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A bullet to the brain or the heart—that’s what he once told me it would take for him to leave me be. And I know it’s true. For as long as my tormentor is alive, I’ll never be free of him. Even if I somehow managed to escape, he’d come after me. So I should hope he gets killed—shot or blown apart by one of those bombs. Then his teammates might return me home, and my old life could resume.
I could have it all back if he were dead.
It’s what I should want, but instead, dread and anxiety consume me. The thought of Peter hurt in any way is unbearable, even more so today than the night he stole me. Over the past six weeks, I’ve done everything I can to rein in my emotions, to respond to him in physical ways only, but I’ve clearly failed.
Whatever messed-up feelings I developed for my husband’s killer are still there; if anything, they’ve grown during my captivity.
Feeling increasingly ill, I grab a towel and rub it over my wet face. My stomach is a giant knot, and I can feel the blood pulsing in my temples as I drag shallow breaths into my tightening ribcage. The face reflected in the bathroom mirror is chalk white, with red splotches where I rubbed too harshly with the towel.
Tomorrow, Peter could be killed.
“Sara?” A knock on the door startles me, and I drop the towel, pivoting to face the doorway.
“Ptichka, are you okay?” Peter’s deep voice holds a note of worry.
My lungs are still not functioning properly, but I manage to gulp in a breath and choke out, “I’m fine. Just one sec.”
Grabbing the towel from the floor with shaking hands, I throw it into the laundry hamper in the corner and smooth my palms over my hair, trying to calm down. My panic attacks have all but subsided in recent weeks, and I don’t want Peter to know that I unraveled just from hearing about the dangers he’ll face.
Taking several deep breaths, I walk over to the door and unlock it. Peter immediately steps in, a worried frown creasing his forehead as his gaze rakes me over in search of injuries.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry. Just got a stomachache,” I say in an almost steady voice. “I’m fine, though.”
Peter’s frown deepens. “Is it that time of the month?”
“No, just—” I stop and do some mental calculations. To my surprise, he’s right. My last period was nearly four weeks ago—which does explain some of what I’m feeling.
“Actually, yes,” I say, relieved to grab on to the excuse. “I didn’t realize that, but yes, that must be it.”
Some of the tension leaves Peter’s face. “My poor ptichka. Come here.” Reaching over, he pulls me into his embrace, and I wrap my arms around his waist, breathing in his warm scent as he strokes my hair. The worst of my panic is easing, the solid, muscular feel of him lessening my anxiety, but the dread about tomorrow refuses to go away.
What if he gets killed?
“Do you want to lie down?” Peter murmurs after a moment, pulling back to gaze down at me, and I shake my head. My chest is still too tight, and my stomach is cramping for real, but being alone with my worry would only exacerbate the situation.
Stepping out of his hold, I manage a small smile. “I’m okay. Sorry if I ruined dinner. Everything was delicious.”
There are still traces of worry in his gaze, but he nods, accepting my words at face value. “Do you want some dessert?” he asks. “It’s apple pie. I can bring it up here for you, if you’re not feeling up to—”
“No, I’ll come down. I have to take an Advil anyway.”
And taking a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom, determined to do whatever it takes to distract myself from thoughts about tomorrow.
24
Peter
When we get to the kitchen, Sara’s demeanor changes so suddenly it’s as if someone flipped a switch, turning on a different personality. A kind of frenetic energy seems to take hold of her, and after she gulps down two Advils, she starts rushing around the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and getting fresh plates for dessert with the speed of someone racing to catch a train.
“I got this, ptichka. Just relax,” I tell her, guiding her to her chair when she tries to grab the pie out of the oven without mitts. “You’re not feeling well, so just take it easy.”
“I’m fine,” she protests, but I ignore her, carefully taking the pie out of the oven myself and carrying it to the table while the guys watch the whole thing in bemusement.
Sara sits still for a few moments, letting me cut the pie into five pieces, and then she jumps up again. “Here, let me serve it,” she says, grabbing Ilya’s plate. Then, apparently realizing she doesn’t have the right utensils, she runs over to the kitchenware drawer and returns with a spatula.
