His words wash over me like a dark wave, terrifying and fascinating at the same time. I have seen some of what he’s talking about, have even felt the power he’s describing. Only for me, it was when I would save a life, not take one. I can’t imagine the lack of empathy it takes to use that power to destroy instead of healing, to take away someone’s very existence.
I was right to think him a monster. He is one, yet that realization doesn’t repulse me as it should. His admission, as horrifying as it is, doesn’t lessen the heat growing inside me as he molds my lower body against his, one hand gripping my hip and the other reaching up to frame my face. He’s already turned on, his erection hard against my stomach, and as he leans in, his lips pressing hungrily against mine, I close my eyes and wind my arms around his muscled neck, letting his touch burn away the chill of knowing what he is.
I’m in bed with the devil, and at this moment, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
That evening, we have dinner, all five of us, and as has been the case since the Nigeria job, Peter’s men converse with me throughout the meal, telling me a bunch of amusing stories about Russia and some of the former Soviet Republics. I’m still not completely comfortable around the mercenaries—I’m keenly aware that they’d kill me or anyone else without hesitation if Peter were to order it—but they’ve been excessively friendly since I treated Ilya and Anton’s wounds. It’s during meals like these that I learn about the customs of my captors’ country—they do consider it polite to remove shoes when entering someone’s home—and even pick up a few words in Russian.
“Vkusno. V-koos-nah.” Ilya repeats the word for me slowly, softening the “v” so it sounds like an “f.” “That means delicious, or tasty. So if you want to tell Peter you like something, you can point at that dish and say, ‘Vkusno.’”
“Vikusno,” I try, pointing at the roast chicken Peter prepared. “Fi-koos-nah.”
“There’s no ‘i’ in there,” Yan says, looking amused. “And don’t emphasize the first consonant so much. Just say it quickly, without breaking it up into three syllables. Vkusno. Try it.”
“Vkusno,” I parrot to the best of my ability, and all the guys, including Peter, laugh.
“That’s pretty good, ptichka,” he says, cutting more of the chicken for me. “They might make a Russian speaker out of you yet.”
I grin at him, absurdly pleased, and when he urges me to sing for them after dinner, as he often does with no success, I agree for once and belt out one of my favorite Beyoncé songs, the one I’ve been practicing in the recording studio he set up for me. Peter’s men listen, open-mouthed, and when I’m done, they clap and cheer so hard the dishes rattle on the table.
It’s the best evening I’ve had in months, and when Peter leads me upstairs, I embrace him willingly, even eagerly. We make love, and afterward, I don’t think of George and the fact that I’m sleeping with his killer. I don’t even think of my parents.
For that night, I belong to Peter and no one else.
31
Sara
The next morning, I’m back to fighting my feelings for my captor, but as the days go by, I’m aware that I’m losing the battle. He’s wearing me down, making me forget why I’m even trying to resist. He hasn’t said he loves me since we got here—probably because I threw the words in his face when we first arrived—but I can’t deny that in his own twisted way, Peter cares for me.
It’s there in the way he looks at me, the way he touches me and holds me. Even when our sex is rough, with the darker edge that still frightens me sometimes, he always soothes me in the aftermath, stroking and cuddling me until I feel safe and warm, cherished and adored. His power over me is absolute, and there’s something perversely comforting in that, something that taps into a part of me I never knew was there.
I wasn’t dissatisfied with my sex life with George. Over the years, we’d learned each other’s bodies and knew exactly what to do to get each other off. Before his drinking began, we had sex regularly, at least once or twice a week, and though we weren’t particularly adventurous after the first year, we played some sexy games on occasion, even used some toys. It was enough, I thought; it was as it should be. I never imagined the kind of sexual chemistry I now have with Peter, never thought a physical connection so strong could exist.
He fucks me so much I’m sore on most days, his appetite for me never fading. And I respond, though he often exhausts me with his sexual demands. I’ve never known someone who has so much energy. Over the past few weeks, Peter and his men have been training hard each day, doing hours of bodyweight exercises, running through the forest with rock-filled backpacks, and practicing hand-to-hand combat that looks as deadly as their weapons, yet he still finds the strength to go on hikes with me, swim when the weather allows, cook for everyone, and of course, have sex with me two or three times a day.