I find my captor outside, sparring with Ilya on a small clearing near the house. Despite the chilly weather, both men are shirtless, their broad, muscular torsos gleaming with sweat as they circle around the clearing, occasionally lashing out at each other with a lightning-fast strike. Their movements remind me of martial arts, though I can’t pinpoint any specific style. Whatever it is, though, it’s savagely beautiful, and I stop, mesmerized despite myself as Peter ducks under Ilya’s swinging fist and launches a furious counterattack, moving so fast I can barely follow with my eyes.
They must’ve been just warming up before, because what follows is a blur of nonstop action. I’m pretty sure Peter lands a hard kick to Ilya’s ribcage, and I catch Peter using his forearm to block a blow from Ilya that could’ve felled a bear. Other than that, the fight progresses at such a furious pace that I can’t discern each individual movement, much less figure out who’s winning or losing. All I see are two powerful male animals, their muscles coiling and rippling as violence heats the air around them.
After about a minute, they stop and spring apart, panting as they circle each other, and I see blood trickling down Ilya’s cheekbone. I can’t spot any blood on Peter, so I guess that makes him the winner of that insane round. I’m not surprised. Even though Ilya is built like a tank, he lacks Peter’s lethal grace, that certain something that makes my captor so deadly. I have no doubt the bald-headed Russian can kill as well as anyone—just one well-placed strike from that huge fist would probably do it—but Peter comes across as more dangerous, more ruthless.
In a fight to the death, my money would be on Peter any day of the week.
I debate saying something to alert the men to my presence, but before I can do so, Peter glances in my direction and stops in his tracks. “Sara?”
“Um, yeah.” I take a breath to calm my racing heartbeat. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was just wondering if you could put the videos of my parents up on that TV for me. Whenever you’re done here, I mean—no rush.”
I’m being extra polite to make up for my earlier outburst. The truth is, I’m dying to watch those videos and make sure my parents are okay, but I won’t gain anything by making demands. If there’s anything I learned in that guest room, it’s that Peter Sokolov still holds all the power in this f*cked-up relationship of ours. Even when I think I have nothing left to lose, my tormentor finds a weakness, a way to manipulate me without hurting me outright—physically, at least.
Emotionally, he’s destroyed me ten times over.
“It’s fine,” Ilya says and gives a wide grin that exposes blood on his teeth. “I think we’re done for today, anyway.”
Peter doesn’t so much as glance at him; all his focus is on me. “Did you clean the room?” he asks, slicking back his sweat-dampened hair. His muscles flex as he lowers his arm, and I catch myself staring at the droplet of sweat running down his flat, ridged abdomen.
Stop it, Sara. Do not ogle your kidnapper.
With effort, I bring my gaze back to Peter’s face. “All done.” I keep my voice calm despite the clear provocation in his words. “You can check it if you want.”
He stares at me for a second, then nods. “All right then. Let’s go.”
He comes toward me, and I flush as Ilya grins at the possessive way Peter grips my arm. It’s irrational, but what Peter and I share feels private, like some kind of secret between the two of us. Obviously, Peter’s men are fully aware of the twisted nature of my relationship with their boss—they helped him stalk and kidnap me, after all—but some part of me still cringes at the knowledge that they’re seeing me like this. Maybe it’s my aversion to airing dirty laundry in public, but I’d almost rather they thought I was Peter’s girlfriend, here of my own free will.
Ignoring his sparring partner, Peter leads me toward the house, keeping his restraining hold on my arm. He’s still angry with me, I can feel it, and I’m relieved he’s carrying out his promise about the videos.
With any luck, by the time the rest of his men return from their supply run, he’ll cool down enough to let me talk to my parents.
When we get to the living room, he releases my arm and goes straight to his laptop. Two minutes later, the videos are on the big TV screen in front of me.
“Enjoy,” he says curtly and disappears up the stairs.
* * *
By the time he returns, I’m halfway through the recording. It’s just as Peter told me: for the most part, the FBI agents questioned my parents and avoided answering their questions in return. I can tell that both my mom and dad were stressed and upset, but neither one looked physically ill, at least on the grainy video feed.
“Tell me again how Sara explained stopping the house sale,” Agent Ryson says to my mom as Peter sits down on the couch next to me, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He must’ve showered after his brutal workout, because I smell a faint hint of soap as he reaches across the couch and picks up my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine.
It takes everything I have not to react to that small intimacy and keep my focus on the video. Partially, it’s because I don’t even know how to react. Should I be glad that he seems to have forgiven my infraction in the guest room? Or should I be upset that the gesture, as simple as it is, makes my chest ache with the same dangerously warm feeling that landed me in this predicament?
“So she never told you that the sale actually went through?” Ryson presses after my mom recounts our sushi lunch conversation almost word for word. “She never explained how it was that she was able to stay in her home after a shell corporation from South Africa purchased the house from the original buyers for double the market price?”
My parents launch into frantic denials mixed with questions and possible explanations, and I watch with a sick feeling in my stomach as my dad’s face turns purple before my mom forces him to sit and calm down.
“He’s going to be fine,” Peter says, his deep voice reassuring, and I realize I’m squeezing his hand so hard my fingers are going numb. I must be hurting him too, but he’s not pulling his hand away. The harsh expression he’s been wearing all afternoon is gone, his gray eyes regarding me with a warm light as he adds quietly, “I saw the rest of this video, and I promise you, he’s fine.”
I nod, pathetically grateful for the reassurance, and turn my attention back to the video feed, where the agents have returned to the topic of my phone call, drilling my mom about the exact words I used to talk about my trip. It’s clear they suspect I’ve been lying to the FBI all along, though I have no idea if they consider me simply brainwashed or Peter’s accomplice from the very beginning.
“How bad is it?” I ask, turning to face my captor when the video ends with my dad consoling my crying mom in the kitchen after the FBI agents leave. It feels like burning needles are stuck in my heart, even though like Peter said, my parents are okay, relatively speaking.