53
Sara
When I wake up again, this time without the thick bandage across my eyes, Peter is there, sitting on a chair next to my bed with a computer on his lap. He looks exhausted, more weary than I’ve ever seen him. Dark shadows circle his bloodshot eyes, and his stubble-covered cheeks are hollow, as though he’s lost some weight. He’s working on the laptop, but the moment I stir, his gaze snaps to mine like metal to a magnet.
“You’re awake.” His voice is hoarse as he sets his laptop aside and stands. “How are you feeling, ptichka? Do you need anything? Here, drink some water.” He picks up a cup with a straw from the table next to my bed and bends over me, helping me to a half-sitting position as he presses the straw against my lips.
I’m still a little woozy from the drugs, and I gratefully suck down most of the water. “How long have I been under?” I croak out when he takes the cup away.
Even after drinking, my throat feels like it’s been scraped with sandpaper, my mouth so dry my tongue keeps sticking to my cheeks.
“Three days,” Peter answers, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “The doctors thought it would speed your healing.”
I run my tongue over my chapped lips, feeling the painful swelling on one side. Now that I’m more awake, I realize there’s still a bandage across my forehead—I can feel it pressing down on my eyebrows—and my left shoulder is stiff and sore. “How bad is it?” I ask, wincing as I try to move.
Peter’s jaw flexes. “A shard of glass cut a deep gash across your forehead, and you dislocated your left shoulder. Luckily, you had a seatbelt on, and the airbag absorbed most of the impact from the crash. Still, you’re bruised all over, including over most of your face.” His voice roughens as he speaks, his own face tightening with pain.
Blinking against the sudden sting of tears, I carefully reach up with my right hand, feeling the bandage across my forehead. I should probably worry about how I’ll look with an ugly scar, but all I can focus on is the anguish in Peter’s silver gaze.
I hurt him, this lethal, indomitable man.
I hurt him when he’s been so badly hurt already, when suffering is all he’s ever known.
“It won’t leave a scar,” he says hoarsely, following the movement of my hand. “They have the best plastic surgeons here, and they’re going to fix it. I promise you, my love—I’m going to make it right.”
I stare at him, my eyes burning with an onslaught of emotions. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the painkillers, but I can’t stand the pain in his gaze, can’t bear the knowledge that I hurt him. Because no matter what I’d like to tell myself, I’m fiercely glad to see him, so relieved he wasn’t killed I want to fall to my knees and cry.
If I had to choose between him and my freedom at this moment, I would give up everything to have him in my life.
A knock on the door is followed by two nurses entering the room, and I suck in a ragged breath as Peter rises to his feet.
“Wait!” Ignoring a wave of dizzying pain, I sit up, grabbing his tattooed wrist. “Stay with me… Please, Peter, stay.”
He immediately sits down, covering my hand with his big palm. “Of course.” His voice is deep and soft, as warm as the dark flame in his gaze. “Anything you wish, my love.”
He stays with me while the nurses change the bandage on my head, and when they try to shoo him away, claiming I need rest, I beg him to stay and hold me. I know it makes no sense, but I’m past all attempts at sense and reason. I can’t give up on trying to escape—if nothing else, I owe it to my future child and my parents—but right now, I need Peter with me.
I want to crawl into his arms and never leave.
He stays with me throughout the rest of the day and all of the following night, spooning me gently while I sleep, and when I wake up the next morning, I chase away the nurses and he helps me shower before settling me on his lap to watch TV.
I cling to him like that for the next two days, unable to let go, and he lets me, though he must think it strange. There’s so much left unsaid between us, so many things still unresolved, but all I care about at the moment is that I have him.
He’s mine to love and hate, no matter what.
To my annoyance, I heal slowly, the gash on my forehead requiring another surgery to minimize the scar and my shoulder paining me with every move. After another week at the clinic, however, I refuse to stay in my room all day, and Peter nearly kills the doctor who allows me to get up and walk down the hallway unsupervised.
Or at least, unsupervised by him.
I’m not the only one behaving irrationally after the accident. From what the nurses have told me, Peter hasn’t let me out of his sight for more than a few minutes since arriving at the clinic. He even tries to accompany me to the bathroom on the pretext that the painkillers make me dizzy. When I categorically refuse, he insists that at least one of the nurses be present, so he can be informed immediately if something goes wrong. He has to know this level of concern is not entirely sane, but like me, he can’t seem to help himself.
“I have to know you’re safe. I have to see you, touch you at all times,” he explains grimly when I assure him that I’m feeling better, and it’s okay to leave me for an hour for a business meeting with his men.
“You’re losing it,” Anton told him in front of me yesterday when Peter put off an important call with a potential client so he could be there for my bandage change. “Sara has eight nurses looking after her, and at least four doctors. Do you really think she needs you there?”
I actually do, but I remained silent, not wanting to add to our mutual madness. I’m pretty sure Peter hasn’t been neglecting his responsibilities to the team—whenever I wake up, I find him on his laptop or discussing business with his men—but the nurses have told me that all the Russians’ meetings have been held in the room next to mine while I sleep, with Peter looking in on me every ten minutes.
“Your husband is so devoted to you,” a young German nurse gushes when Peter leaves her to watch me while he showers. “I wish my fiancé was this crazy about me.”
I’m tempted to correct her, to tell her that Peter is my kidnapper, not my husband, but I can’t bring myself to burst her bubble. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. The doctors and the nursing staff at this clinic must be paid exceptionally well for their discretion, because no one I’ve spoken to so far has been willing to call the authorities on my behalf. Not that I’ve tried all that hard to convince them. Not only am I pathologically incapable of being apart from my captor, but I also feel terrible that I already landed Yulia in hot water.
I desperately hope Peter won’t add her or Lucas to his list.
I consider talking to him about it, explaining that they’re in no way to blame for my accident, but whenever Peter’s men bring up Cyprus or the Kents, he gets such a hard, dangerous look in his eyes that I don’t dare press the issue. For the moment, Peter seems focused solely on my health, and I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.
I can’t have my dark knight going on another rampage—not when it’s all my fault.
In general, we haven’t spoken about my escape attempt or the events preceding it. Neither one of us can bear to bring it up. I don’t know if Peter still intends to force a child on me, or whether he even knows that himself. Either way, he hasn’t touched me—not in any sexual way at least.
I was glad at first—I was definitely in no condition to have sex those first few days—but now that I’m feeling better, I’m starting to wonder. My captor still wants me; I can feel his erection when I lie in his embrace. But he doesn’t do anything about it, doesn’t so much as kiss me on the lips. Even after I expressly cleared it with the doctors, he abstains, and I know it’s because he blames himself for the crash. We might not have talked about what happened, but it’s there between us, my injuries a constant reminder of what occurred that night. I see the torment in his eyes when he looks at my fading bruises, the same anguished guilt that consumed me after George’s accident.
What happened may have brought us closer, but it’s tearing Peter apart inside.