“Buckle up.” He nods toward the seatbelt lying unfastened at my side. “We’ll be landing shortly.”
I pull the seatbelt over my lap before turning my attention back to the window. I can’t see much in the darkness—we must’ve flown long enough for it to be night in Japan despite the time difference—but I keep my eyes on the sky outside, both in the hopes of seeing something and out of the desire to avoid conversing with Peter.
I’m not going to act like we really are lovers going on a trip, to pretend that I’m okay with this in any shape or form. The leverage he had over me—his threat to steal me away if I didn’t play along with his domestic bliss fantasy—is gone, and I have no intention of being his compliant victim again. I was beginning to give in, to fall under his twisted spell, but that’s all over now. Peter Sokolov tortured me and killed my husband, and now he’s kidnapped me. There’s nothing between us except a f*cked-up past and an even more f*cked-up future.
He might have me, but he won’t enjoy it.
I’ll make sure of that.
4
Peter
* * *
My cheekbone still smarts from Sara’s blow as we land at a private airport near Matsumoto and transfer to the helicopter waiting for us there. I’ll have a black eye tomorrow—an idea I find amusing now that the initial shock of anger is past. The pain Sara inflicted is minor—I’ve suffered worse in routine training—but the unexpectedness of my pretty little doctor physically lashing out is what got to me.
It was like being scratched bloody by a kitten, one you just want to cuddle and protect.
She’s still angry with me. It’s obvious in her rigid posture, in the way she doesn’t speak to me or even glance my way as the helicopter takes off. Though it’s still dark, I see her staring at the sights below, and I know she’s trying to memorize where we’re going.
She’ll attempt to escape at the earliest opportunity, I can tell.
Anton pilots the chopper, and Ilya sits in the back with me and Sara while Yan is up front. We’re not expecting any trouble, but we’re armed, so I keep a careful eye on Sara to make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish, like trying to grab a gun from me or Ilya.
Given the mood she’s in, I wouldn’t put anything past her.
Our Japanese safe house is located in the sparsely populated, mountainous Nagano Prefecture, at the very peak of a steep, heavily forested mountain overlooking a small lake. On a clear day, the view is breathtaking, but the main reason I acquired the property is that this particular mountaintop is only accessible by air. There used to be a dirt road on the west slope—that’s how a wealthy Tokyo businessman built his summer home up there back in the nineties—but an earthquake-triggered landslide made the slope into a cliff, cutting off all ground access to the property and destroying its value.
The businessman’s children were beyond grateful when one of my shell companies purchased the house last year, sparing them from the burden of paying taxes on a place they neither wanted nor had the means to visit regularly.
“So why Japan?”
Sara’s tone is flat and disinterested as she gazes out the chopper window, but I know she must be dying of curiosity to break the hour-long silence and actually speak to me.
It’s either that, or she’s fishing for information that could help her escape.
“Because this is the last place anyone would think to look for us,” I answer, figuring there’s no harm in telling her the truth. “Nothing connects me to the country. Russia, Europe, the Middle East, Africa, the Americas, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines—at one point or another, I’ve blipped on the authorities’ radar in all those places, but never here.”
“Also, it makes for a pleasant hideout,” Ilya says in English, speaking to Sara for the first time. “Much better than holing up in some cave in Dagestan or sweating our balls off in India.”
Sara gives him an indecipherable look, then turns her attention back to the view outside. I don’t blame her. The sky is lightening with the first hints of dawn, and it’s possible to make out the mountain slopes and forests below. By the time we reach our mountaintop retreat, she’ll get the full impact of the view—and realize she can give up all hope of escape. Because that’s another reason for my choice of Japan: the remote location of this specific house.
My little bird’s new cage will be both pretty and impossible to flee from.
* * *
We land forty minutes later on a small helipad next to the house, and I watch Sara’s face as she takes in the sight of our new home—a starkly modern wood-and-glass construction that blends seamlessly with the untouched nature surrounding it.
“Do you like it?” I ask, catching her gaze as I help her out of the chopper, and she looks away, pulling her hand out of my grasp as soon as her sock-clad feet are planted on the ground.
“Does it matter? If I said no, would you take me back?” She turns and starts walking toward the edge of the helipad, where the mountainside forms a cliff drop to the lake below.
“No, but if you hate it here, we can consider some of our other safe houses.” Following her, I catch her wrist before she gets to the edge of the pad. I don’t think she’s upset enough to jump off a cliff, but I’m not about to risk it.
“Where? In Dagestan or India?” She finally looks up at me, eyes narrowed. Though it’s late spring, it’s winter cold at this altitude, the chilly morning wind whipping her chestnut waves around her face and molding the loose black T-shirt against her slender torso. I can feel her shivering, her wrist thin and fragile in my grasp, but her delicate jaw is set in a stubborn line as she holds my gaze.
She’s so vulnerable, my Sara, but so strong too. A survivor, like me, though she probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.
“Dagestan and India are two of the possibilities, yes,” I say, letting her hear the amusement in my voice. She’s trying to antagonize me, make me regret taking her with me, but no amount of sarcasm or silent treatment will do that.
I need Sara like I need air and water, and I’ll never regret keeping her.
Her soft mouth compresses and she twists her arm, trying to break my grip on her wrist. “Let me go,” she hisses when I don’t immediately release her. “Take your f*cking hand off me.”
Despite my resolve to remain unaffected, a twinge of anger bites at me. Sara chose me, if not precisely this, and I’m not about to put up with her treating me like a leper.
Instead of releasing her wrist, I tighten my grip and pull her toward me, away from the edge of the helipad. When she’s sufficiently far from the drop, I bend down and pick her up, ignoring her startled squeak of protest.
“No,” I say grimly, pressing her against my chest. “I’m not letting you go.”
And ignoring her attempts to twist out of my hold, I carry the woman I love to our new home.
5
Sara
* * *