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I accepted his evil, embraced it to the point that I agreed to marry him of my own free will. Even after Ryson’s visit, I wasn’t going to reject Peter, though he interpreted it that way. I was just still reeling from Ryson’s verbal lashing, and my instinct was to plead for time.
I would’ve gone through with the wedding—just on another day.
“It’s not that, Mom,” I say as her eyes skim over my face, looking for any hint of doubt. “I love Peter, and I want to marry him. I was simply not feeling well.”
Her gaze drops to the phone I’m holding. “What did he tell you?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“That big driver of yours who came—he gave you that phone. I assume to call Peter, right? So what did your fiancé tell you?”
“Nothing. He just reminded me of the time. And speaking of which”—I pointedly look at the phone’s lit-up screen—“we really need to go.”
Mom searches my face for a few more moments, then nods. “All right, darling. If that’s what you want, let’s go. We have a wedding to attend.”
66
Sara
I must zone out on the way because the ride to Silver Lake seems to take just a few seconds. Blinking, I come out of the car to the cheers of some guests, and my gaze falls on a tall, dark figure standing a dozen feet away.
Peter.
My enemy.
My stalker.
My lover.
My husband-to-be.
His eyes are like gray tar, reflecting nothing, but I can sense the volatile emotions within him, feel the coiled violence masked by that predator-like stillness. Still, I can’t help but drink him in, running my gaze over the powerful lines of his body. I’ve never seen him dressed so formally before, but it suits him, the sleek tuxedo emphasizing the V-shape of his torso and the crisp white shirt making his tan skin glow.
He’s magnificent, as striking as any movie star, and despite the continued turmoil within me, a prickle of heat runs over my skin, the reaction as primal and uncontrollable as the accompanying frisson of fear.
I might’ve saved others by showing up, but I’ll pay for that delay.
Peter won’t let my moment of weakness slide.
I hold his gaze as I approach, and he extends his hand, his mouth curved in a mocking half-smile. I place my hand in his big palm and feel the warmth of it all the way down to my toes—which I’m only now realizing feel as icy as my fingers.
“Hello, ptichka,” he murmurs and bends his head to place a gentle kiss on my lips. Around us, I hear a few “awwws”—probably from my new coworkers, who have no reason to suspect this is anything other than a simple love match. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marsha staring at us, her face tense and pale, and behind Peter is Joe Levinson, who’s wearing the expression of someone attending a funeral… where the casket is filled with explosives.
“Hi,” I reply softly, doing my best to ignore all the stares around us. “Is the photographer here?”
“Yes, my love. Let’s go.”
Placing a possessive hand on the small of my back, he steers me toward a picturesque spot by the lake, where a man with a camera is taking pictures of Phil and Rory.
My dad is already there too, and my mom is on the way as well, walking as briskly as her high-heeled shoes allow. It warms my heart to see her so strong and healthy; the memory of her in the hospital, bandaged like a mummy, still haunts my nightmares.
When we’re halfway to the lake and out of the earshot of the other guests, I glance up at Peter and murmur, “I’m sorry.”
His jaw hardens. “We’ll discuss this later.”
I swallow and look down, focusing on not tripping on the uneven ground in high heels. I didn’t lie: I am sorry. Now that I’m back in Peter’s orbit, I feel the inevitability of it all, the pull of the dark threads that bind us. My earlier doubts seem baseless and naïve, irrational to the point of insanity. What does it matter if our wedding is today, tomorrow, or a year from now? My tormentor is going to be the same man, the same lethal killer I’ve fallen for.
From the moment I met Peter, I’ve known there’s no escape for me, and what happened today just confirms it.
As we approach the lake, I spot Peter’s teammates clustered together, off to the side, and I wave at them. I’m pleased to see that they wave back. It’s strange, but I missed them too.
To me, they’re like Peter’s brothers.
When we reach the lake, the photographer—a chubby, bearded man who resembles a dark-haired Santa Claus—arranges us in a variety of poses, from looking longingly into each other’s eyes to sitting together on a bench to Peter holding me in his arms. He takes pictures of the two of us together and then each of us on our own; of the two of us with my parents, and then with all of our friends. The permutations are endless, and after I introduce Peter to everyone, I find myself zoning out, smiling and posing on autopilot.
