I’m trapped, caught by him once again.
Mercilessly, he steps closer, and my sex clenches as his hands curl around my shoulders. “Come downstairs with me, Sara,” he says softly. “You’re hungry, and you’ll feel better once you eat. And while you’re eating, we can talk.”
“About what?” I ask, my voice tight. The heat of his palms burns even through the thick layer of my sweater, and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing semi-steady as pernicious arousal curls in my core. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“I think we do,” he says, and I see the monster behind the dark silver of his gaze. “You see, Sara, if you don’t want to be with me here, we can be together someplace else. The fantasy can be made real—but solely on my terms.”
39
Peter
* * *
She’s shaking as I lead her downstairs, and I know it’s as much from anger as fear. I suppose her reaction should bother me, but I’m too angry myself. Yesterday, and today at breakfast, I could’ve sworn she was glad to see me, relieved that I came back. But tonight, she’s back to being cold and distant, and I won’t stand for it.
It’s time the gloves came off.
“Sit,” I tell her when we get to the kitchen table, and she plops down in a chair, a defiant expression on her pretty face. She’s determined to make things difficult, and I’m just as determined not to let her.
Taking a breath to steady myself, I turn off the bright overhead lights and light the candles. Then I plate the risotto I made and bring it over to her before getting my own food. I’m as hungry as she is, so as soon as I sit down, I dig into the food, figuring the discussion of our relationship can wait a couple of minutes.
Unfortunately, Sara doesn’t share that opinion. “What did you mean, ‘the fantasy can be made real?’” she asks, her voice tense as she toys with her fork. “What exactly are you saying?”
I make her wait until I’m done chewing; then I put down my fork and give her a level look. “I’m saying that you living in this house, going to work, and interacting with your friends is a privilege I’m allowing,” I say calmly and watch her blanch. “Other men in my position wouldn’t have been nearly so accommodating—and I don’t have to be either. I want you, and I have the power to take you. It’s as simple as that. If you don’t like our existing relationship dynamic, I will change it—but not in a way you’ll enjoy.”
Her hand trembles as she reaches for the glass of wine I poured earlier. “So you’ll what? Kidnap me? Take me away from everyone and everything?”
“Yes, ptichka. That’s precisely what I’ll do if I can’t make the current situation work.” I resume eating, giving her time to process my words. I know I’m being harsh, but I need to squash this little rebellion, make her understand just how precarious her position is.
There’s no line I won’t cross when it comes to her. She’s going to be mine one way or another.
Sara stares at me, the glass shaking in her grasp; then she puts it down without taking a single sip. “So why haven’t you done this already? Why all this?” She sweeps her hand out in a broad gesture, nearly knocking over the glass and one of the candle holders.
“Careful there,” I say, moving both objects out of her reach. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to drug me again.”
Her teeth audibly grind together. “Tell me,” she demands, her hand curling into a fist next to her untouched plate. “Why haven’t you kidnapped me already? Surely you have no moral qualms about that.”
I sigh and put my fork down. Maybe I should’ve promised her a discussion after the meal, not during. “Because I like what you do,” I say, picking up my wine glass and taking a sip. “With babies, with women. I think your work is admirable, and I don’t want to take you away from that—or from your parents.”
“But you will if you have to.”
“Yes.” I put down the glass and pick up my fork again. “I will.”
She studies me for a few seconds, then picks up her own fork, and for a couple of minutes, we eat in an uneasy silence. I can practically hear her thinking, her agile mind struggling to find a solution.
It’s too bad for her that one doesn’t exist.
When Sara’s plate is half-empty, she pushes it away and asks in a strained voice, “Did you stalk her too?”
My eyebrows lift as I pick up my wine glass. “Who?”
“Your wife,” Sara says, and my hand tightens on the wine stem, nearly snapping the fragile glass in half. Instinctively, I brace for the agonizing pain and fury, but all I feel is a dull echo of loss, accompanied by a bittersweet ache at the memories.