Sara

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Tears of panic and bitter frustration roll down my face as the wheels of the jet lift off the runway, and the lights of the small airport fade into inky darkness. In the distance, I see the light clusters of Chicago and its suburbs, but before long, they disappear too, leaving me with the crushing knowledge that my old life is gone.

I’ve lost my family, my friends, my career, and my freedom.

My stomach roils with nausea as shards of glass pierce my temples, my headache aggravated by whatever Peter injected to knock me out. Worst of all, though, is the suffocating sensation in my chest, the awful feeling that I can’t get enough air. I take deep breaths to combat it, but it only worsens. The blanket is like a straightjacket, keeping my arms pinned to my sides, and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.

My tormentor carried out his threat.

He kidnapped me, and I may never see home again.

He’s not next to me now—as soon as we took off, he got up and disappeared into the back of the passenger cabin, where two of his men are sitting—and I’m glad. I can’t bear to look at him, to know that I was stupid enough to warn him when he already knew everything.

When he had that needle ready and was toying with me.

How did he know? Were there cameras and listening devices inside the hospital locker room where Karen confronted me? Or did the men Peter assigned to follow me spot my FBI tail and tell him? Or maybe he has some connections in the FBI, just like that one contact of his had in the CIA? Is that possible, or am I reaching? Either way, it doesn’t matter now; the point is, he knew.

He knew, yet he pretended not to, playing with my emotions while he waited for me to crack.

God, how could I have been such an idiot? How could I have warned him, knowing that something like this could happen? How could I have come home when I suspected—no, when I knew—what my stalker was likely to do if he learned about the impending danger? I should’ve told Karen everything when I had the chance, let her send the agents to my house while the FBI took me into protective custody. Yes, Peter might’ve still escaped, but he wouldn’t have taken me with him—not at that point, at least. I would’ve had more time to plan, to figure out the best way for me and my parents to stay safe. He would’ve most likely returned for me, but there was at least a chance the FBI could’ve protected us.

Instead, I walked right into Peter’s trap. I went home, and I let him lie to me. Let him fool me into believing that there was something human—something good—within him. “I love you,” he said, and I fell for it, buying into the illusion that we had something genuine, that his tenderness meant he truly cared for me.

I let my irrational attachment to my husband’s killer blind me to the reality of what he is, and I lost everything.

The tightness in my chest grows, my lungs constricting until every breath is a struggle. Rage and despair mix together, making me want to scream, but all I can manage is a pained wheeze, the blanket around my body as smothering as a noose around my neck. I’m too hot, too restrained; my head is pounding, and my heart is beating too fast. I feel like I’m suffocating, dying, and I want to claw at my throat, to tear it open so I can suck in air.

“Here, it’s okay.” Peter is crouched in front of me, though I didn’t see him return. His strong hands are loosening the blanket, smoothing my hair back from my sweat-dampened face. I’m shaking and wheezing, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack, and his touch is bizarrely soothing, taking away the worst of the suffocating sensation.

“Breathe, ptichka,” he urges, and I do, my lungs obeying him the way they refuse to obey me. My chest expands with one full breath, then another, and then I’m breathing semi-normally, my throat opening to let in precious oxygen. I’m still sweating, still shaking, but my pulse is slowing, the fear of suffocating disappearing as Peter liberates my arms from the blanket and hands me a man’s black T-shirt.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have a chance to grab any of your clothes,” he says, helping me pull the enormous T-shirt over my head. “Luckily, Anton stashed a change of clothes in the back. Here, you can put on these pants, too.” He guides my trembling feet into a pair of men’s black jeans, helps me put on a pair of black socks, and removes the blanket altogether, throwing it on the table next to us.

Like the T-shirt, the jeans are huge on me, but there is a belt inside the loops, and Peter tightens it around my hips, knotting it at the front like a tie before rolling up the pant legs.

“There,” he says, eyeing his handiwork with satisfaction. “That should suffice for the flight, and then I’ll get you a brand-new wardrobe.”

I close my eyes, shutting him out. I can’t bear to look at his exotically handsome features, can’t tolerate the warmth in those steel-gray eyes. It’s all a lie, an illusion. He doesn’t care for me, not really. Obsession is not love, and that’s what he feels for me: a dark, terrible obsession that ruins and destroys.

That has already destroyed my life in so many ways.

I hear him sigh before his big hands wrap around my cold palms.

“Sara…” His deep, softly accented voice feels like a caress over my skin. “We’ll make it work, ptichka, I promise. It won’t be as bad as you’re imagining. Now tell me… do you want to call your parents, explain everything to them?”

My parents? Startled, I open my eyes to gape at him. Then I realize he mentioned this before, only I didn’t register it. “You’re letting me call my parents?”

My captor nods, a small smile curving his sculpted lips as he remains crouched in front of me, his hands gently clasping mine. “Of course. I know you don’t want them to worry, with your dad’s heart and all.”

Oh God. My dad’s heart. My headache intensifies at the reminder. At eighty-seven, my dad is remarkably healthy for his age, but he had a triple bypass surgery a few years back and has to avoid stress. And I can’t imagine anything more stressful than— “Do you think the FBI spoke to them already?” I gasp in sudden horror. “Did they tell my parents I was kidnapped?”

“I doubt they would’ve had the time.” Peter squeezes my hands reassuringly, then releases them and rises to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a smartphone and hands it to me. “Call them, so you can give them your version of the story first.”

“My version of the story? And what version is that?” The phone feels like a brick in my hand, its weight magnified by the knowledge that if I say the wrong thing, I could literally kill my dad. “What can I tell them that will make this in any way okay?”

My tone is caustic, but my question is genuine. I can’t imagine what I can say to lessen my parents’ panic over my disappearance, how I can explain what the FBI is about to tell them—especially since I don’t know how much the agents will reveal.

The plane chooses that moment to hit a pocket of turbulence, and Peter sits down next to me. “Tell them you met a man… a man you fell in love with.” He covers my knee with his warm palm, his metallic gaze mesmerizing in its intensity. “Tell them that for the first time in your life, you decided to do something crazy and irresponsible. That you’re fine, but for the next few weeks, you’ll be traveling around the world with your lover.”

“The next few weeks?” A wild hope blooms inside me. “Are you saying that—”

“No. You won’t be back in a few weeks. But they don’t need to know that yet.”

The hope withers and dies, the crushing despair returning. “I’ll never see them again, will I?”

“You will.” His hand squeezes my knee. “At some point, when it’s safe.”

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

“We?” A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Are you under the impression that this is some kind of partnership? That we kidnapped me together?”

Peter’s gaze hardens. “It can be a partnership, Sara. If you want it to be.”

“Oh, really?” I push his hand off my knee. “Then turn this fucking plane around, partner. I want to go home.”

“That’s impossible, and you know that.” His bristle-darkened jaw flexes.

“Is it? Why? Because you love to fuck me? Or because you fucking love me?” My voice rises as I jump to my feet, hands balled at my sides. I can see his men in the seats behind us, their faces stony as they stare out the window, pretending not to listen, but I don’t care. I’m past embarrassment, past shame; all I feel is rage.

I’ve never wanted to hurt a living person as much as I want to hurt Peter at this moment.

My tormentor’s gaze is dark, his expression hard as he stands up. “Sit down, Sara,” he says harshly, reaching for me as the plane hits another bump and I grab at the window wall to steady myself. “It’s not safe.” He takes my arm to force me back into the seat, and my other hand acts of its own accord.

With the phone still clutched in my fist, I take a swing at him—and don’t miss, because at that moment, the plane dips again, throwing us both off-balance. With an audible thud, the phone crashes into Peter’s face, the impact of the hit jarring my bones and snapping his head to the side.

I don’t know who’s more shocked that I managed to land a blow, me or Peter’s men.

I can see their incredulous stares as Peter slowly, and very deliberately, releases my arm and wipes at the blood trickling down his cheekbone. The metal shell of the phone must’ve cut his skin; that, or the unexpected turbulence lent momentum to my blow, intensifying the force behind it.

His eyes meet mine, and my heart jumps into my throat at the icy rage shimmering in the silvery depths. Warily, I back away, the phone slipping out of my numb fingers to hit the floor with a metallic thunk.

I haven’t forgotten what Peter is capable of, what he did to me when we first met.

I can only take two steps before my back presses against the wall of the pilot’s cabin, ending my retreat. I have nowhere to run on this plane, no place to hide, and fear tightens my stomach as he steps closer, his furious gaze holding mine captive as he braces his palms on the wall on both sides of me, caging me between his muscular arms.

“I…” I should say that I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean it, but I can’t bring myself to voice the lie, so I clamp my lips shut before I can make it worse by telling him how much I hate him.

“You what?” His voice is low and hard. Leaning in, he bends his head until his lips graze the top of my ear. “You what, Sara?”

I shiver at the damp heat of his breath, my knees going weak and my pulse accelerating further. Only this time, it’s not entirely from fear. Despite everything, his nearness wreaks havoc on my senses, my body quivering in anticipation of his touch. Only hours ago, he was inside me, and I still feel the aftermath of his possession, the inner soreness from the hard rhythm of his thrusts. At the same time, I’m painfully aware of my hardened nipples poking through the borrowed T-shirt and the warm slickness gathering between my legs.

Even clothed, I feel naked in his arms.

He lifts his head, staring down at me, and I know he feels it too, the magnetic heat, the dark connection that vibrates the air around us, intensifying each moment until milliseconds feel like hours. Peter’s men are less than a dozen feet away, watching us, but it feels like we’re all alone, wrapped in a bubble of sensual need and volatile tension. My mouth is dry, my body pulsing with awareness, and it’s all I can do not to sway toward him, to remain still instead of pressing against him and giving in to the desire burning me up inside.

“Ptichka…” Peter’s voice softens, taking on an intimate edge as the ice in his gaze melts. His hand leaves the wall to cup my cheek, the rough pad of his thumb stroking over my lips and making my breath catch in my throat. At the same time, his other hand clasps my elbow, his grip gentle but inescapable. “Come, let’s sit down,” he urges, pulling me away from the wall. “It’s not safe to be up and about like this.”

Dazed, I let him shepherd me back to the seat. I know I should continue fighting, or at least put up some resistance, but the anger that filled me is gone, leaving numbness and despair in its wake.

Even after what he did, I crave him. I want him just as much as I hate him.

My sock-clad feet are chilled from walking on the cold floor, and I’m grateful when Peter grabs the blanket from the table and tucks it around my legs before sitting down next to me. He pulls the seatbelt over me, buckling me in, and I close my eyes, not wanting to see the warmth that now fills his gaze. As frightening as the darker side of Peter is, the man who’s doing this—the tender, caring lover—is the one who terrifies me most.

I can resist the monster, but the man is a different story.

Warm fingers brush across my hand, and cold metal presses into my palm. Startled, I open my eyes and look at the phone Peter just handed to me.

He must’ve picked it up from where I dropped it.

“If you want to call your parents, you might want to do so now,” he says softly. “Before they hear anything on their own.”

I swallow, staring at the phone in my hand. Peter is right; there’s no time to waste. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my parents, but anything is better than what the FBI agents are likely to say.

“How do I call?” I glance at Peter. “Is there some special code or anything I need to use?”

“No. All my calls are automatically encoded. Just put in their number as usual.”

I take a deep breath and punch in my mom’s cell. She’s more likely to panic at getting a call in the middle of the night, but she’s nine years younger than my dad and has no known heart problems. Holding the phone up to my ear, I turn away from Peter and watch the night sky through the window as I wait for the call to connect.

It rings a dozen times before going to voicemail.

Mom must be sleeping too deeply to hear it, or else she has the phone turned off for the night.

Frustrated, I try again.

“Hello?” Mom’s voice is sleepy and disgruntled. “Who is this?”

I exhale in relief. It doesn’t sound like the FBI got to them yet; if they had, Mom wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me, Sara.”

“Sara?” Mom instantly sounds more alert. “What’s wrong? Where are you calling from? Did something happen?”

“No, no. Everything is fine. I’m perfectly fine.” I take a breath, my mind racing as I try to come up with the least worrisome story. At some point soon, the FBI will contact my parents, and my story will be exposed for a lie. However, the very fact that I called and told such a story should reassure my parents that, at the time of the call at least, I was alive and well, lessening the impact of whatever the agents will tell them.

Steadying my voice, I say, “Sorry to call so late, Mom, but I’m going on a last-minute trip, and I wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t worry.”

“A trip?” Mom sounds confused. “Where? Why?”

“Well…” I hesitate and then decide to go with Peter’s suggestion. This way, when my parents learn of the kidnapping, they might think I went with Peter of my own free will. What the FBI will think is another matter, but I’ll save that worry for a different day. “I met someone. A man.”

“A man?”

“Yes, I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t know that much about him, and I wasn’t sure how serious it was.” I can sense Mom is about to launch into an interrogation, so I quickly say, “In any case, he had to go out of the country unexpectedly, and he invited me to come along. I know it’s completely crazy, but I needed to get away—you know, from everything—and this seemed as good of an opportunity as any. We’re going to be traveling the world together for a few weeks, so—”

“What?” Mom’s voice rises in pitch. “Sara, that’s—”

“Insane? I know.” I grimace, grateful she can’t see my pained expression. Between lying to her and the continued headache, I feel like absolute shit. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want you to worry, but it’s something I had to do. I hope you and Dad understand.”

“Wait a minute. Who is this man? What is his name? What does he do? Where did you meet?” She fires off each question like a bullet.

I turn to look at Peter, and he gives me a small nod, his face impassive. I don’t know if he can hear my conversation, but I interpret that nod to mean I can tell my parents a few more details.

“His name is Peter,” I say, deciding to stay as close to the truth as possible. “He’s a contractor of sorts, works mostly abroad. We met when he was in the Chicago area, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. I wanted to tell you about him at our sushi lunch, but it didn’t seem like the right time.”

“Okay, but… but what about your work? And the clinic?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll get it all settled, don’t worry.” I won’t, of course—this kind of bullshit won’t fly with my hospital-based practice even if Peter lets me call them—but I can’t tell Mom that without making her worry prematurely. She’ll have a panic attack soon enough, when the agents show up on her doorstep. Until then, she and Dad might as well think I’ve gone crazy.

A daughter belatedly acting out is infinitely better than a daughter kidnapped by her husband’s killer.

“Sara, darling…” Mom sounds worried regardless. “Are you sure about this? I mean, you said yourself you don’t know much about this man, and now you’re leaving the country with him? This is not like you at all. You didn’t even tell me where you’re going. Are you flying or driving? And what is this number you’re calling from? It’s showing up as blocked, and the reception is all weird, like you’re—”

“Mom.” I rub my forehead, my headache worsening. I can’t answer any more of her questions, so I say, “Listen, I have to go. Our plane is about to take off. I just wanted to give you a quick update so you wouldn’t worry, okay? I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”

“But, Sara—”

“Bye, Mom. Talk to you soon!”

I hang up before she can say anything else, and Peter takes the phone from me, his mouth curved in an approving smile.

“Good job. You have a real talent for this.”

“For lying to my parents about getting kidnapped? Yes, a real talent, for sure.” Bitterness drips from my words, and I don’t bother toning it down. I’m done being nice and agreeable.

We’re no longer playing that game.

Peter doesn’t appear fazed. “You told them something that will allay the worst of their worry. I don’t know how much the Feds will disclose, but this should reassure your parents that you’re alive and well as of today. Hopefully, it will be enough until you contact them again.”

That was my thought process as well, and it bothers me that we’re on the same wavelength. It’s a small thing, reasoning alike in this one instance, but it feels like a slippery slope, like a step toward that partnership Peter mentioned. Toward the illusion that there is a “we,” that our relationship is in any way genuine.

I can’t—I won’t—fall for that lie again. I’m not Peter’s partner, his girlfriend, or his lover.

I’m his captive, the widow of a man he killed to avenge his family, and I can’t ever forget that fact.

Fighting to keep my voice even, I ask, “So I will have a chance to contact them again?” At Peter’s affirmative nod, I press, “When?”

His gray eyes gleam. “Once they hear from the FBI and have a chance to digest everything. So in other words, soon.”

“How will you know whether they hear from—? Oh, never mind. You’re watching my parents too, aren’t you?”

“I’m monitoring their house, yes.” He doesn’t look the least bit ashamed. “So we’ll know what the agents tell them and when. Then we’ll figure out what you should say and how to contact them again.”

I press my lips together. There’s that insidious “we” again. As if this is a joint project, like interior decorating or choosing a bottle of wine for a family gathering. Does he expect me to be grateful for this? To thank him for being so nice and thoughtful with the logistics of my kidnapping?

Does he think that if he lets me alleviate my parents’ worry, I’ll forget that he stole my life?

Gritting my teeth, I turn away to stare out the window, then realize I still don’t know the answer to one of my mom’s questions.

Turning back to face my kidnapper, I meet his coolly amused gaze. “Where are we going?” I ask, forcing myself to speak calmly. “Where exactly are we going to be figuring all this out from?”

Peter grins, revealing white teeth that are slightly crooked on the bottom. Between that and the small scar on his lower lip, his smile should’ve been off-putting, but the imperfections only highlight its dangerously sensual appeal.

“We are going to be figuring it out from Japan, ptichka,” he says and reaches across the table to gather my hand in his big palm. “The Land of the Rising Sun is our new home.”