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I’m being extra polite to make up for my earlier outburst. The truth is, I’m dying to watch those videos and make sure my parents are okay, but I won’t gain anything by making demands. If there’s anything I learned in that guest room, it’s that Peter Sokolov still holds all the power in this fucked-up relationship of ours. Even when I think I have nothing left to lose, my tormentor finds a weakness, a way to manipulate me without hurting me outright—physically, at least.
Emotionally, he’s destroyed me ten times over.
“It’s fine,” Ilya says and gives a wide grin that exposes blood on his teeth. “I think we’re done for today, anyway.”
Peter doesn’t so much as glance at him; all his focus is on me. “Did you clean the room?” he asks, slicking back his sweat-dampened hair. His muscles flex as he lowers his arm, and I catch myself staring at the droplet of sweat running down his flat, ridged abdomen.
Stop it, Sara. Do not ogle your kidnapper.
With effort, I bring my gaze back to Peter’s face. “All done.” I keep my voice calm despite the clear provocation in his words. “You can check it if you want.”
He stares at me for a second, then nods. “All right then. Let’s go.”
He comes toward me, and I flush as Ilya grins at the possessive way Peter grips my arm. It’s irrational, but what Peter and I share feels private, like some kind of secret between the two of us. Obviously, Peter’s men are fully aware of the twisted nature of my relationship with their boss—they helped him stalk and kidnap me, after all—but some part of me still cringes at the knowledge that they’re seeing me like this. Maybe it’s my aversion to airing dirty laundry in public, but I’d almost rather they thought I was Peter’s girlfriend, here of my own free will.
Ignoring his sparring partner, Peter leads me toward the house, keeping his restraining hold on my arm. He’s still angry with me, I can feel it, and I’m relieved he’s carrying out his promise about the videos.
With any luck, by the time the rest of his men return from their supply run, he’ll cool down enough to let me talk to my parents.
When we get to the living room, he releases my arm and goes straight to his laptop. Two minutes later, the videos are on the big TV screen in front of me.
“Enjoy,” he says curtly and disappears up the stairs.
By the time he returns, I’m halfway through the recording. It’s just as Peter told me: for the most part, the FBI agents questioned my parents and avoided answering their questions in return. I can tell that both my mom and dad were stressed and upset, but neither one looked physically ill, at least on the grainy video feed.
“Tell me again how Sara explained stopping the house sale,” Agent Ryson says to my mom as Peter sits down on the couch next to me, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He must’ve showered after his brutal workout, because I smell a faint hint of soap as he reaches across the couch and picks up my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine.
It takes everything I have not to react to that small intimacy and keep my focus on the video. Partially, it’s because I don’t even know how to react. Should I be glad that he seems to have forgiven my infraction in the guest room? Or should I be upset that the gesture, as simple as it is, makes my chest ache with the same dangerously warm feeling that landed me in this predicament?
“So she never told you that the sale actually went through?” Ryson presses after my mom recounts our sushi lunch conversation almost word for word. “She never explained how it was that she was able to stay in her home after a shell corporation from South Africa purchased the house from the original buyers for double the market price?”
My parents launch into frantic denials mixed with questions and possible explanations, and I watch with a sick feeling in my stomach as my dad’s face turns purple before my mom forces him to sit and calm down.
“He’s going to be fine,” Peter says, his deep voice reassuring, and I realize I’m squeezing his hand so hard my fingers are going numb. I must be hurting him too, but he’s not pulling his hand away. The harsh expression he’s been wearing all afternoon is gone, his gray eyes regarding me with a warm light as he adds quietly, “I saw the rest of this video, and I promise you, he’s fine.”
I nod, pathetically grateful for the reassurance, and turn my attention back to the video feed, where the agents have returned to the topic of my phone call, drilling my mom about the exact words I used to talk about my trip. It’s clear they suspect I’ve been lying to the FBI all along, though I have no idea if they consider me simply brainwashed or Peter’s accomplice from the very beginning.
