I wasn’t going to come out this Friday after the shitty week I had, but at the last minute, I decided that going out and getting drunk would be preferable to passing out early and risking another twisted sex dream. Luckily, I keep a pair of cute silver flats in my locker at work, and Tonya lent me a short black dress that fit surprisingly well.
“H&M, baby,” she said proudly when I asked her where she got it, and I made a mental note to stop by the trendy store and get something similar for myself—in case I’m ever tempted to repeat this insanity.
We started off with a couple of drinks at Patty’s, then got a car to take us to the club Tonya talked about. True to her word, the promoter was able to get us in without a line, and we’ve been dancing nonstop for the past two hours. I’m sweating, my feet hurt, and I’ll probably have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow, but this is the most fun I’ve had in… well, years.
Maybe longer than five years.
The crowd at the club ranges from college kids to hot forty-somethings like Marsha, but the majority look to be in their late twenties, like myself. The DJ is outstanding, mixing the latest hits with hip-hop classics, and I sing along as we dance, belting out my favorite songs with abandon. I’ve always loved music and dancing—I did ballet all through elementary and middle school and took salsa classes in college—and with the buzz of alcohol in my veins, I feel sexy and carefree, for once like any other young woman at the club. Tonight, I’m not the serious student, the overworked doctor, the dutiful daughter, or the perfect wife. I’m not even the widow with paranoia and messed-up dreams.
Tonight, I’m just me.
The four of us dance by ourselves for a while; then a couple of guys join us, dancing up to Tonya and Marsha. Andy drags me away to the bathroom with her, and by the time we return, Tonya and Marsha are full-on flirting with the guys.
“You want to get another drink?” Andy yells over the music, and I nod, following her to the bar. The room is spinning around me, so I figure I’ll just get some water.
The club has become more crowded in the last hour, the dance floor spilling over to the bar and lounge area, and when a group of laughing women cuts in front of me, I lose sight of Andy. I’m not particularly worried—I can catch up to her at the bar—so I go around the group to avoid the most dense parts of the crowd.
I’m within a few feet of the bar when strong fingers wrap around my upper arm, and a deep male voice murmurs into my ear, “Dance with me, Sara.”
I freeze, my blood solidifying in my veins.
I know that voice, that subtle Russian accent.
Slowly, I turn my head and meet the metallic gaze that stalks my dreams.
Peter Sokolov is in front of me, his sculpted mouth curved in a faint smile.
12
Peter
* * *
She sways on her feet, her face chalk white, and I grip her other arm to steady her. She clearly knows who I am; she recognizes me.
“Don’t scream,” I say. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her hazel eyes look wild, and I know she’s not really processing what I’m saying. All she sees is a mortal threat, and she’s reacting accordingly. In another few seconds, she’ll either faint or become hysterical, and neither would be a good thing.
“Sara.” I make my voice hard. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to. Do you understand? If you do anything to attract attention to us, people will die.”
The mindless panic in her gaze abates slightly, replaced by a fear that’s more rational, if not any less intense. I’m getting through to her.
It helps that I’m not bluffing.
“W-what do you want?” Even with the layer of lipgloss over them, her trembling lips are pale. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” I say, pulling her with me through the crowd as I maneuver away from the cameras positioned around the bar. Sara’s bare arms are tense in my grasp, her skin chilly to the touch, but as expected, she doesn’t scream.
From everything I know about her, the little doctor would sooner die than endanger a bunch of strangers.
“Dance with me,” I say again when I have her where I want her—next to a wall in a dimly lit part of the dance floor, where the crowd forms a human shield around us. To facilitate her compliance with my request, I release her arms and clasp her waist, being careful to keep my grip gentle.
Her body is as stiff as a block of ice as I hold her close, but to everyone around us, we look like any other couple swaying to the music. The illusion is only strengthened when her hands come up and her palms splay against my chest. She’s trying to push me away, but she’s too shocked to put much strength behind it. Not that it would help if she put all her strength behind it.