Tormentor Mine(71)

Fresh start, here I come.

My excitement lasts until the evening, when I get home and feel the emptiness of the house again. My dinner is another box from the freezer, and despite my best efforts, I can’t help thinking about Peter, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. It occurred to me yesterday that there could be another reason why he’s gone, and the thought has been gnawing at me ever since.

The authorities could’ve captured or killed him.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this possibility before yesterday, but now I can’t get it out of my mind. It would obviously be a good thing—I’d be truly safe if he were dead or in custody—but every time I think about it, my chest feels tight and heavy, and something bizarrely like tears prickles at my eyes.

I don’t want Peter Sokolov in my life, but I can’t bear the thought of him dead, either.

It’s stupid, so very stupid. Yes, we had sex that night—and he gave me orgasms more than once—but I’m not some virginal teenager who believes sleeping together means eternal love. The only feeling between us other than hatred is animal lust, an attraction of the most basic kind. That much I can accept; as a doctor, I know how potent biology can be, having seen the evidence of smart people making stupid decisions in the throes of passion. It’s disturbing that I wanted my husband’s killer on any level, but to fear for his wellbeing is something else.

Something far more insane.

I do not miss Peter, I tell myself as I toss and turn in my empty bed. Whatever loneliness I’m feeling is a function of too much stress and not enough time with my friends and family. Once a little more time passes, and the threat of my stalker is completely gone, I’ll go out with Marsha and the nurses and maybe even consider a date with Joe.

Okay, maybe not the latter—I turned him down when he called a few days ago, and I still can’t work up any regret—but I’ll definitely go out dancing again.

One way or another, my new life will start soon.





36





Peter



* * *



She’s sleeping when I enter the room, her slender body swaddled in a blanket from head to toe. Quietly, I turn on the lights and stop, my breath catching in my chest. During the past two weeks, as I lay recuperating from the stab wound I sustained in Mexico, I’ve entertained myself by watching her on the house cameras and devouring the Americans’ reports on her activities. I know everything she’s done, everyone she’s spoken to, all the places she’s gone. That should’ve lessened the feeling of separation, but seeing her like this, with her shiny chestnut hair spread over her pillow, steals the air from my lungs and sends a stab of longing through me.

My Sara. I missed her so fucking much.

I approach the bed, curling my hands into fists to contain the need to reach for her, to grab her and never let her go.

Two weeks. For two impossibly long weeks, I couldn’t return for her because I’d missed the knife hidden in one guard’s boot. Granted, I was dealing with another guard pointing an AR15 at me, but that’s no excuse for sloppiness.

I was distracted on the job, and that nearly cost me my life. An inch to the right, and I’d have been laid up way longer than two weeks. Maybe permanently.

“What the fuck, man?” Ilya grumbled as he and his brother patched me up after the mission was over. “He almost nicked your kidney. You have to watch your fucking back.”

“That’s what I have you two for,” I managed to say, and then the blood loss got the better of me, preventing me from explaining the reason for my distraction. It was just as well. The truth is, I missed the knife coming at me because, as I was staring down the barrel of the AR15, I thought not of my team or my mission, but of Sara and never seeing her again.

My obsession with her almost became my downfall.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I carefully pull the blanket off her. She’s sleeping naked, as always, and lust roars in my veins at the sight of her slim, graceful curves. She doesn’t wake up, just huffs like a disgruntled kitten at the loss of the blanket, and I feel something soft slither into my chest. My heart fills with a warm glow even as my cock stiffens further and my pulse picks up pace.

I have to have her. Now.

Getting up, I swiftly strip off my clothes and place them on the dresser, making sure my weapons are well hidden. The jerky movements pull at the fresh scar on my stomach, but I want her so much the pain scarcely registers. Putting on a condom, I climb into bed with her and roll her over onto her back, settling between her legs.

My touch wakes her up. Her eyelids fly open, her hazel eyes panicked and dazed at the same time, and I smile as I grasp her wrists and pin them by her shoulders. It’s a predatory smile, I know, but I can’t help myself.