If I weren’t here against my will, I’d think it’s the prettiest place on Earth.
“Yes, gorgeous,” Peter agrees, his voice unusually husky as his hand tightens on mine, and I turn to see his metallic gaze burning with hunger. My heart skips a beat as answering heat ripples through my body, chasing away the high-altitude chill.
It’s always like this now. One look, one touch, and I’m a goner. Even when we’re just holding hands, my heart beats a little faster, and when he looks at me like this, my bones turn soft and liquid, my body quickening with arousal.
Flushing, I pull my hand out of his grasp and step back to avoid swaying toward him. We had sex less than two hours ago, and I’m still sore. It’s disturbing how much I want him and how little control I have over my response. The chemistry between us has always been explosive, but ever since that blowjob, there’s something different about my desire, something that seems rooted in the very wrongness of it all.
No. I force the thought away, refusing to give in to it. Peter was wrong. I don’t want to be his captive. This isn’t a sexual game we’re playing; it’s my life, my future. Everything I’ve worked for is gone, stolen by the man looking at me with those burning silver eyes. Whatever twisted cravings he’s awakened in me, I’ll never be okay with this forced relationship.
I can’t be.
Yet as he reaches for me, drawing me back toward him, I don’t resist. I don’t fight as he bends his head and crushes his lips against mine. The fire sweeping through my veins burns away all reason, all morality and common sense. My fingers tangle in his hair, my body molding against his, and as he backs me up against a tree, I give in and embrace the darkness, letting my own inner monster roam free.
22
Peter
* * *
As the preparations for the Nigeria job ramp up, I find myself reaching for Sara with increasing desperation, my need for her blazing out of control. When I’m not training with my men or working on the logistics for the mission, I’m either with her or thinking about her. It’s like an addiction, this craving that never goes away, and the worst part is that no matter what I do, I can’t get Sara on board.
I can’t get her to accept her life with me.
It’s not that she fights me physically. On the contrary, she responds whenever I touch her, and in her eyes, I see the same hunger, the need that’s burning me alive. She might deny it, but she likes it when I’m rough in bed, even more than when I’m gentle. When I take control, it sets her free, easing the torment of her guilt and shutting off her overactive brain. Our desires complement each other, our connection sizzling with dark heat, yet even as her body embraces mine, I feel the chill of her mental distance, the attempts to keep herself from me.
On some level, I understand it. I took her from her life, from her family and the job she loved. It bothers me, that last part, because I know how much of Sara’s identity was tied up in being a successful doctor. Music might’ve been her passion and medicine the pragmatic, parent-approved choice, but she still enjoyed her occupation. I saw it every time she came home, tired yet exhilarated by the challenge of bringing life into this world and healing her patients’ ills. Now she seems lost, broken in some indefinable way, and I hate it.
My ptichka loves helping people, and I took that away from her.
To cheer her up, I decide to get a couple of musical instruments and recording equipment on the next trip out, so Sara can record herself singing along to some of her favorite pop songs. I also enlist Ilya to help me convert a portion of the open living room area downstairs into a dance studio, in case Sara wants to take up salsa or ballet again.
“What are you doing?” Sara asks when she sees us putting up the wall, and I explain my idea to her. She doesn’t seem overly excited, but then again, she rarely does these days.
It’s as if some of her inner spark has gone out, and I don’t know how to bring it back.
“This is f*cked up, man,” Ilya mutters as Sara goes upstairs after yet another call with her parents, her shoulders stiff and her hazel eyes filled with tears. “Seriously, that girl doesn’t deserve this.”
I shoot him a dark look, and he shuts up, but I know he’s right.
I’m destroying the woman I love, and I can’t stop.
No matter what, I can’t let her go.
* * *
By the time Anton and Yan return from their reconnaissance mission, the dance studio needs only mirrors, and I resolve to get those on the return flight from Nigeria, along with the musical instruments and the recording equipment. I also download thousands of popular music videos onto an internet-disabled iPad and give it to Sara—something she thanks me for, though again, with muted enthusiasm.
It’s getting to the point where I’d almost rather she actively fought me, like in the first couple of days after I took her.
Not for the first time, I think about the morning-after pill I gave her and the condoms we’re continuing to use. Maybe it was a mistake to listen to the remnants of my conscience and give in to Sara’s pleas in this regard. When her period came two weeks ago, I felt like I lost something, and no matter how hard I try to force the idea of Sara with child out of my mind, I can’t stop dwelling on it.
I can’t stop wanting it.
My little bird, pregnant. I can picture it so clearly when I look at her—the swollen belly and the full, ripe breasts, the glow of life developing inside her… Her pretty nipples would get extra sensitive, her slim body lush and soft, and when the child would be born, she’d love it.
She’d care for our baby, the way my birth mother never cared for me.
It’s tempting, and the desire gnaws at me more each day. Up here, Sara is completely in my power. If I left the condoms off, there’d be nothing she could do, no morning-after pill she could get from somewhere on her own. She’d have my child and she’d love it, and then someday, she’d grow to love me too.
We’d be a family, and I’d finally truly have her.
She’d be mine, and she’d never want to leave.
* * *
The night before Ilya and I depart for Nigeria, I make a special dinner for Sara and the team, whipping up each person’s favorite dishes, along with a couple of Japanese recipes I’ve been itching to try out.
“Why don’t we eat like this every day?” Anton complains, scooping up a second serving of vinegret—a traditional beet-based Russian salad. “Seriously, man, you’ve got to step it up. All we had yesterday was rice and fish.”