“We do a lot of work for the cartels and other powerful organizations and individuals,” he tells me as we polish off the lamb. “The Mexico job, for instance, was a case of one cartel leader hiring us to eliminate his rival so he could move into his territory. Other clients of ours include Russian oligarchs, dictators of various flavors, Middle Eastern royals, and a few of the better-run mafia organizations. Sometimes, if we’re between jobs, we’ll take on some smaller gigs, dealing with local thugs and such, but those pay next to nothing so we consider them pro-bono work, a way for us to stay sharp in downtime.”
“Right, pro bono.” I don’t try to hide my sarcasm. “Like my work at the clinic.”
“Exactly like that,” Peter says, and grins. He knows he’s shocking me, and he’s doing it on purpose. It’s a game he plays sometimes, horrifying me and then seducing me into welcoming his touch despite the revulsion I feel—or should feel.
It’s part of the sickness of our relationship that almost nothing he says or does has any lasting effect on my desire for him. My inability to resist him is a bleeding ulcer in my chest, and I can’t heal it no matter what I do. Each time I eat the food he makes, each time I sleep in his arms and find pleasure in his touch, the wound reopens, leaving me sick with shame and crippled with self-loathing.
I’m living in domestic bliss with my husband’s murderer, and it’s not nearly as terrible as it should be.
Part of the issue is that after our first time, Peter hasn’t hurt me. Not physically, at least. I feel the violence within him, but when he touches me, he’s careful to control himself, to stop the darkness from spilling out. It helps that I can’t fight him outright; with his kidnapping threat hanging over my head, I have no choice but to comply with his demands—or so I tell myself.
It’s the only way I can justify what’s happening, how I’m beginning to need the man I hate.
If all he wanted from me was sex, it would be easy, but Peter seems determined to take care of me as well. From the romantic home-cooked meals to the nightly cuddling, I’m showered with attention, pampered and even groomed at times. We don’t go out on dates—I assume because he doesn’t want to show his face in public—but with the way he treats me, I could easily be his highly spoiled girlfriend.
“Why do you like doing this?” I ask when he’s brushing my hair after washing me in the shower. “Is this some kind of weird kink of yours?”
He shoots me an amused look in the mirror. “Maybe. With you, it seems to be, for sure.”
“No, but seriously, what do you get out of this? You know I’m not a child, right?”
Peter’s mouth tightens, and I realize I inadvertently hit a nerve. We don’t speak about his family much, but I know that his son was only a toddler when he was killed. Could it be that in some twisted way, I’m a substitute for his dead family? That he fixated on me because he needed to care for someone… anyone?
Could my Russian killer need love so much he’d settle for its perversion?
It’s a tantalizing thought, especially since by the end of the second week, I find myself growing addicted to the comfort and pleasure Peter provides. At the end of a long shift, I physically crave the neck and foot rubs he often gives me, and it’s a struggle not to salivate each time I pull into the garage and smell the delicious aromas from the kitchen.
I’m not only becoming used to my stalker’s presence in my life; I’m starting to enjoy it.
Or at least some parts of it. I’m still far from enthusiastic about the bodyguards who follow me wherever I go. I almost never see them, but I can sense them watching me, and it both unsettles and irritates me.
“I’m not going to run, you know,” I tell Peter when we lie in bed one night. “You can call off your watchdogs.”
“They’re there for your protection,” he says, and I know it’s something he has no intention of compromising on. For whatever reason, he’s convinced that I’m in some kind of danger, something that he, of all people, needs to protect me from.
“What are you afraid of?” I ask, tracing the hard ridges of his abs with my finger. “Do you think some madman might invade my home? Maybe waterboard me and kill my husband?”
I glance up to find him grinning, as though I said something funny.
“What?” I say, goaded. “You think this is a joke?”
His expression turns serious. “No, ptichka. I don’t think that at all. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for hurting you that time. I should’ve found another way.”