The bed dips as he rises to his feet, and I hear footsteps as he walks out of the room. A couple of minutes later, he returns with Advil and a glass of water. I pry open my swollen eyelids long enough to swallow the medicine, and then I close my eyes again, waiting for the violent drumbeat in my skull to quiet to a manageable roar.
I expect him to leave then, or to get in bed with me, or whatever he was planning to do, but instead, I hear the bathroom door open, and a minute later, a cool, wet towel covers my eyes and forehead, bringing with it a welcome sliver of relief.
Once again, he’s taking care of me, giving me comfort when I need it most.
The tears return, trickling out from under the towel as he tucks the blanket around me and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand slipping under my neck to massage the tense muscles in my nape. It’s torture of a different kind, this tender care of his. It soothes my headache but intensifies the searing pain in my chest. I’ve been fooling myself when I called what we have a sick fantasy. It might be sick, but it’s real, and when he’s gone, I will miss him, just like I missed him when he went to Mexico. It’s not love I feel for him—love can’t be this dark, this illogical and insane—but it is something.
Something other than hate, something deep and disturbingly addictive.
A dog barks in the distance, and I hear a car door slam. It’s most likely my neighbors on the next block over, but my heart still jumps, my stomach churning as I picture a SWAT team busting through my door and gunning down Peter at my bedside. It plays like a movie in my mind: the black-clad figures rushing in, the bullets tearing through the bedsheets, the pillows, his chest, his skull…
Bile surges up my throat, my head all but exploding with agony.
Oh God, I can’t do it.
I can’t stay quiet and let it happen.
“Peter…” My voice trembles as I ball my hands under the blanket. I know I will regret this in a thousand different ways, but I can’t stop the words from spilling out. “You’ve been spotted. They’re coming for you.”
His hand on my nape stills mid-stroke, then resumes its gentle massage.
“I know, ptichka,” he murmurs, and I feel his lips brush against my wet cheek as something cold and hard pricks my neck. “I know they are.”
Lethargy rushes through my veins, and with strange relief, I realize that this is it.
He knew about the FBI all along.
He knew, and I’ll never be free again.
45
Peter
* * *
“Hurry,” Anton hisses from the passenger-side front window as I approach the SUV, carrying Sara’s blanket-wrapped body against my chest. “Did you not get any of my messages? They’re less than ten blocks out.”
I tighten my grip on my human bundle. “I couldn’t leave until I learned what I needed.”
“What’s that?” Yan asks, opening the back door from the inside. He scoots over, and I climb in, being careful not to bump Sara’s head as I bring her into the car.
It’s bad enough she had a headache when I drugged her.
Ignoring Yan’s question, I settle Sara’s unconscious figure between us and shut the door before catching Ilya’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “To the airport. Make it fast.”
“On it,” Ilya mutters, slamming on the gas, and we torpedo forward, zooming down the quiet suburban street.
“What did you need to learn?” Yan persists, glancing at Sara’s face—the only part of her not wrapped in the blanket. With her thick lashes fanning out over pale cheeks, she looks like a sleeping Disney princess, and I don’t blame my teammate for the flicker of interest on his face.
I don’t blame him, but I still want to kill him.
“Something to do with her?” he continues, oblivious, then looks up at my face and blanches.
“Yes.” My voice is jagged ice. “Something to do with her.”
He nods, wisely looking away, and I wrap my arm around Sara’s shoulders, arranging her comfortably against me. In the distance, I hear sirens, accompanied by the roar of helicopter blades, but despite the approaching danger, I feel calm and content.
No, more than content—happy.
Sara warned me.
She chose me, when she had every reason not to. She might not love me yet, but she doesn’t hate me, and as I hold her tight, breathing in the delicate fragrance of her hair, I’m certain that one day, she will love me—that one day I’ll have all of her.
She warned me—she chose to be mine—and now she’ll stay that way.
I love her, and I’m going to keep her.
No matter what it takes.
* * *
THE END