Peter’s expression doesn’t change. “Yes, I know.”
“Of course you do.” My hands curl on the table, my nails digging into my palms. “You probably had me watched while you were gone. Those eyes on me—that wasn’t my imagination, was it?”
“I couldn’t leave you unprotected,” he says with an unapologetic shrug.
“Right.” I take a breath and consciously relax my hands. “Well, I’m moving to an apartment soon, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to come and go like this—at least not without the neighbors seeing you every day. So you might as well find some other woman to torture and stalk. There are plenty who live in semi-rural areas.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “I’m sure there are. Too bad I don’t want any of them.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “Really? What about the rest of the people on your list? Or did you murder them all?”
“There’s one left, and he’s proving elusive so far,” he says, and I stare at him blankly before shaking my head.
I’m not prepared to go there today.
“Fine,” I say in an attempt to regroup. “So what’s it going to take for you to leave me alone?”
“A bullet to the brain or the heart,” he answers, unblinking, and my stomach lurches as I realize he’s completely serious.
He has no intention of walking away from me. Ever.
All the lightness and excitement fade, leaving me with the stark terror of my reality. No amount of delicious meals, mind-blowing orgasms, or tender cuddling makes up for the fact that I’m a de-facto prisoner of this lethal man, a killer who doesn’t blink at violence and torture. His obsession with me is as dangerous as the man himself, his feelings as twisted as the dark past we share.
A monster is fixated on me, and there’s no escape.
My legs are unsteady as I get up, pushing my chair back. “I have to go to work,” I say tightly, and before he can object, I grab my bag and hurry to the garage.
Peter makes no move to stop me, but as I’m getting into the car, he comes to stand in the doorway, his darkly handsome face set in an unreadable mask.
“I’ll see you when you get back,” he says as I start the car, and I know he means it.
My tormentor is back, and he’s not going away.
38
Sara
* * *
True to his word, Peter is there when I get home from work that day, and I’m so tired and stressed that I’m tempted to just give in and eat the dinner he made—a savory-smelling rice pilaf with mushrooms and peas. But I can’t. I can’t keep playing along with this madness, acting as though this is somehow normal.
If my stalker is not going to leave me alone, there’s no point in my compliance. I might as well make things as difficult for him as I can.
Ignoring the table he set, I go upstairs while he’s pouring us wine. Entering the bedroom, I lock the door and go into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
I’ve tried everything except outright resistance, and I’m desperate enough to try that.
Face freshly washed, I come out and sit down on the bed, waiting to see what’s going to happen next. I have no intention of unlocking that door and letting him in, or of cooperating in any way.
I’m done playing house with a monster. If he wants me, he’s going to have to force me.
My stomach growls with hunger, and I kick myself for not eating before coming here. I was just so frazzled from thinking about Peter all day that I drove home on autopilot, my mind occupied with my impossible situation. Now that I know about his team and their assassination missions, I’m even less convinced that the FBI would be able to protect me if I went to them.
I don’t think anyone can protect me from him.
A knock on the bedroom door drags me out of my despairing thoughts.
“Come down, ptichka,” Peter says from the other side. “Dinner is getting cold.”
My whole body tenses, but I don’t respond.
Another knock. Then the door handle rattles. “Sara.” Peter’s voice hardens. “Open the door.”
I get up, too unsettled to sit still, but I make no move toward the door.
“Sara. Open this door. Now.”
I remain standing, my hands flexing at my sides. Before coming home, I considered getting a weapon, but I remembered what he told me about his men monitoring his vitals and dismissed the idea. I don’t know how the monitoring works, but it’s entirely possible he’s wearing some kind of device that measures his pulse and/or blood pressure. Maybe even an implant. I’ve heard of things like that, though I’ve never encountered them. In any case, if what Peter told me is true, I can’t hurt him in any meaningful way without risking my own life and possibly the lives of those close to me.