is gone, and Peter is sitting on the bed, waiting for me. “Dinner is almost ready,” he says, standing up as I approach. “Lucas said to come as soon as you get changed.”

“Okay.” I grab the bag Peter packed for me and change out of my travel-worn clothes while Peter disappears into the restroom. By the time he returns, I’m dressed in one of my nicer summer dresses and have even managed to swipe on a lipgloss—a recent Yan purchase I remembered to slip into the bag.

“I’m all ready,” I say as Peter comes toward me, his metallic gaze oddly intent. “Should we go so they’re not—oh!”

Before I can do more than gasp, I find myself bent over the bed, my skirt flipped up, exposing my thong. One hard tug from Peter’s fist, and the flimsy piece of fabric tears, leaving me bare to the waist. My heartbeat jumps, my insides clenching with a mix of fear and anticipation, and then Peter is on me, bending over me as his cock presses against my folds.

His entry is rough, borderline violent. One big hand grips my throat, forcing me to arch my back as he thrusts into me, while the other one delves underneath, finding my clit. I’m not wet enough at first, and the savage thrusts burn, his thick cock like a battering ram inside me. Before long, however, his fingers find the right rhythm, and a familiar tension starts to coil in my core. His grip on my throat restricts my breathing, and my nerve endings thrum in agonized pleasure-pain, the lack of oxygen heightening all sensations. It’s too much, too intense, and I drag in shallow, gasping breaths, clutching fistfuls of blanket as he continues to hammer into me, fucking me so hard it feels like I might shatter.

And then I do, the tension cresting in a sizzling wave. White-hot pleasure explodes through every muscle in my body, making my heart feel like it’s bursting in my chest. Shaking, wheezing for air, I collapse onto the mattress as soon as Peter lets go of my throat, and I hear him groan as he pulses deep inside me in release.

For a minute, I can’t think, can only pant weakly into the blanket as he withdraws from me and steps back, but then the significance of the wetness trickling down my thighs dawns on me.

Peter didn’t use a condom again.

Scrunching my eyes shut, I silently curse myself, then Peter, and then myself again. Every other time we’ve slipped up has been at a minimally fertile time, which is why we’ve avoided consequences so far. Right now, though, I’m just about mid-cycle—and most likely ovulating.

“Can you please hand me a tissue?” I ask stiffly, opening my eyes but not moving lest I mess up the new dress. I only brought a couple of outfits with me for this trip, and I can’t afford to get one dirty the first night.

Peter walks toward the nightstand by the bed and returns with a tissue. “Here you go,” he murmurs, patting at the wetness between my legs, and I snatch the tissue from him, finishing the job myself before heading to the bathroom again. My sex is swollen and sore, and my legs are not entirely steady, but all I can focus on is that I might’ve gotten pregnant.

Pregnant with Peter’s child.

I wash myself as thoroughly as I can, even though I know it’s futile. All it takes is one sperm, not the millions that are still inside me. Fighting the urge to cry, I smooth my hair, make sure my dress still looks presentable, and step out of the bathroom.

“Sara…” Peter gets up from the bed where he was sitting again. His jaw is tight, his eyebrows drawn into a frown as he reaches for me, his fingers gently encircling my upper arms. “Ptichka, are you okay?”

“What do you mean?” I frown up at him.

“Did I hurt you?” he clarifies, his face darkened with concern. “I didn’t mean to be so rough. You just looked so beautiful and sexy that I—” He grimaces. “Well, the truth is, I lost control.”

My despair gives way to sudden anger, and furious heat climbs up my cheeks. Beautiful and sexy? Is that his excuse for this?

“Lost control?” Jerkily, I pull out of his hold. “Really? What about every other time you did this? Did you ‘lose control’ then, too?”

His silver gaze fills with remorse. “I did hurt you. I’m sorry, my love. I was rough, and I didn’t mean to be—not tonight, at least.”

“You didn’t hurt me!” My hands curl at my sides. “I mean you did, but I don’t care about that—I came, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m talking about the no-condom thing.”

His features smooth out, his expression turning carefully opaque. “I see.”

“You see what?” I glare up at him, stepping closer until I’m almost treading on his toes. He’s a head taller than me, and much, much bigger, but I’m too furious to care. “Just admit it,” I hiss. “You’re trying to get me pregnant. This was no accident, and neither was every other time we ‘forgot.’”

For a moment, I’m certain Peter will deny it, but he captures my hand in his and presses it against his chest, his eyes glittering like dark glass.

“Yes,” he says softly. “You’re right, Sara. I am trying to get you pregnant.”