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There’s just no way out.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Sara,” Peter says quietly, and I look up to find him watching me, his gaze oddly sympathetic. It’s as if he understands, as if he empathizes on some level. Except if he did, he wouldn’t do this.

He wouldn’t destroy my life to satisfy his obsession.

“Not like this?” I ask hollowly, stopping in front of a fallen tree. We need to climb over it, and I lack the energy to do so. “Then how? How do you envision this working?”

His lips twist as he releases my hand and turns to face me. “You can just give in, ptichka. Accept what is between us.”

“And what is that?”

“This.” He lifts his hand to stroke my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his touch, seeking the magnetic warmth of his fingers.

Feeling the perverse need pulsing in my core.

I should pull away, jerk out of his reach, but I’m too tired to move. Too tired to protest as he bends his head and presses his lips to mine, his kiss soft and gentle, so tender it makes me want to weep.

He kisses me like I’m something precious, something rare and beautiful. Like he wants me more than life itself. My eyes drift shut and my hands come up, clutching at his shoulders as he deepens the kiss, inhaling my air and feeding my need.

What if you do give in?

It doesn’t seem so wrong in this moment. Not when I’m so weary and lost, so utterly devoid of hope. He’s the cause of my despair, yet everything is warmer and brighter with his touch, more bearable with his affection.

What if you do accept it?

The question circles through my mind, taunting me, teasing me with possibilities. What would it be like if I stopped fighting? If I let go of my old life and embraced my new? Because at this moment, it doesn’t seem so crazy that he could love me, that we could share something meaningful and real.

That if I let myself forget the things he’s done, I could maybe love him too.

“Sara,” he breathes, lifting his head, and in his heated gaze, I see the future we could have. The one where we’re not enemies, where the past doesn’t paint our present in shades of black.

I see it and I want it—and that’s what terrifies me most.

“Let me go.” Somewhere, I find the strength to pull away, to reject the dark lure of his affection. “Please, Peter, stop.”

His gaze cools and hardens, molten silver turning to cold steel. Without another word, he takes my hand and resumes leading me up the mountain, back to my prison.

Back to our new home.

We walk up the trail for another hour and a half before I begin stumbling over every root and stone, my legs so heavy with exhaustion I literally can’t lift my feet. Going up is ten times more difficult than going down, and after pushing myself to the limits earlier today, I can’t keep up any longer.

Gulping in icy air, I sink down on a big rock. “I need… a break,” I wheeze out, bending in half. There’s a sharp cramp in my side, and my lungs burn like I just ran ten miles. “Just a… few minutes.”

“Here, drink.” Peter sits down next to me, looking as cool and fresh as if we’ve been leisurely strolling all this time. Unzipping his jacket, he hands me a new water bottle and says, “I know you’re tired, but we can’t slow down. A storm is expected tonight, and we need to be home before then.”

I gulp down most of the water before giving him back the bottle. “A storm?”

“Rain and sleet, mixed with snow at higher altitudes.” He finishes off the water and stuffs the empty bottle back inside his jacket. “We don’t want to get caught in that.”

“Okay.” I still haven’t caught my breath, but I force myself to stand. “Let’s go.”

Peter rises to his feet, studying me with a faint frown. Then he turns around and says, “Climb onto my back.”

An incredulous laugh bubbles up my throat. “What?”

“I said, ‘Climb onto my back.’ I will carry you.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t carry me that distance. We still have a solid three hours of hiking—maybe four or five, since we’re going uphill.”

“Stop arguing and get on my back.” He gives me a hard look over his shoulder. “You’re too tired to walk, and this is the easiest way to carry you.”

I hesitate, then decide to do as he says. If he wants to exhaust himself by giving me a piggyback ride, who am I to argue? “Okay.” With the last of my strength, I clamber onto the rock and from there onto his broad back, gripping his shoulders as I circle his waist with my legs.

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