Tormentor Mine(76)

If my stalker is not going to leave me alone, there’s no point in my compliance. I might as well make things as difficult for him as I can.

Ignoring the table he set, I go upstairs while he’s pouring us wine. Entering the bedroom, I lock the door and go into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

I’ve tried everything except outright resistance, and I’m desperate enough to try that.

Face freshly washed, I come out and sit down on the bed, waiting to see what’s going to happen next. I have no intention of unlocking that door and letting him in, or of cooperating in any way.

I’m done playing house with a monster. If he wants me, he’s going to have to force me.

My stomach growls with hunger, and I kick myself for not eating before coming here. I was just so frazzled from thinking about Peter all day that I drove home on autopilot, my mind occupied with my impossible situation. Now that I know about his team and their assassination missions, I’m even less convinced that the FBI would be able to protect me if I went to them.

I don’t think anyone can protect me from him.

A knock on the bedroom door drags me out of my despairing thoughts.

“Come down, ptichka,” Peter says from the other side. “Dinner is getting cold.”

My whole body tenses, but I don’t respond.

Another knock. Then the door handle rattles. “Sara.” Peter’s voice hardens. “Open the door.”

I get up, too unsettled to sit still, but I make no move toward the door.

“Sara. Open this door. Now.”

I remain standing, my hands flexing at my sides. Before coming home, I considered getting a weapon, but I remembered what he told me about his men monitoring his vitals and dismissed the idea. I don’t know how the monitoring works, but it’s entirely possible he’s wearing some kind of device that measures his pulse and/or blood pressure. Maybe even an implant. I’ve heard of things like that, though I’ve never encountered them. In any case, if what Peter told me is true, I can’t hurt him in any meaningful way without risking my own life and possibly the lives of those close to me.

Men who kill for money wouldn’t hesitate to avenge their boss in the most brutal ways.

“You have five seconds to open this door.”

Fighting a sense of déjà vu, I sink my teeth into my lower lip but keep still, even as my heart thuds sickly and cold sweat pours down my spine. As much as I don’t want him to hurt me, I don’t want to live like this either, too afraid to stand up for myself, meekly going along with a madman’s demands. The last time I locked a door on him, I was in shock, so overwhelmed and terrified from seeing him kill those two men that I acted on autopilot. Now, however, my action is deliberate.

I need to know how far he’ll go, what he’s willing to do to get his way.

He doesn’t count out loud this time, so I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five… I wait for his kick to rattle the door, but instead, I hear footsteps heading down the hall.

The breath I’m holding escapes in a relieved whoosh. Is it possible? Could he have given up and decided to leave me alone tonight? I wouldn’t have expected that, but he’s surprised me before. Maybe his reluctance to force me still holds; maybe he’s drawing a line at breaking down the bedroom door and—

The footsteps return, and the door handle rattles again before something metallic scratches against it. My heart skips a beat, then resumes its furious thudding.

He’s picking the lock on the door.

The cool deliberateness of that action is somehow scarier than if he’d simply kicked down the door. My tormentor is not acting out of anger; he’s fully in control and knows exactly what he’s doing.

The metallic scratching lasts for less than a minute. I know because I watch the blinking numbers on the alarm clock on my nightstand. Then the door swings open, and Peter steps in, his gait radiating restrained rage and his face set in cold, hard lines.

Fighting the urge to run, I raise my chin and stare up at him as he stops in front of me, his big body towering over my much shorter frame.

“Come to dinner.” His voice is quiet, soft even, but I hear the pulsing darkness underneath. He’s hanging on to his control by a thread, and if I had any hope left, I’d back down out of self-preservation. But I’m all out of strategies, and at some point, self-preservation has to take a back seat to self-respect.

Recklessly, I shake my head. “I’m not doing this.”

His nostrils flare. “Doing what? Eating?”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl again, and I flush at the unfortunate timing. “I’m not eating with you,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “Nor am I sleeping with you—or doing anything else for that matter.”