Peter

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A dislocated shoulder and a gash on her forehead.

Logically, I know neither of those injuries is life-threatening, but as I look at Sara in the hospital bed, her pale face bruised all over and half-covered by a bandage, fear and rage churn in my chest, defying all attempts at logic.

The four-hour flight to Switzerland was among the longest of my life. Once we changed course, I called Lucas again, demanding more details and explanations, and though he repeatedly assured me that Sara’s condition is stable and she’s being treated by the best doctors in Europe, I didn’t fully believe him until I saw her.

Fate has never been kind to me before.

Sitting down on the edge of her bed, I carefully clasp her hand in both of mine, feeling the fragile warmth of her skin and the delicacy of her slender bones. My own hands are trembling, my emotions too extreme to be controlled.

A dog.

She nearly died because of a fucking dog.

My heart cracks in half again, the pain as intense as when I thought her dead. If the guardrail hadn’t been as strong, if the car didn’t have airbags, if the shard of glass that sliced her forehead had gone into her eye instead… I shudder, picturing all the cruel ways she could’ve died and the debilitating injuries she could’ve suffered.

And it’s all because of me.

I can’t hide from that brutal reality, can’t push away the suffocating guilt.

I wasn’t there, and Sara ran.

She stole a car and raced to freedom, so desperate to get away from me she didn’t care if she lived or died.

The fury boiling in my chest is only partially for Lucas. He’ll pay for his negligence, of course, but I can’t pretend he bears the lion’s share of blame.

That belongs solely to me.

It was my selfish need to have her, to cage her and possess her, that drove Sara to take that risk. I nearly killed the woman I love, and I don’t know how to atone for that.

I don’t know if, even now, I can let her go.

Her swollen lips part on a gentle exhalation, and I sink to my knees on the floor, cradling the back of her hand against my stubble-roughened cheek as I close my eyes. Her skin is so soft, her fingers so small compared to mine. My chest squeezes agonizingly. I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in longing and despair. Why can’t she just love me? Why can’t she accept that we belong together? There were times when I thought she might, when I was sure that she was getting close.

And maybe she was. Maybe she still might. The monster inside me snarls, demanding that I hold her, that I keep her no matter what it takes… no matter what it ultimately does to her. With time, she’ll come around, understand that we are meant to be.

That if she gives me a chance, I’ll make her happy… her and the child I so badly crave.

A faint moan jolts me out of my thoughts, and I open my eyes to find Sara’s lips moving.

“P-Peter?” she whispers, and a supernova explodes in my chest. Just that one word, and my world is a thousand degrees warmer, a million watts brighter. All the grief and pain are extinguished, the darkness gone instead of sucking at my soul.

“Yes, ptichka,” I answer hoarsely, pressing her hand against my lips. “I’m here.”

Her slender fingers twitch as I kiss them one by one. “Are you… Did everything go okay?” She sounds groggy from the painkillers. “Did anyone get hurt?”

A pang of agony stabs my chest. “No, my love. Nobody but you.”

“That’s good.” Her lips curve in a small, blissed-out smile. “I’m glad.”

I draw in a strained breath, the guilt and anguish overwhelming me again. In some ways, it would be easier if Sara hated me, if all she felt for me was loathing and fear. Then I could walk away, try to curtail my obsession so I could let her live her life while I went back to the cold emptiness of mine. But Sara doesn’t simply hate me; it’s more complex than that.

She needs me. She’s admitted it to me.

“Why did you run?” I ask raggedly, staring at the bruises on her jaw. “Is it because of what I said about the condoms? Do you dread a child with me that much?”

I have to understand what prompted her to do this.

I have to know if there’s any hope for us.

Her fingers curl in my hold. “I… yes. I mean, no. I don’t know. It’s not what I want, but maybe…” She trails off, still high on painkillers.

“But maybe?” I prompt, my heart thumping painfully in my chest.

“But maybe in a different life, I would.” Her voice is fading, turning into a cracking whisper. “In a different world, the one where I’d been born yours, it would be different. You wouldn’t be a fugitive assassin… you wouldn’t have abducted me after killing George. You’d be my husband, and I’d be your loving wife, and we could have a dog behind a picket fence… We’d take our children to the park and celebrate my parents’ birthdays… There’d be friends and barbecues and music… and you would love me, really love me… love me so much you wouldn’t steal my life.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, her words twisting inside me like a killer’s blade. It shouldn’t hurt, her drugged admission; I should be glad she wants all that with me. But all I can think about is that I’ll never truly have her, never give her the life she wants. Even if I succeed in making us a family, even if Sara warms to me more over the years, the past will always lie between us like a chasm, the lifestyle of a fugitive forever a source of strife and stress. There are no barbecues and picket fences in our future, no dogs and children playing in the yard.

She’ll love our child, but it won’t make her happy.

I could give her everything I have, and it won’t be enough.

A monitor beeps softly as Sara’s breathing evens out, and I open my eyes to find her asleep again, the painkillers helping her rest and heal.

A shallow breath escapes me, an impossible weight compressing my aching lungs.

I should get up, give my men an update and send them after Henderson, but I can’t bring myself to move.

I can’t do anything but kneel at Sara’s bedside, holding her hand as hollow darkness presses in.