Ilya looks like he’s about to blow, but he just grabs an apple from the bowl on the table and stomps back up the stairs.
“What were you just talking about?” I ask, frowning as the brown-haired Russian sits down behind the counter and opens the laptop lying there. I’ve been eyeing that computer all through the meal, wondering how to get my hands on it, and I’m disappointed to see a password-protected start page before Yan angles the screen away from me.
“I was just telling my brother that he needs to find himself a nice girl,” Yan explains in English, his grin widening as Peter shuts the dishwasher door with unnecessary force. “You know, like Peter did with you.”
“Oh, I see.” Given Peter’s reaction, I suspect the language Yan used with his brother was quite a bit saltier, but I’m not about to pry further.
I’d rather not know what this little band of killers truly thinks of me.
Yan busies himself with the computer, and I wipe down the table and the empty counters, feeling the need to do something even though I’m ready to collapse. I don’t know what awaits me upstairs tonight, but I feel peculiarly on edge, my instincts screaming that I’m in danger. Maybe it’s the hard, closed-off expression on Peter’s face or the barely controlled violence in his movements, but I’m reminded of our meeting in Starbucks all those weeks ago, back when my captor was nothing more than the lethal stranger who tortured me and killed George.
Back when I didn’t know how dangerous he could really be.
Outside, the storm is raging, the wind driving icy rain into our windows. I shudder, remembering how it felt to be out in that, and tie the robe tighter around my body.
“Cold?” Yan asks, and I turn to find him looking at me with a half-smile. Unlike me and Peter, he’s fully dressed, his dress slacks and button-up shirt stylish but far too formal for lounging around the house. I have a feeling he doesn’t care, though—either about the appropriateness of his clothes or much of anything in general. Even when he’s smiling or laughing, there is a cold, distant quality about Yan Ivanov, as though he doesn’t feel the emotions he’s displaying.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Ilya’s smooth-mannered brother is a psychopath, in the clinical sense of the word.
“I’m fine,” I say and glance over at Peter, who finished putting away the leftovers and is now watching me with narrowed eyes, his powerful arms crossed over his chest.
“Are you done?” he asks in a hard voice, and my heart sinks as I realize I can’t put off whatever’s about to happen any longer.
I made a mistake, and I’m about to pay the price.
20
Sara
* * *
When we get to our room, Peter leads me to the bed. Stopping in front of it, he removes his robe, letting it drop to the floor, and then he unties mine and pushes it off my shoulders, leaving me naked. He seems fully in control, the volatile anger leashed for the moment, and despite my nervousness, my thighs clench on a surge of heat as he brushes his knuckles over the sensitive skin of my upper breasts before cupping each mound and gently rubbing his thumbs over my nipples.
“You look scared,” he observes, his silvery gaze hard and opaque. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” His fingers close on my nipples, pinching with startling force, and I gasp, my hands flying up to grip his wrists.
“Tell me, Sara.” He pinches my nipples harder, the pressure bordering on pain. “Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
“I—” I gulp, my heart hammering as I tug futilely at his wrists. “I don’t know.”
“I could hurt you.” His sculpted mouth twists as he releases my nipples, leaving them erect and throbbing as his hands slide down my body to grip my hips. “And sometimes I want to. You know that, don’t you, ptichka? You’ve sensed it.” His cock presses against my stomach, hard and insistent, and my breath catches in my throat, my core tightening with a heated ache despite the chill spreading through my veins.
“Yes.” I can’t bring myself to lie, even though that might be smarter, might pacify the monster peering at me through the dark metal of Peter’s eyes. “Yes, I have.”
“Oh, ptichka…” Mock sympathy fills his voice as he gives me a hard push. “Of course you have.”
Startled, I fall backward onto the bed, but instead of climbing over me, Peter bends down and straightens a moment later with the tie from my robe in his hand. Anxiety shoots through me as I comprehend his intentions, and I react instinctively, rolling away as he climbs onto the bed next to me.
He catches me before I can roll off the bed, and I find myself face down on the mattress, my lower body pinned by his weight and my arms forced behind my back as he knots the tie around my wrists. His movements are quick and sure, ruthless in their efficiency, and only seconds pass before my hands are thoroughly restrained, the terrycloth fabric looping around my wrists in a soft but unbreakable hold.
I yank on the restraints, panting into the mattress, but there’s no give in the tie, no way for me to get free. “What are you doing?” My panic intensifies as I feel him climb off me. “Peter, please… what are you doing?”
“Shhh.” Gripping my elbow, he tugs me to my knees and turns me around to face him. His face is taut with lust, his eyes gleaming darkly as he says, “I’m giving you a taste of what it means to be my captive. Because that’s what you want, isn’t it? To run and have me catch you? To have me do this, so you can be free of blame?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but before I can utter a word, Peter stands up on the bed. Fisting his hand in my hair, he arches my head back, pulling my face toward his groin, and I gasp, yanking at my wrist restraints as his thick cock slaps against my cheek. His musky male scent fills my nostrils, his ball sac rubbing against my jaw, and my breathing quickens as I realize what he’s about to do.
“Peter, please—” I begin, then clamp my lips shut as the head of his cock presses against my mouth. With his hand in my hair and my arms tied behind my back, I can’t turn my face away, can’t move so much as an inch. In the weeks since Peter has invaded my life, he’s taken me more times than I can count, pleasuring me with his mouth and hands and cock, but he’s never made me pleasure him before. And for the first time, I realize it was a mercy… a small choice he’d left up to me.
A choice he’s now taking away.
“Open your mouth.” His voice throbs with dark lust as he slaps his cock against my cheek again. “Open your f*cking mouth, Sara.”