Clasping my elbow, he leads me to the bedroom, and when we get to the bed, I fall onto it, my legs refusing to support me for a second longer. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me, my stomach growling with emptiness, and I realize I haven’t had anything to eat since those peanuts on the trail.
Peter must realize that too, because he stops and eyes me with a dark frown. “Do you want dinner?”
I nod and force myself to sit up, wiping the tears off my face with the back of my hand. “Please.”
“All right.” He strides to the closet, grabs a robe, and throws it to me before putting one on himself. “Let’s go eat.”
As we consume the stir-fry Peter quickly made, I fight the disconcerting sensation that I’m waiting for the guillotine to fall. My captor hasn’t said a word since offering me dinner, and I have no idea what’s going through his mind. Whatever it is, though, he’s watching me with a hard, intent stare, and that scares me.
The dinner delayed whatever he was going to do to me, but he still plans to do it.
It’s possibly the worst timing ever, but I can’t put it off any longer. The clock is ticking in my head, every passing hour increasing my anxiety. “Peter…” I put my fork down, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “Did you get the pill?”
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I’m convinced he’ll say no. But he just gets up and walks over to the counter, where a white paper bag is sitting next to a laptop.
Picking it up, he brings it to me, and I eagerly grab it from him. Inside is a pink pill in glossy white packaging with Japanese writing on it. Only the manufacturer’s name is in English, but I’m certain it’s the pill I need.
Tearing through the packaging, I pop the pill out and swallow it with half a glass of water. With any luck, we’re still in the safety zone, and the pill will do its job. Not that it matters, given what Peter says.
Child or not, he’ll never let me return home.
The despair threatens to overwhelm me again, and it’s all I can do to tell him in a semi-normal tone, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
No matter how strained things are between us, I have to keep in mind that he didn’t have to give me this pill—that he could’ve forced his will on me in this matter, too.
Peter nods curtly and begins clearing the table. I’m still dead tired, but I make myself get up and help him just as Ilya and Yan come down the stairs, discussing something in Russian. Yan is laughing, but Ilya looks pissed, making me wonder if the two brothers are having an argument.
Peter barks something at them, and Yan glances at me with a grin before replying in rapid-fire Russian.
Ilya looks like he’s about to blow, but he just grabs an apple from the bowl on the table and stomps back up the stairs.
“What were you just talking about?” I ask, frowning as the brown-haired Russian sits down behind the counter and opens the laptop lying there. I’ve been eyeing that computer all through the meal, wondering how to get my hands on it, and I’m disappointed to see a password-protected start page before Yan angles the screen away from me.
“I was just telling my brother that he needs to find himself a nice girl,” Yan explains in English, his grin widening as Peter shuts the dishwasher door with unnecessary force. “You know, like Peter did with you.”
“Oh, I see.” Given Peter’s reaction, I suspect the language Yan used with his brother was quite a bit saltier, but I’m not about to pry further.
I’d rather not know what this little band of killers truly thinks of me.
Yan busies himself with the computer, and I wipe down the table and the empty counters, feeling the need to do something even though I’m ready to collapse. I don’t know what awaits me upstairs tonight, but I feel peculiarly on edge, my instincts screaming that I’m in danger. Maybe it’s the hard, closed-off expression on Peter’s face or the barely controlled violence in his movements, but I’m reminded of our meeting in Starbucks all those weeks ago, back when my captor was nothing more than the lethal stranger who tortured me and killed George.
Back when I didn’t know how dangerous he could really be.
Outside, the storm is raging, the wind driving icy rain into our windows. I shudder, remembering how it felt to be out in that, and tie the robe tighter around my body.
“Cold?” Yan asks, and I turn to find him looking at me with a half-smile. Unlike me and Peter, he’s fully dressed, his dress slacks and button-up shirt stylish but far too formal for lounging around the house. I have a feeling he doesn’t care, though—either about the appropriateness of his clothes or much of anything in general. Even when he’s smiling or laughing, there is a cold, distant quality about Yan Ivanov, as though he doesn’t feel the emotions he’s displaying.