Her entire body stiffens. “For me? What are you talking about? It was all about your vengeance, the list that you—”
“Yes, it was… until I met you. Then it became about something else.” It’s a truth I hadn’t admitted to myself until this moment, hadn’t known except within the most savage reaches of my soul.
When I stood over George Cobakis’s bedside, I hesitated when I thought of Sara, but it wasn’t because I wanted to spare him for her. It was because the murder was so pointless, his vegetative state as good as living death.
I ended up pulling the trigger not despite my attraction to Sara but because of it.
Because I wanted her forever free of him.
Because even then, I knew I had to make her mine.
“No.” Sara’s voice takes on an audible tremor. “You’re just saying this. You couldn’t have killed George because of some sick interest in me—that’s beyond insane.”
“Maybe.” I’m willing to concede that much. “But in some cultures, what I did makes you mine—my prize of war, my spoils of battle.”
“Battle? He was in a coma! You killed a defenseless man. He was no match for you—”
I laugh darkly. “Do you think I’m some kind of noble hero? Do you think I care about a fair fight?”
She freezes, her skin growing clammy where our naked bodies touch as I continue. “I don’t, Sara,” I tell her. “I don’t give a f*ck about fairness, because no one else does. The world is inherently unfair. If you want something, you fight for it… you take it. And I wanted you, ptichka. I wanted you from the first moment I held you, when you cried so sweetly in my arms. And you wanted me too—you still want me—because no matter what you say, this is real… far more real than your mirage of a marriage. It wasn’t a fairy tale you were living, and Cobakis wasn’t your Prince Charming. He was a liar, a weakling who turned to drinking because he couldn’t cope with the guilt over the massacre he caused. Even if he hadn’t been on my list, I would’ve killed him if I met you—because I would’ve wanted you. If ever our paths crossed, I would’ve made you mine.”
She’s shivering now, and I know I’ve been too honest, revealed too much of the beast within. Yet if there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s lie to her.
With me, Sara will always know what she’s getting, no matter how ugly it may be.
Pulling the blanket over us, I stroke her arm, hip, and thigh until her trembling stops, and when I hear her breathing slow and deepen, I close my eyes, holding her tight.
This may be wrong in others’ eyes, but I have Sara and I’m happy—and I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy too.
34
Sara
* * *
As fall progresses and the weather continues to cool, my life with Peter begins to remind me of an extended honeymoon, albeit one where we share our mountain retreat with other people. His attentiveness shows no signs of lessening, and though I keep reminding myself that I’m not here of my own free will, I can’t ignore the fact that Peter is doing his best to ensure my pleasure and comfort. Aside from his profession and the small matter of keeping me captive, Peter Sokolov is everything one could ever wish a husband to be: thoroughly domesticated and so caring I feel like a princess most days.
Every morning now starts with him bringing me breakfast in bed. Like the skilled interrogator that he is, Peter has learned everything I like and dislike when it comes to food, and he indulges me with my favorites daily. Russian-style crepes with raisins and sweet cheese, fluffy omelets, quiches, platters of exotic fruit—I get it all, plus fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee. For lunch and dinner, I’m equally spoiled, so much so that the guys have taken to begging me to claim their favorites as my own.
“You liked shashlik that time, right? Those lamb kebobs Peter made before Nigeria?” Ilya makes a scary-looking attempt at puppy eyes as he corners me in the kitchen.
At my nod, he grins and says, “Then please tell him to make them soon, okay? Just hint that you enjoy lamb in spicy sauce. Please?”
I laugh and promise to do so, as I already promised Anton with apple pie. Despite their role in my abduction, I’m starting to like Peter’s men, and I’m pretty sure they’re starting to like me. That’s a good thing as far as I’m concerned, but Peter seems to be of a different opinion. I’ve noticed him glaring at the guys when they get particularly friendly, as though he’s afraid they might steal me away.
His possessiveness is one of our main problems these days, and one evening, it boils out of control.
“Keep your f*cking eyes above her neck,” he roars at Anton after I finish singing my variation of Lady Gaga’s latest hit. I dressed up for this performance, wearing one of the low-cut party dresses Yan got for me, and as Anton and Peter stand up, glaring at each other, I realize that might’ve been a mistake.
“Peter, he wasn’t doing anything,” I say, desperate to diffuse the bristling tension. “I was just singing and he was listening, that’s all.”
“He was f*cking drooling, that’s what he was doing.” Peter shoves the chair between them aside. “And it wasn’t the first time, either.”
“f*ck you, man.” Anton’s dark beard quivers with rage as the two lethal men square off, fists clenched and teeth bared. “Nobody’s doing anything they shouldn’t; you’re just too f*cking obsessed to see straight.”
Peter growls a response in Russian, and Yan says something too, his tone coolly amused as Ilya shakes his head, grinning. A moment later, Anton storms outside, with Peter on his heels.
Frustrated, I round on the twins. “Where are they going?” I hate it when the guys switch to Russian to hide something from me. “What did you all say?”
“Peter wants to break every bone in Anton’s face, and I suggested he do so outside, so we don’t have to make costly repairs in the house,” Yan says, grinning as widely as his brother. “It seems they listened.”
“What? They’re going to fight?”
Horrified, I rush outside and am promptly greeted by the sound of fists striking flesh. Peter and Anton are rolling on the ground, arms and elbows swinging as they batter one another. Flecks of blood fly into the air as Peter lands a particularly brutal hit, and I gasp as I catch a glimpse of savage fury on his face.
They’re not sparring; this fight is for real.
“Stop them, please,” I beg Yan and Ilya, who came out to stand next to me. “They’re going to kill each other.”
“Nah.” Yan waves dismissively. “They’ll just break a few bones. We don’t have a major job until next month, so it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” Gritting my teeth, I turn to Ilya. “If you ever want shash-whatever again, you’ll stop this right now. If you don’t, I’m going to develop a lamb allergy.” I poke his massive chest with my finger. “Do you hear me?”