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My pulse jumps violently. “What do you mean?”
“Tonight’s phone call with your parents, for instance.” His hands are gentle on my shoulders, even as his eyes gleam darkly. “It doesn’t have to happen, you know. Nor does any further contact with anyone from your old life. You could just disappear, make a clean break. That might be even better in some ways. You’d adapt faster if you didn’t have constant reminders of what you lost, and—”
“No.” The word bursts out of me as my stomach twists in panic, the sandwich I just ate threatening to come back up as I imploringly grip his shirt. “Please, Peter, don’t do this. I have to talk to my parents. I have to reassure them. They’re too old to worry like this. My dad’s heart can’t take it—you know that.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Do I? I let you speak to them on the plane, and maybe that was a mistake. You insist I kidnapped you, took you against your will. If that’s the case—if you’re my captive and nothing more—why should I take the risk of letting you contact anyone? If you’re just my prisoner, why would I go to the trouble and expense of reassuring your family?”
I stare up at him, my breathing shallow as my hands fall limply to my sides. I understand what he wants now—what he’s always wanted from me—and I know that once more, I have no choice but to comply.
“You said—” My voice breaks as acidic tears burn the back of my eyes. “You said that I’m your woman, that you love me. So I’m not just your prisoner, right?”
Peter’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know, Sara. That’s up to you.” He releases my shoulders and steps back. “I will let you think about it as you clean up. The vacuum and the cleaning supplies are in the pantry downstairs.”
And turning, he leaves the room.
The guest room is spotless by the time I’m done with it, the bed perfectly made up and clear of the tiniest bits of crumbs and broken ceramic. Housework is not something I enjoy, partially because it takes me forever due to my perfectionist tendencies, but the end result is usually a good one.
In another life, I would’ve made a decent housewife.
When I’m satisfied with the cleanliness of the room, I bring the vacuum downstairs and go looking for Peter. It’s strange, but I feel a bit calmer after his ultimatum. We’re back to where we were when his threat to kidnap me was hanging over my head, except it’s even simpler now.
No matter what Peter says, I am his prisoner, and I only have one choice.
Play along and give him what he wants until I can escape.
I find my captor outside, sparring with Ilya on a small clearing near the house. Despite the chilly weather, both men are shirtless, their broad, muscular torsos gleaming with sweat as they circle around the clearing, occasionally lashing out at each other with a lightning-fast strike. Their movements remind me of martial arts, though I can’t pinpoint any specific style. Whatever it is, though, it’s savagely beautiful, and I stop, mesmerized despite myself as Peter ducks under Ilya’s swinging fist and launches a furious counterattack, moving so fast I can barely follow with my eyes.
They must’ve been just warming up before, because what follows is a blur of nonstop action. I’m pretty sure Peter lands a hard kick to Ilya’s ribcage, and I catch Peter using his forearm to block a blow from Ilya that could’ve felled a bear. Other than that, the fight progresses at such a furious pace that I can’t discern each individual movement, much less figure out who’s winning or losing. All I see are two powerful male animals, their muscles coiling and rippling as violence heats the air around them.
After about a minute, they stop and spring apart, panting as they circle each other, and I see blood trickling down Ilya’s cheekbone. I can’t spot any blood on Peter, so I guess that makes him the winner of that insane round. I’m not surprised. Even though Ilya is built like a tank, he lacks Peter’s lethal grace, that certain something that makes my captor so deadly. I have no doubt the bald-headed Russian can kill as well as anyone—just one well-placed strike from that huge fist would probably do it—but Peter comes across as more dangerous, more ruthless.
In a fight to the death, my money would be on Peter any day of the week.
I debate saying something to alert the men to my presence, but before I can do so, Peter glances in my direction and stops in his tracks. “Sara?”
“Um, yeah.” I take a breath to calm my racing heartbeat. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was just wondering if you could put the videos of my parents up on that TV for me. Whenever you’re done here, I mean—no rush.”
