I lie still for a few moments, listening to Sara’s even breathing and absorbing the feel of her slender body curled up in my arms. She’s finally asleep, her overactive mind at rest. She didn’t talk to me this evening, just lay there rigidly for almost an hour, and I knew she was beating herself up over what happened in the shower. I thought about talking to her, distracting her from her thoughts, but with the memories fresh in my mind and my body hard and aching, I didn’t want to risk the conversation venturing into painful territory.
If she started to defend her husband, I might’ve lost control and taken her, hurting her in the process.
Inhaling, I draw in the sweet scent of her hair and let the familiar surge of lust chase away the lingering tightness in my chest. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I’m certain Sara is the reason why, for the first time in five and a half years, I dreamed of my son without also dreaming of his death. Though holding her naked body without fucking her is a form of self-torture, Sara’s presence in my bed has the same effect on my dreams as her nearness on my waking moments.
When I’m with her, the agony of my losses is less acute, almost bearable.
Closing my eyes, I blank out my mind and let myself sink back into sleep.
If I’m lucky, I’ll meet Pasha in my dreams again.
24
Sara
* * *
Like yesterday, Peter is gone by the time I wake up. I’m glad, because I don’t know how I would’ve faced him this morning. Every time I think about what happened in the shower, I die a little bit inside.
I betrayed George, betrayed his memory in the worst possible way. I met my husband when I was barely eighteen. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first everything. And even when things had begun going south, I remained loyal to him and to our marriage.
Until last night, George had been the only man I’d had sex with, the only one who’d ever made me come.
The pain slams into me, the grief so sharp and sudden it feels like a physical blow. Gasping, I bend over the sink, my toothbrush clutched in my fist. For the past six months, I’ve been so busy coping with my anxiety and panic attacks, with the guilt of knowing I caused George’s death, that I haven’t had a chance to truly grieve for my husband. I haven’t processed the empty gap that is his absence in my life, haven’t dealt with the fact that the man I’d been with for the better part of a decade is gone.
George is dead, and I’ve been sleeping with his killer.
My stomach roils with nausea as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, hating the image looking back at me. The ease with which I orgasmed last night fills me with red-hot shame. Peter barely touched me, barely did anything. He didn’t even restrain me that much. If I tried, I might’ve been able to push him away, but I didn’t try.
I just stood there and gave in to the pleasure, and then I slept in my torturer’s arms for the second night in a row.
The pain congeals into a thick knot of self-disgust, and I look away from my reflection, unable to bear the censure in the hazel eyes staring back at me. I can’t do this, can’t play this sick, twisted game Peter is forcing on me. It doesn’t matter if he has his reasons, or thinks he does. No amount of suffering excuses what he’s done to George, or what he’s still doing to me.
My tormentor might be hurt and damaged, but that only makes him more dangerous—to my sanity as well as my safety.
I have to figure out a way out.
No matter what it takes, I have to get rid of him.
* * *
I spend most of my on-call shift on autopilot. Thankfully, I don’t have any surgeries or anything else critical; otherwise, I might’ve had to ask another doctor to step in. For once, my mind is not on the needs of my patients, but on what I’m going to have to do to deal with my stalker.
It won’t be easy, and it will certainly be dangerous, but I don’t see any other choice.
I can’t spend another night in the arms of a man I hate.
I’m almost finished for the day when I run into Joe Levinson in the hallway. I walk past him at first, but he calls out my name, and I recognize the tall, lean man with sandy hair.
“Joe, hi,” I say, smiling. We had a good time chatting at my parents’ dinner on Saturday, and pretty much every other time we’ve run into each other over the years thanks to the Levinsons’ friendship with my parents. Under different circumstances—say, if I hadn’t been married, then violently widowed—I might’ve considered going out on a date with Joe, both to please my parents and because I genuinely like him. He doesn’t make my pulse race, but he’s a nice guy, and that counts for a lot in my book. “What are you doing here?”