Peter’s expression is unreadable as we walk together down the trail, yet I can sense the anger within him, the lethal volatility that’s as much a part of him as those steel-gray eyes. Despite that, his grip on my hand is gentle, his big hand shielding my palm from the cold air even as it prevents my escape.
“How did you find me so fast?” I ask, concealing my anxiety. At this point, I’m almost certain Peter wouldn’t physically hurt me, but that still leaves a number of ways he can make me pay.
“Ilya followed you,” he says, glancing at me. The chilly breeze reddened his high cheekbones and the tip of his nose, and with the sporty parka he’s wearing, he looks like one of those hardcore athletes who scale Mount Everest for fun. “Did you think he wouldn’t know you left the house?”
Of course. I should’ve known it was too easy.
“Why didn’t he stop me then? Why just follow me?”
“Because I told him to.”
I dig in my heels, forcing him to stop. “Why? Are you trying to teach me a lesson? Is that it?”
“No, Sara—though it is a bonus.” A glimmer of amusement appears in his eyes.
“What, then?” I demand. “Why let me get this far?”
“So I can show you this,” he says, and tightening his grip on my hand, he leads me to a thin patch of trees a little farther down the trail.
I’ve been walking cautiously this whole time, but I still almost miss the sudden disappearance of ground under our feet. If it hadn’t been for Peter yanking me to a stop, I might’ve tumbled down.
Gasping, I step back, holding on to Peter’s hand with all my strength as I gape at the sheer drop below us. By some fluke of nature, the trees go right up to the edge of the cliff, some roots even extending beyond it. It gives the illusion that there’s solid ground where there’s none, and I remember Ilya talking about this phenomenon yesterday, when he mentioned the landslide.
“Is this from the earthquake?” I ask when I get over my shock.
“Yes.” Peter tugs me back, away from the cliff’s edge. When we’re sufficiently far, he releases my hand and says, “This is what I wanted you to see. I know Ilya told you yesterday that this mountain is all cliffs, but you must not have believed him, so I wanted you to see it with your own eyes. This was the only slope that was gradual enough to walk or drive on before the earthquake, and it’s not usable anymore. The only way off this mountain is with the chopper, ptichka.” He smiles, his eyes gleaming like polished silver.
I stare up at him, my stomach filled with ice. I must’ve tuned out when Ilya was talking about this, because I don’t remember him mentioning this at all. No wonder my captors have been so unconcerned about my escape; they knew I had nowhere to go.
“This whole mountain is ringed by cliffs? On all sides?”
I must look as crushed as I feel, because Peter’s expression inexplicably softens. “Yes, my love. You didn’t understand that yesterday?”
I shake my head dejectedly. “I must not have been listening too closely.”
He doesn’t say anything, just takes my hand again, and we walk together up the trail, back toward the house. My steps are slow, the exhaustion from my morning hike hitting me like a wrecking ball. And it’s not just physical weariness. Emotionally, I’m wrung out, so tired I feel numb inside.
I don’t know why I placed such hopes on this escape. Even when I was back home, with my family and the FBI just a phone call away, I knew there was nowhere I could run to avoid Peter’s reach. I was his prisoner then, just as I am now, and I don’t know what made me think that escaping from this mountaintop was going to make things better.
Why I imagined I could be free if I made it down.
Peter would’ve come after me. Even if, by some miracle, I escaped and made it to the supposed safety of the FBI’s protection, I would’ve never been truly safe. I would’ve had to look over my shoulder every hour, every day, and eventually, he would’ve been there, standing with that cruel smile on his handsome face.
There’s no way out of this for me, and in my panic, I forgot that.
Despair is a crushing force on my chest, constricting my breath and coloring the world around me gray. I know I need to regroup, to come up with some new plan, but the hopelessness of my situation is too encompassing, too absolute. My legs feel like lead as I take each step, and the ice inside me is spreading, the chill wrapping like chains around my heart.
There’s just no way out.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Sara,” Peter says quietly, and I look up to find him watching me, his gaze oddly sympathetic. It’s as if he understands, as if he empathizes on some level. Except if he did, he wouldn’t do this.
He wouldn’t destroy my life to satisfy his obsession.
“Not like this?” I ask hollowly, stopping in front of a fallen tree. We need to climb over it, and I lack the energy to do so. “Then how? How do you envision this working?”
His lips twist as he releases my hand and turns to face me. “You can just give in, ptichka. Accept what is between us.”
“And what is that?”
“This.” He lifts his hand to stroke my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his touch, seeking the magnetic warmth of his fingers.
Feeling the perverse need pulsing in my core.
I should pull away, jerk out of his reach, but I’m too tired to move. Too tired to protest as he bends his head and presses his lips to mine, his kiss soft and gentle, so tender it makes me want to weep.
He kisses me like I’m something precious, something rare and beautiful. Like he wants me more than life itself. My eyes drift shut and my hands come up, clutching at his shoulders as he deepens the kiss, inhaling my air and feeding my need.
What if you do give in?
It doesn’t seem so wrong in this moment. Not when I’m so weary and lost, so utterly devoid of hope. He’s the cause of my despair, yet everything is warmer and brighter with his touch, more bearable with his affection.
What if you do accept it?
The question circles through my mind, taunting me, teasing me with possibilities. What would it be like if I stopped fighting? If I let go of my old life and embraced my new? Because at this moment, it doesn’t seem so crazy that he could love me, that we could share something meaningful and real.
That if I let myself forget the things he’s done, I could maybe love him too.
“Sara,” he breathes, lifting his head, and in his heated gaze, I see the future we could have. The one where we’re not enemies, where the past doesn’t paint our present in shades of black.
I see it and I want it—and that’s what terrifies me most.
“Let me go.” Somewhere, I find the strength to pull away, to reject the dark lure of his affection. “Please, Peter, stop.”
His gaze cools and hardens, molten silver turning to cold steel. Without another word, he takes my hand and resumes leading me up the mountain, back to my prison.
Back to our new home.
* * *