Sara

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Peter doesn’t release me until we’re inside the house, and even then, when he sets me on my feet, he keeps his steely fingers wrapped around my wrist, chaining me to his side as I take in my gorgeous new prison.

And it is gorgeous. Even with the anger and frustration choking me up inside, I can appreciate the clean, modern lines of the open floor plan and the postcard-pretty views of the mountains and the lake visible through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. In the middle of the space, next to an ultra-modern kitchen, a set of plank-style hardwood stairs spirals to the second floor—and that’s where Peter leads me, his hand still possessively holding my wrist.

“A Japanese businessman built this twenty years ago, but I renovated it when I bought it last year,” Peter says as we go up the steps. “I didn’t know we’d be coming here so soon, but I figured it’s best to be ready.”

I don’t respond, because if I try to talk, I might break down and cry. At this very moment, the FBI could be telling my parents about my disappearance, and I undoubtedly have dozens of missed calls and messages from my work, as well as the clinic where I volunteer. One of my patients is supposed to go into labor this week, and I have a C-section scheduled for tomorrow. Or is it today? It’s early morning in Japan; does that mean it’s evening back home? I don’t know what the time difference is, but I can’t imagine it’s less than ten hours. If so, I must’ve already missed a full day, and people are looking for me. Maybe even checking with my parents to find out where I am and why I’m not responding to any of their calls or messages.

My poor parents must be sick with worry.

“Can I call them?” I ask thickly as Peter leads me into a spacious bedroom. One of the walls is made entirely of glass, revealing a breathtaking view of snow-capped mountains in the distance and the lake spread out below. Or at least the view would be breathtaking if I could concentrate on it, instead of the suffocating lump in my throat.

Please let my dad be all right.

“Not yet,” Peter says, his expression softening as he releases my wrist. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he shares my concern about my parents. “We need to review the camera feeds to see what’s been happening, and then find a way to reach out to your family without alerting anyone of our whereabouts.”

I swallow and turn away before he can see the tears filling my eyes. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t come home, if I’d confided in Karen in that locker room, everything would’ve been different. Yes, my parents and I would’ve had to go into protective custody, and most likely relocate, but that would’ve still been preferable to this nightmare. I don’t know what I was thinking when I drove home from the hospital last night. Did I imagine that if I showed up at home as normal, Peter wouldn’t know that the FBI had spoken to me? That the Feds might not realize that the man they’re hunting had been all but living with me, and we’d go on as before?

That if I warned my tormentor about the impending danger, he’d thank me and quietly go on his merry way?

“Don’t, Sara.” He steps in front of me, forcing me to look up to meet his gaze. His jaw is tight, his eyes gleaming darkly as he says in a low, hard voice, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t want this. I know you’re scared and you’re having second thoughts, but you chose me; you chose us. That’s why you told me they were coming for me, why you came home at all instead of letting them whisk you far away. I waited for you. I knew they were close, and I still waited, because I needed to see if you truly hated me… if you wanted me gone from your life. But you didn’t, did you?” He cups my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “Did you, ptichka?”

“I did.” My voice shakes, and to my shame, hot tears trickle down my face. I don’t want to show weakness, but I can’t help the toxic cauldron bubbling in my chest. “I was exhausted, and I had a headache. I wasn’t thinking straight. On any other day—”

“Oh, really?” His mouth twists with cruel amusement as he drops his hand. “Is that the lie you’re telling yourself? That I took you against your will… that you didn’t want any of this?”

“I didn’t!” I step back, staring at him incredulously. He can’t seriously believe what he’s saying. “I would never agree to this. My parents, my patients, my friends, my whole life—it’s all back there. You abducted me, Peter. There’s no ambiguity here. You stuck a needle in my neck and you carried me away while I was drugged unconscious. How can you possibly think I came along voluntarily? Did you miss the part where I screamed and pleaded for you to leave me behind when I woke up? Were you deaf when I cried and begged you not to do this?” I’m beyond furious, but the tears won’t stop flowing, and I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand, trembling with rage from head to toe.

Peter’s lips flatten into a hard, dangerous line, and I again glimpse the terrifying stranger who broke into my house and tortured me. Only this time, I’m too angry to feel any fear. If he wants to punish me for this, let him.

I’ll only hate him more.

He makes no move toward me, but his voice is harsh as he says, “So why did you do it? Why warn me, Sara? You knew I wouldn’t leave you behind. And don’t give me that bullshit about not thinking straight. You knew full well what kind of risk you were taking. Why do it if you didn’t want to be with me?”

I drag in a shuddering breath and turn away, determined to control the tears that keep streaming down my face. The rage that filled me is dissipating, leaving me weary to the bone and hollow with despair. I want to stand my ground, deny what he’s saying, but I can’t. Maybe my thinking wasn’t as clear as it should’ve been, but I did know what I was doing.

I wasn’t surprised when the needle pricked my neck.

I feel Peter behind me, though I didn’t hear him move. “Tell me, ptichka.” His voice is soft again, his touch gentle as he clasps my shoulders, drawing me against his hard body. “Tell me why.” His stubble rasps across my cheek as he bends his head to kiss my temple, and I tense, fighting the urge to lean back against him and let him cuddle and caress me until I forget that I lost everything.

Until I no longer care that he took away my life.

Lifting his head, Peter turns me around to face him, his gray eyes peering at me intently, and I know he won’t let the matter drop. He won’t rest until I admit my weakness, that irrational, insane impulse that made me sabotage my chance at freedom.

I lick my lips, tasting the salt of my tears. “I…” I swallow thickly. “I didn’t want to see you dead.” Even now, the horrifying images won’t leave me, my brain visualizing how everything might’ve gone down in grisly detail. I can almost smell the coppery tang of blood as the SWAT team’s bullets rip through Peter’s muscled body, can almost see the armor-clad agents bursting through the bedroom door and dragging him off my bed.

Can almost feel the stark, crushing loneliness that would’ve been my life without my tormentor.

No. No, no, no. I shake off the thought, push it away like the lunacy that it is. I did not want this. Just because I missed Peter when he was on one of his assassination missions doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have moved on eventually. And it wasn’t even him I missed. It was the deceptive comfort he provided, the illusion of love and caring. What I felt for him wasn’t real, and neither is what he thinks he feels for me. A sick lie is all it’s ever been between us, a pathological obsession on his end and an equally perverse neediness on mine.

Peter’s eyes narrow, his hands tightening on my shoulders as he processes what I said. “So you warned me out of the goodness of your heart? You were being a Good Samaritan?”

I nod, blinking rapidly to hold back a fresh wave of tears. That wasn’t the only reason for my lapse of judgment, but it’s the only one I’m willing to admit to.

My captor’s face hardens, and he drops his hands, stepping back. “I see.”

If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought I hurt him.

In the next instant, however, he continues as if nothing happened. “This is our bedroom.” His voice is cold and flat, utterly emotionless. “The bathroom is through there.” He gestures at a door in the back of the room. “You can wash up and relax while we unpack some supplies and prepare breakfast. I’ll have clothes brought here for you tomorrow, but in the meantime, there should be a robe in the bathroom and some of my clothes in the closet.” He nods toward a set of doors on the opposite side of the room. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Breakfast will be ready in a half hour.”

I bite my lip. “Okay, thanks.”

He exits the room, and I walk over to the window, my chest aching with grief for everything I lost—and for what I just glimpsed in Peter’s eyes.

Pain.

I did hurt him, and for some reason, that hurts me.