I give him the finger, and the Ivanov twins laugh before tucking into their favorite dish—lamb kebobs done the Georgian way, complete with a spicy dipping sauce. Even Sara smiles as she loads her plate with a little bit of everything, including my attempt at tempura vegetables.
As we eat, the guys and I discuss some of the job’s logistics, and Sara quietly listens, as is her habit during mealtimes. The distance she keeps from me extends to my men; she rarely talks to them, at least when I’m around. The only one she seems to like is Ilya, and even with him, she’s reserved, her manner polite but far from warm. I think she feels uncomfortable around my teammates; either that, or she hates them for being my accomplices.
I don’t mind her attitude toward them. In fact, I prefer it. Over the past six weeks, I’ve caught all three eyeing Sara with varying degrees of interest, and I’ve barely stopped myself from slitting their throats. I know they don’t mean anything by looking—any red-blooded male would appreciate Sara’s trim, graceful beauty—but I’m still tempted to kill them.
She’s mine, and I don’t share. Ever.
In any case, I’m glad it’s Yan who’s staying behind. Of the four of us, he has the coolest head, and though I trust all three of my teammates, I have the greatest confidence in Yan’s self-control. He wouldn’t touch Sara, no matter the temptation, and that’s precisely what I need.
I have to know she’s safely guarded, so I can focus on the job.
“So what about the townspeople?” Yan asks as Ilya outlines our escape route after the hit. We’re all speaking English out of deference to Sara, and to my surprise, I see her face whiten as I explain about the bombs we’re planning to set off as a distraction.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s worried for us.
We go through more of the bombing logistics and are in the middle of discussing contingency plans when Sara abruptly stands up, her chair scraping across the floor.
“Please excuse me,” she says in a shaky voice, and before I can stop her, she runs to the staircase and disappears upstairs.
23
Sara
* * *
I feel sick, literally ill with anxiety. My stomach is cramping, and it feels like a truck drove over my chest. Ever since Peter told me about the Nigerian banker, I’ve been trying not to think about the danger, but tonight, listening to the men talk about the insane security at the banker’s compound and what they’ll do in case one of them gets injured or killed, I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Tomorrow, Peter and his teammates will go up against a monster in his heavily guarded lair, and there’s no guarantee they’ll come out alive.
Locking myself in the bathroom, I hurry to the sink and splash cold water on my face, trying to breathe through the suffocating tightness in my throat. It feels like a panic attack, only the fear I’m feeling has nothing to do with my own situation—a situation that could, in fact, be resolved by Peter’s death.
A bullet to the brain or the heart—that’s what he once told me it would take for him to leave me be. And I know it’s true. For as long as my tormentor is alive, I’ll never be free of him. Even if I somehow managed to escape, he’d come after me. So I should hope he gets killed—shot or blown apart by one of those bombs. Then his teammates might return me home, and my old life could resume.
I could have it all back if he were dead.
It’s what I should want, but instead, dread and anxiety consume me. The thought of Peter hurt in any way is unbearable, even more so today than the night he stole me. Over the past six weeks, I’ve done everything I can to rein in my emotions, to respond to him in physical ways only, but I’ve clearly failed.
Whatever messed-up feelings I developed for my husband’s killer are still there; if anything, they’ve grown during my captivity.
Feeling increasingly ill, I grab a towel and rub it over my wet face. My stomach is a giant knot, and I can feel the blood pulsing in my temples as I drag shallow breaths into my tightening ribcage. The face reflected in the bathroom mirror is chalk white, with red splotches where I rubbed too harshly with the towel.
Tomorrow, Peter could be killed.
“Sara?” A knock on the door startles me, and I drop the towel, pivoting to face the doorway.
“Ptichka, are you okay?” Peter’s deep voice holds a note of worry.
My lungs are still not functioning properly, but I manage to gulp in a breath and choke out, “I’m fine. Just one sec.”
Grabbing the towel from the floor with shaking hands, I throw it into the laundry hamper in the corner and smooth my palms over my hair, trying to calm down. My panic attacks have all but subsided in recent weeks, and I don’t want Peter to know that I unraveled just from hearing about the dangers he’ll face.
Taking several deep breaths, I walk over to the door and unlock it. Peter immediately steps in, a worried frown creasing his forehead as his gaze rakes me over in search of injuries.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry. Just got a stomachache,” I say in an almost steady voice. “I’m fine, though.”
Peter’s frown deepens. “Is it that time of the month?”
“No, just—” I stop and do some mental calculations. To my surprise, he’s right. My last period was nearly four weeks ago—which does explain some of what I’m feeling.
“Actually, yes,” I say, relieved to grab on to the excuse. “I didn’t realize that, but yes, that must be it.”
Some of the tension leaves Peter’s face. “My poor ptichka. Come here.” Reaching over, he pulls me into his embrace, and I wrap my arms around his waist, breathing in his warm scent as he strokes my hair. The worst of my panic is easing, the solid, muscular feel of him lessening my anxiety, but the dread about tomorrow refuses to go away.
What if he gets killed?
“Do you want to lie down?” Peter murmurs after a moment, pulling back to gaze down at me, and I shake my head. My chest is still too tight, and my stomach is cramping for real, but being alone with my worry would only exacerbate the situation.
Stepping out of his hold, I manage a small smile. “I’m okay. Sorry if I ruined dinner. Everything was delicious.”
There are still traces of worry in his gaze, but he nods, accepting my words at face value. “Do you want some dessert?” he asks. “It’s apple pie. I can bring it up here for you, if you’re not feeling up to—”
“No, I’ll come down. I have to take an Advil anyway.”
And taking a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom, determined to do whatever it takes to distract myself from thoughts about tomorrow.
24
Peter
* * *
When we get to the kitchen, Sara’s demeanor changes so suddenly it’s as if someone flipped a switch, turning on a different personality. A kind of frenetic energy seems to take hold of her, and after she gulps down two Advils, she starts rushing around the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and getting fresh plates for dessert with the speed of someone racing to catch a train.