“You can tell your parents you’re with me—the Feds know that much. You can say you’re happy and in love, and that they shouldn’t worry about you. Keep it brief; the idea is not to answer their questions but to reassure them that you’re alive and well. The less you say, the better for all concerned.”
“Okay.” Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “I’m ready.”
* * *
The call goes through two dozen relays, bouncing off satellites and cell towers all over the world before showing up as a blocked number on Sara’s mother’s cell. I know for a fact that all phones connected to Sara’s parents are tapped by the FBI, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way they’ll be able to trace the call. The main danger is Sara saying something she shouldn’t, but hopefully, she’s smart enough to avoid that.
I don’t bluff when I make threats.
Lorna Weisman, Sara’s mother, is quick to pick up the phone. “Hello?” Her voice is tense as it comes through the speaker.
“Hi, Mom,” Sara says. She’s sitting on the couch next to me, the phone on loudspeaker on her lap so I can hear the conversation. “It’s me, Sara.”
“Sara! Oh, thank God! Where are you? Are you okay? What’s going on? The FBI came and—”
“I’m fine, Mom.” Sara’s tone is calm and soothing, despite the overly bright glitter in her eyes. “Please don’t worry. I’m with Peter, and all is well. I know things are probably confusing, but I’m well and everything with us is great. I’ll tell you more when I get home, but for now, I just wanted to call because I figured you must be worried.”
“Sara, darling, listen to me.” Lorna sounds on the verge of crying. “The FBI said he’s a criminal, one of their most wanted. You have to get away from him. Where are you? Please, darling, tell me, and we’ll send someone for you. He’s not a good man, Sara. He’s dangerous; he can hurt you. You have to—”
“Mom, don’t be ridiculous.” Sara’s voice sharpens. “I’m perfectly fine, and Peter is wonderful to me. Look, I can’t talk long, but whatever it is they’re telling you, don’t believe them. He is a good man, and we’re very happy together. He loves me, and I… Well, I think I might be in love with him too.”
She glances at me, and I give her an approving nod, ignoring the irrational pang of pain in my chest. She’s just acting as I told her, and it’s pointless for me to wish that this were real, that she were truly in love with me.
“But, Sara—”
“Mom, I have to run. I’ll call again soon. In the meantime, please don’t worry about me and tell Dad not to worry either.” Her voice thickens, as if she’s about to cry too. “I love you both, and I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Wait, Sara—”
But she hangs up, her slim shoulders shaking with sobs as she jumps to her feet and runs upstairs, leaving me behind with the phone.
14
Sara
* * *
I don’t know how long I cry before the bed next to me dips and Peter gathers me into his arms, placing me on his lap as though I’m a distraught child. His big hand strokes my back as I wrap my arms around his neck, hiding my wet face against his shoulder, and it feels good, his touch, his warmth. It feels necessary, even though I hate him right now… even though the pain in my mom’s voice is unbearably fresh in my mind.
“They’ll be all right, ptichka,” he says softly when my sobs quiet down. “We’re keeping an eye on them, and they’re handling everything well. And now that you called, they know you’re fine too.”
“Fine? They think I’ve gone crazy, disappearing with a wanted criminal like that.” My voice shakes, my vision blurry with tears as I push at his shoulders, lifting my head to meet his gaze. “And with the FBI looking for us…”
“I know.” His gray eyes are warm as he gently wipes the moisture off my cheeks. “It’s not optimal, but it’s the best we can do for now.”
“Right.” I finally find the strength to push myself off his lap and stand up. My eyes feel gritty after all the crying, and I have a splitting headache, but I’m determined to regain control. I can’t keep seeking comfort from the man who took everything from me, can’t keep crying and clinging to my kidnapper.
I’m stronger than that.
I have to be.
“Are you hungry?” Peter asks, getting up as well. “I’m about to make dinner for us.”
I wipe the remnants of tears with the back of my hand and nod. “I could eat.”
“Good.” His smile is so bright it’s almost blinding. “I’ll see you downstairs in an hour.”
* * *
I expected Peter’s men to join us for dinner, as they did for breakfast, but they’re conspicuously absent. When I ask Peter about it, he explains that they’re training outside and will eat their meal later.
“Why didn’t you join them?” I ask, reaching for a piece of salmon. We’re having Japanese-inspired food today—fish and white rice, with pickled veggies on the side. “Don’t you guys train together?”
Peter smiles. “We normally do, but I wanted to spend time with you tonight.”
“Because I’ve been such great company today?”
His smile widens. “We’ve had our moments.”
I fight a flush, knowing he’s referring to the sex earlier. I’ve been doing my best not to think about it, though my body still feels tender from his rough possession. It’s stupid to feel embarrassed when we’ve been sleeping together for the past several weeks, but I can’t help it. This thing between us is too confusing, too f*cked up. And then the no-condom thing—
No, I can’t think about that. Peter promised me a pill tomorrow, and I have to believe he’ll keep that promise. Even if, for some bizarre reason, he wouldn’t mind getting me pregnant, he has to realize that a baby under the circumstances would be a disaster for all involved. He’s a wanted man, an assassin on the run. What kind of life would that be for a child? Peter is too smart not to understand that.
He’s also obsessed with you.
I suppress that scary little whisper and dig into my food. There’s no point in worrying about that tonight; tomorrow, if Peter doesn’t come through with the pill, will be soon enough. In any case, I’m so tired I can barely lift my fork, much less stress about a potential pregnancy. It must already be morning back home, and despite my morning nap, I’m feeling the effects of jet lag, combined with the aftermath of extreme stress. Once I finish eating, I’m going to pass out and hope my head will be clearer tomorrow.
I need it to be, so I can plan my escape.
“I forgot to tell you,” Peter says as I’m finishing up my salmon. “Yan got you a bunch of clothes. They’re over there.” He nods toward the entryway, where, for the first time, I notice several shopping bags.