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Would Peter have done as he threatened?
Would he have killed all these people just to punish me for standing him up?
I want to believe that the answer is no, but my instincts tell me yes. He’s capable of it, and his obsession with me has always had a tinge of darkness, just like our bedroom play.
Peter loves me, treasures me, would do anything for me.
Including commit mass murder.
It’s a terrifying thought—or at least I should find it terrifying. And I do… for the most part. It’s only a tiny portion of me that finds something about that level of obsession intoxicating, as thrilling as jumping off a cliff into a stormy sea.
“Ready, my love?” Peter’s large hand possessively clasps my elbow, and I look up at him, dazed.
“For the ceremony,” he clarifies, and I nod, letting him lead me to the gazebo.
This is it.
Married life, here we go.
67
Peter
My ptichka is pale and startlingly beautiful as she stands next to me, listening to the judge give his spiel. He talks about love and commitment, about supporting each other through thick and thin, and a dark wave of satisfaction rolls through me as he poses the traditional question to Sara, and she responds quietly, “Yes, I do.”
He turns to me then.
“Do you, Peter Garin, take Sara Cobakis to be your legally wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“Yes,” I say clearly, making sure my voice carries to our small audience. “I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride,” the judge says, and I face Sara.
She’s looking up at me, eyes wide and soft lips parted, and I bend my head, brushing my lips gently across that tempting mouth. It’s very important to be gentle right now. The slightest lapse in control could unleash the rage simmering within me, and I can’t have that happen.
Not until we’re alone.
There’s clapping and hooting, and then a familiar tune starts playing from behind the gazebo.
The band I commissioned—the one Sara seemed so excited about—is here, having set up and gotten ready to play during the ceremony. It cost me a pretty penny to get them here for a couple of hours, but judging by the reaction of the guests, it’s worth it.
“Shall we?” I offer my arm to Sara as the majority of the younger guests hurry toward the music, oohing and aahing over the chance to see their idols live.
“Of course.” Her slim hand slips into the crook of my elbow as she gives me a cautious smile. “Let’s go.”
We didn’t prepare a dance, but at the urgings of Sara’s new coworkers, I take her into my arms and we sway together to a slow, romantic song, one that I recognize as being a classic rather than one of the band’s own numbers. Again, I have to be careful, have to keep my touch light and gentle, to maintain the appropriate distance instead of yanking Sara to me and ripping off that elegant white dress to take her right here and now, on this soft green lawn.
Thankfully, the slow song ends before my self-control starts to crumble, and the band launches into one of their most popular numbers. Sara’s bandmates and a few other guests join us, laughing and clapping, and we end up dancing in a group before Sara’s friend, Marsha, tugs her away to dance with her and two of the other nurses.
I wait until the song is over, and then I signal to the catering staff to start bringing out the appetizers.
Since there are only about two dozen of us, we have three tables: a small round one for me and Sara, and two bigger oval ones for the rest of the guests. I didn’t bother with assigned seating, so Sara’s parents end up with their friends, and the majority of Sara’s friends and coworkers congregate at the other table.
The food is outstanding, as it should be from a Michelin eight-star chef, and as we all start eating, the majority of the guests appear to be having a good time. Sara must think so too, because she says quietly, “Thank you for organizing everything. This is one of the nicest weddings I’ve been to.”
I smile at her calmly, even though all I want is to bend her over the table. “I’m glad, my love. I want you to be happy.”
And she will be, once she gets over whatever remaining doubts she has about us. I will make sure of that. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy.
The only thing I won’t do is set her free.
In any case, I don’t think she wants that—not deep down, where it truly matters. I don’t know what spooked her this afternoon, but I have one suspicion.
Could she have found out about Sonny Pearson’s death?
I don’t see how, as she hasn’t been to the clinic in the last couple of days, but it’s the one thing that makes sense. Either way, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.
