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“Go down before the eggs get cold,” I say in a strained voice, unzipping my jeans to adjust the painful pressure in my pants. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
She turns and flees before I finish speaking, and I close my eyes, taking deep breaths and thinking of Siberian winters to make my hard-on subside.
7
Sara
When I get downstairs, Peter’s teammates are already sitting at the rectangular wooden table, their eyes fixed longingly on the large frying pan sitting in the middle. One of them—the one dressed all in black, with shoulder-length hair and a thick dark beard—looks up as I approach.
“Where is Peter?” he asks, frowning. His Russian accent is only slightly more pronounced than Peter’s. “Food is getting cold.”
“He’s coming,” I say, the heat in my cheeks intensifying as the bearded man’s eyebrows crawl up. He can probably tell what happened upstairs by my swollen lips, if not my shaky inner state. My knees were literally trembling as I walked down the steps, and I’m grateful that Peter’s shirt is loose and thick, concealing the hard points of my nipples.
If my kidnapper had chosen to fuck me, I wouldn’t have been able to say no, and the knowledge fills me with burning shame.
“Anton, you’re being rude,” a tall, brown-haired man says with a smooth smile. Unlike his bearded colleague, who could’ve stepped straight out of an action flick about assassins, this guy wouldn’t look out of place in a law firm. His short brown hair is fashionably cut, his face is clean-shaven, and I’d bet a hundred bucks that his subtly striped button-up shirt and gray dress slacks are custom made. Only his cool green eyes bely the neat corporate image; they’re hard and emotionless, untouched by the smile that curves his lips.
“You forgot to introduce yourself,” the well-dressed man continues, speaking to Anton with a similarly slight accent. Turning toward me, he gestures at his bearded friend and says, “Sara, meet Anton Rezov. He used to fly anything with a motor at our old job, and he’s still occasionally useful now. And I’m Yan Ivanov. Oh, and this is my brother, Ilya.”
I turn my attention to the third guy, Yan’s brother, and realize he’s the one who spoke to me earlier, explaining why this place makes a good hideout. He looks the scariest of them all, with a thick bodybuilder-like torso, a shaved skull covered by tattoos, and an oversize jaw that makes me think of a gorilla. But when he smiles at me, the corners of his green eyes crinkle, softening the harshness of his features.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cobakis,” he says with a slightly thicker accent and gets up to pull out a chair for me.
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too,” I say, sitting down in the chair. I should hate each of these men—after all, they’re accessories to my kidnapping and the murder of my husband—but something about the Russian’s genuine smile and the respectful way he addressed me makes it impossible to turn my anger on him.
I’ll reserve it all for the man who’s coming down the stairs at this very moment, his handsome face dark and closed off.
“Finally,” Anton says with relish when Peter reaches the table and takes a seat next to me. Reaching for the pan in the center of the table, Anton cuts out a chunk of the omelet and puts it onto his plate. “I’m so ready to eat.”
“Help yourself.” Peter’s voice is filled with sarcasm that seems to go over Anton’s head. The Ivanov brothers display better table manners, waiting until Peter puts a portion onto my plate and then his own before splitting up the remainder.
We eat in silence, demolishing the omelet in a matter of minutes, and then Peter gets up and slices up a few oranges. “Dessert?” he asks tersely, and the guys eagerly jump on the offer. I don’t say anything, but Peter brings me a bowl with a sliced-up orange anyway.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. Even in this fucked-up situation, the rules of politeness drummed into me since childhood are hard to break. Reaching into the bowl, I fish out a slice of orange and bite into it, relishing the sweet, refreshing juiciness. I must’ve had low blood sugar on top of everything else, because now that I’ve eaten, I’m feeling a tiny bit better, the hollow feeling of despair dissipating enough to let me think.
Yes, at first glance, my situation is not the best. As we were flying in, I didn’t see anything resembling civilization in the immediate vicinity of this mountain, just cliffs and thick forests, with snow still covering some of the mountaintops nearby. Even if I manage to escape from the four assassins, hiking out of here won’t be easy. I’ve gone camping exactly once in my life, and I’m far from a wilderness expert. Not to mention, if I do reach some farm or village nearby, I’ll still face the challenge of communicating my situation to people who might not speak a word of English.
