Terrible, soul-crushing guilt from the knowledge that two more men died because of me.
They died because I let a killer into my life and fed his obsession.
It’s clear to me now, so perfectly obvious I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. I’m toxic—a danger to everyone around me. Today, the victims were two druggies; tomorrow, it might be my friends or family. Nobody is safe around me for as long as Peter wants me, and everything I’ve done has only fueled his obsession.
From the beginning, I’ve played the game wrong, and two men paid for that with their lives.
“Here, step out,” Peter commands, and I exit the shower, letting him wrap a thick towel around me. He dries me with it, once again treating me like a child, and I let him, because I’m too exhausted to do anything else. Besides, all this—crying in his arms, clinging to him, having him take care of me—works well for the new strategy I’m going to implement.
Since he wants me, I’m going to let him have me.
It’s not a particularly brilliant strategy, nor is it in any way guaranteed to work. It might even backfire. But at this point, I have little to lose. I’ve tried pushing him away, and he’s still here, still a threat. So now I have to try something different.
I have to make him lose interest in me.
It was the conversation at breakfast that gave me the idea. What if the nurses are right, and I give off some kind of “ice princess” vibe, one that intrigues my stalker? What if, by refusing him, I’m making him want me more?
The fastest way to lose a guy is to sleep with him. It’s a stupid saying, but Andy’s mother isn’t the only one who believes that. I’ve heard that sentiment dozens of times, usually from the parents of teenagers who got pregnant because their families insisted on teaching them the values of abstinence instead of birth control. It’s an old-fashioned, sexist stereotype about the male/female dynamic, one that’s predicated on the insulting premise that women are like toilet paper, something to be used once and discarded.
I’ve always scoffed when I heard stuff like this, but at the same time, I know there are men who act that way, who pursue women until they get them into bed, and then quickly lose interest. But it’s not because they think women should be pure—at least, not usually. They just derive the greatest pleasure from the chase. They enjoy the anticipation more than the consummation, and once they score, they move on, seeking out fresher pastures.
I don’t know if my stalker falls into that category, but it’s possible—probable, even. He’s a stunningly handsome man, and he’s undoubtedly used to women falling head over heels for his dangerous alpha appeal. I’ve never known anyone quite like him, but I’ve seen shades of that arrogance in popular college athletes, Wall Street executives, and overpaid male surgeons. Men like that—the ones at the top of the food chain—perceive any hint of reluctance as a challenge; it intrigues them, makes them more inclined to pursue a woman, not less.
If that’s the case—and I’m desperately hoping it is—then the easiest way to get rid Peter Sokolov may be to give him exactly what he wants: me, willing in his bed. For whatever reason, the Russian killer seems to have drawn the line at rape, preferring to just force himself into my life, so it’s up to me to give him the green light.
If I want this nightmare to end, I’ll have to willingly have sex with my tormentor.
“Come on, lie down,” Peter urges when we get to the bed. Removing the towel around me, he gently guides me under the blanket. “You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.” Once again, his touch is platonic, almost clinical, but I know he wants me. I see how hard he is as he climbs under the blanket next to me, feel the tension rolling off him as he turns off the lights and pulls me into his embrace, tucking me against his big warm body in the familiar spooning position.
He wants me, but he won’t take me—not until I give my consent.
I lie still for a few moments, trying to convince myself to do it. My stomach feels like a raccoon is battling a hamster inside, and exhaustion is a thick, smothering layer over my brain. With my eyes raw and my head aching from crying, the last thing I want is sex, but maybe that’s why I should do it tonight.
Maybe I’ll feel less awful about it if I don’t enjoy it.
Bracing myself, I shift slightly, moving my ass an inch closer to Peter’s groin. He stiffens, his breathing growing more labored, and I repeat the maneuver, rubbing against him as I shift back and forth on the pretext of getting more comfortable. With his thickly muscled arm folded across my ribcage, I have a very limited range of motion, but it doesn’t matter. We’re both naked, and the slightest brush of his skin against mine is electrifying, so filled with sensations that each of my nerve endings stands at attention. I can’t see anything in the pitch-black darkness of the room, but I can feel the crispness of his leg hair on the back of my thighs, smell his clean male scent, and my own breathing speeds up, my heart pounding furiously in my chest as his cock grows even harder, pressing against my ass like the barrel of a gun.