If the assassin/stalker thing doesn’t work out, my tormentor could consider a career as a chef.
The thought is so ridiculous I snicker into my coffee, prompting Peter to look up from his plate, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“I was just thinking that you could do this professionally,” I explain, shoving a forkful of eggs into my mouth. Maybe this is another betrayal of George’s memory, but I can’t help remembering that my husband had never once made breakfast for me. A couple of times while we were dating, he attempted a romantic dinner—takeout Chinese with some candles—but otherwise, I either cooked or we went out.
“Thank you.” A smile touches Peter’s lips at my compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Uh-huh.” I focus on consuming what’s on my plate and trying not to flush as I recall how those sculpted lips felt on my neck, my breasts, my nipples… I want to believe that he caught me off-guard last night, that my response to him was the result of a sleep-clouded mind, but the excitement humming in my veins this morning belies that assumption.
Some sick part of me is glad to see him—and relieved that he’s alive.
Idiot, I chastise myself. Peter Sokolov is a wanted fugitive, a monster who took two lives in front of me after torturing me and killing George. A stalker whose presence in my life introduces innumerable complications and poses a threat to everyone around me.
It’s not just wrong to want him here; it’s downright pathological.
Still, as I finish my eggs and gulp down my coffee, I’m aware of a peculiar lightness in my chest. The house no longer feels huge and oppressive around me, the kitchen bright and warm instead of cold and threatening. He fills the space now, dominating it with his large body and the frightening force of his personality, and though he’s the last person I should want for companionship, I don’t feel the crushing pressure of loneliness when I’m with him.
A dog, I remind myself. All you need is a dog. And in the next breath, I realize there could be a problem with that—and with my new life plan in general.
“You know I’m moving out in a couple of weeks, right?” I say, putting down my empty cup. “I signed papers to sell the house.”
Peter’s expression doesn’t change. “Yes, I know.”
“Of course you do.” My hands curl on the table, my nails digging into my palms. “You probably had me watched while you were gone. Those eyes on me—that wasn’t my imagination, was it?”
“I couldn’t leave you unprotected,” he says with an unapologetic shrug.
“Right.” I take a breath and consciously relax my hands. “Well, I’m moving to an apartment soon, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to come and go like this—at least not without the neighbors seeing you every day. So you might as well find some other woman to torture and stalk. There are plenty who live in semi-rural areas.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “I’m sure there are. Too bad I don’t want any of them.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “Really? What about the rest of the people on your list? Or did you murder them all?”
“There’s one left, and he’s proving elusive so far,” he says, and I stare at him blankly before shaking my head.
I’m not prepared to go there today.
“Fine,” I say in an attempt to regroup. “So what’s it going to take for you to leave me alone?”
“A bullet to the brain or the heart,” he answers, unblinking, and my stomach lurches as I realize he’s completely serious.
He has no intention of walking away from me. Ever.
All the lightness and excitement fade, leaving me with the stark terror of my reality. No amount of delicious meals, mind-blowing orgasms, or tender cuddling makes up for the fact that I’m a de-facto prisoner of this lethal man, a killer who doesn’t blink at violence and torture. His obsession with me is as dangerous as the man himself, his feelings as twisted as the dark past we share.
A monster is fixated on me, and there’s no escape.
My legs are unsteady as I get up, pushing my chair back. “I have to go to work,” I say tightly, and before he can object, I grab my bag and hurry to the garage.
Peter makes no move to stop me, but as I’m getting into the car, he comes to stand in the doorway, his darkly handsome face set in an unreadable mask.
“I’ll see you when you get back,” he says as I start the car, and I know he means it.
My tormentor is back, and he’s not going away.
38
Sara
* * *
True to his word, Peter is there when I get home from work that day, and I’m so tired and stressed that I’m tempted to just give in and eat the dinner he made—a savory-smelling rice pilaf with mushrooms and peas. But I can’t. I can’t keep playing along with this madness, acting as though this is somehow normal.