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“No, but—”
“But nothing! Even if he waterboards her every night, it’s none of our fucking business. I was doing him a favor, and now we’ll be lucky if we don’t end up on his list.”
“Lucas, please.” The exotically named woman—Kent’s wife, the beautiful blonde, I now recall—sounds even more upset. “It was a freak accident, nothing more. He’ll understand. Let me talk to him, explain what happened—”
“No.” Kent’s voice is grimly resolute. “I don’t want him to know you were in any way involved. You’re flying back home before he gets here. And I’m going to borrow a few dozen guards from Esguerra until we can hire more of our own.”
“But what about you?” Kent’s wife asks, her worried tone intensifying the nauseating pain in my head. Wincing, I try to shift into a more comfortable position—and have to choke back a cry as agony explodes in my left shoulder.
“I’m going to stay here until he lands,” Kent says as I take shallow breaths to manage the blaze of pain. I want to open my eyes, but something is preventing it, and I don’t dare move my arms again to find out what it is.
“What if he tries to kill you?” Kent’s wife argues. “If you’re right and he won’t listen—”
“I’m keeping a dozen guards with me, and besides, he’ll have her to worry about.” I can feel his attention shift to me, and then Kent says, “I think I just saw her move. The painkillers must be wearing off. Get the nurses in here, quickly.”
I hear rapid footsteps, and a minute later, I’m floating in fuzzy nothingness again.
The next time I resurface, it’s to a soft feminine hand stroking my hair. It feels good, especially since my head feels like a concrete-filled balloon.
“I’m so sorry, Sara,” a woman murmurs, and this time, her name comes to me. Yulia—that’s what Kent’s wife is called. “I have to leave now, but I want you to know how sorry I am. I thought you’d have more time to get away, but Lucas suspected I might try to help you and he set up some additional perimeter alarms. I’m so sorry. I never intended this to happen. I hope you believe me.”
I open my mouth to thank her, but I end up coughing painfully instead. My throat is desert dry, and the heavy balloon that is my head throbs with agony. There also seems to be something across my face that’s preventing me from opening my eyes. A thick bandage on my forehead, maybe?
“Here. You must be thirsty.” A straw touches my lips, and I latch on to it, greedily sucking down the tepid liquid.
“What happened? Where am I?” I croak out when I’ve drained the cup of water. My voice is weak and hoarse, but at least I can speak again.
“You’re in a private clinic in Switzerland,” Yulia explains gently. “You were in a car accident. Do you remember?”
I nod and immediately regret it. “Yes,” I gasp out when the agonizing wave of pain passes. “There was a dog and—”
“Yes, that’s right.” She sounds relieved. Is it because I have a head injury? I wonder how bad it is, and then tense, my lungs seizing as I recall something far more important.
Frantically, I ask, “Where’s Peter? Is he—”
“I’m afraid so,” Yulia says, and my heart crumbles at the genuine regret in her voice. “I’m sorry,” she continues in the same tone. “He’s on his way back. There was nothing I could do.”
My lungs expand on a shaking breath. “You mean he’s… all right?” My voice is strained, my extremities tingling from a violent spike of adrenaline. “He didn’t get hurt?”
There is a moment of silence. Then Yulia says slowly, “No, he didn’t. Sara… did you just ask me this because you’re afraid that he didn’t get hurt—or that he did?” At my confused nonresponse, she clarifies, “Do you have feelings for this man?”
I moisten my cracked lips, aware of an unwelcome creep of guilt. I didn’t mean to lie to Yulia or take advantage of her kindness, but that’s essentially what I did when I emphasized the negative aspects of my complex relationship with Peter.
Not only did I fail to get away, but I got her into a world of trouble. The worst part, however, is that I’m secretly relieved I failed, glad I wasn’t able to escape Peter and the future I both want and dread.
“It’s… complicated,” I finally say, echoing her words from that day.
She inhales sharply and stands up. “I see.”
“Yulia, wait,” I say as I hear her footsteps, but it’s too late.
She’s gone, and before long, the drugs claim me again.
52
Peter
A dislocated shoulder and a gash on her forehead.
Logically, I know neither of those injuries is life-threatening, but as I look at Sara in the hospital bed, her pale face bruised all over and half-covered by a bandage, fear and rage churn in my chest, defying all attempts at logic.
