“I see.” Jealousy bites at me again. To distract myself, I drain my second glass of wine and grab the bottle to pour myself more. “So she trapped you, but it worked out.” My palms are sweaty, and the bottle almost slips out of my hand, the wine splashing into my glass with such force that some liquid spills over the rim.
“Thirsty?” Peter’s gray eyes gleam with amusement as he reaches over to take the bottle from me. “Maybe I should get you some water or tea instead?”
I vehemently shake my head, then realize the motion made the room spin a little. He might be right; I haven’t had much to eat, and I should probably slow down on the wine. Except my anxiety is melting away with each sip, and it feels too good to stop.
“I’m fine,” I say, picking up my glass again. I might regret this at work tomorrow, but I need the warm buzz the alcohol brings. “So you grew to care for Tamila. And she continued living in that village?”
“Yes.” His face tightens; we must be getting close to the painful memories. Confirming my suspicion, he says roughly, “I figured she and Pasha—that’s what we named my son—would be safer there. She wanted to live with me in my apartment in Moscow, but I was always traveling for work, and I didn’t want to leave her in an unfamiliar city on her own. I promised I’d take her to Moscow for a visit when Pasha was older, but until then, I thought it would be better if she stayed close to her family, and my son grew up breathing fresh mountain air instead of city smog.”
The mouthful of wine I swallowed burns though my tightening throat. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, putting down my glass. And I am sorry for him. I despise Peter for what he’s doing to me, but my heart still aches for his pain, for the loss that led him down this dark path. I can only imagine the guilt and agony he must be feeling, knowing that he inadvertently made the wrong choices, that his desire to protect his family led to their demise.
It’s something I can relate to, having killed my own husband not once, but twice.
Peter nods, acknowledging my words, then gets up to clear off the table. I keep drinking my wine as he loads the dishes into the dishwasher, and the warm buzz in my veins intensifies, the candles in front of me attracting my attention with the hypnotic flickering of the flames.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says, and I look up to see him drying his hands with the kitchen towel. I must’ve zoned off for a bit, watching the candles. That, or he’s insanely fast with his cleanup. Most likely, though, I zoned off—which means I’m more buzzed than I thought.
“Bed?” I force myself to focus as he comes up to me and clasps my wrist, pulling me to my feet. Despite the wine-induced softness around the edges of my vision, I remember the reason I was upset, and as he tugs me toward the stairs, the tightness in my stomach returns, my pulse picking up pace. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”
He glances at me, his fingers tightening on my wrist. “I’m not interested in sleep.”
My anxiety grows. “I don’t want to have sex with you either.”
“No?” He stops at the foot of the stairs and turns me to face him. “So if I reached into your jeans right now, I wouldn’t find your panties soaked through? Your little pussy swollen and needy, just waiting to be filled by my cock?”
Heat climbs up my neck and blazes all the way up to my hairline. I am wet, both from before and from the way he’s looking at me now. It’s like he wants to devour me, like his dirty words are turning him on as much as they’re arousing me. The mental haziness from the wine isn’t helping, either, and I realize I made a mistake, trying to drown my sorrows.
Resisting him with my head clear is difficult enough; like this, it’s nearly impossible.
Still, I have to try. “I don’t—”
“Ptichka…” He lifts his hand, curving his big palm around my jaw. His thumb strokes over my cheek as he gazes down at me, his eyes like molten steel. “Do we need to discuss alternative arrangements again?”
I stare at him, ice crystals forming in my veins. For the first time, I comprehend the full extent of his ultimatum. He doesn’t just expect me to stop fighting him over meals; he wants me fully compliant, welcoming him into my bed as though we’re in a real relationship.
As though he didn’t murder my husband and forcibly invade my life.
“No,” I whisper, closing my eyes as he bends his head and brushes his lips over mine… softly, gently. His tenderness tears me into pieces, juxtaposed as it is with the looming horror of his threat. If I fight him on this, he’ll kidnap me, take away all remnants of my freedom.