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However, it’s not as hopeless as it could be. It sounds like Peter intends to let me contact my parents soon, and there’s a chance I might be able to communicate my location to them—and thus to the FBI. Also, I’m not tied up or otherwise restrained. From what I can tell, I have the freedom to roam around the house, which increases my odds of escape. If I’m smart and careful, I might even be able to steal some water and supplies, in case my mountain hike takes a couple of days.
All is not lost. One way or another, I will fix my mistake and return home.
In the meantime, I have to make sure I don’t make things worse by doing something stupid… like falling in love with my captor.
After breakfast, I go up to the bedroom and promptly fall asleep, the time change combined with a food coma making me drowsy despite my long nap on the plane. I wake up when I hear the chopper start, and through the giant window, I see it take off from the helipad next to the house.
A supply run? A work mission? I have no idea, but if Peter is gone with the chopper, that can only be a good thing.
Unfortunately, I see him downstairs when I come down a few minutes later, having splashed some water on my face in order to fully wake up. He’s sitting on a barstool behind the kitchen counter, frowning at something on a laptop screen. As I approach, I see headphones in his ears.
He’s listening to something on the computer.
Noticing me, he takes out the earbuds and presses a button on the keyboard—probably to pause whatever he was listening to.
“Is that the camera feed from my parents’ house?” I ask, and my heartbeat kicks up as Peter nods.
“Yes. The FBI visited them.” His expression is carefully neutral.
“And?” I sit down on a barstool next to him, my shoulders tensing. “What did they tell them?”
“It’s… interesting.” Peter’s eyes gleam as he turns to face me. “Looks like the story we gave your parents is consistent with the Feds’ suspicions.”
I stare at him, my pulse accelerating further. “They think I voluntarily went with you?”
He closes the laptop. “That seems to be the assumption they’re operating under, especially now that your parents told them about your phone call. But I think Ryson suspected your involvement with me before that, probably because you didn’t tell Karen about me in the locker room.”
My hands knot together on my lap. This is both good and bad. I don’t want the FBI to think I’m in cahoots with one of their most wanted, but at the same time, I’m relieved. This is infinitely better than my family believing I’ve been abducted. “So how did my parents react? Were they worried? Upset? Was my dad—”
“They took it well.” The hard line of Peter’s jaw softens a little. “They’re obviously shocked and disturbed that you’re involved with someone unsavory, but Ryson was very close-mouthed about who I am and why they’re after me. I think he’s worried about the story leaking out to the media.”
That makes sense. The FBI, or the CIA, or whoever had concocted the lie about the mafia being after my husband—they wouldn’t want to expose what really happened in Daryevo. If Peter is right about the mistake that led to his family’s massacre, the parties involved would fight tooth and nail to keep the truth from getting out.
The public tends to frown on the slaughter of innocent civilians.
“So my dad is okay?” I press, pushing aside the memory of the horrifying pictures on Peter’s phone. “He didn’t look sick or anything?”
“Both of your parents looked fine, perfectly healthy.” Peter’s expression warms further as his palms cover my tightly clenched hands. “They’ll be okay, ptichka. They’re strong, like you. And you’ll be able to contact them soon. Anton and Yan just left on a supply run, and when they return, we’ll have what we need to set up a secure connection. You’ll talk to your parents, reassure them, and they’ll be okay.” He squeezes my hands gently. “Everything will be okay.”
I pull my hands away, my eyes prickling with a sudden onslaught of emotion. This, right here, is what makes things so confusing. A man who abducts you isn’t supposed to care about your family, much less give a damn about your feelings. What Peter did to me—everything he did to me—are the actions of a cruel, selfish monster, yet when he’s with me, looking at me like this, it’s easy to believe that he loves me, that in his own strange, overpowering way, he wants to make me happy.
Pushing the dangerous thought away, I rein in my unruly emotions and focus on the topic at hand. “But what exactly did the FBI say? And how did my parents respond to what they told them? They must’ve had a ton of questions—”
