“No.” Sara’s voice takes on an audible tremor. “You’re just saying this. You couldn’t have killed George because of some sick interest in me—that’s beyond insane.”
“Maybe.” I’m willing to concede that much. “But in some cultures, what I did makes you mine—my prize of war, my spoils of battle.”
“Battle? He was in a coma! You killed a defenseless man. He was no match for you—”
I laugh darkly. “Do you think I’m some kind of noble hero? Do you think I care about a fair fight?”
She freezes, her skin growing clammy where our naked bodies touch as I continue. “I don’t, Sara,” I tell her. “I don’t give a fuck about fairness, because no one else does. The world is inherently unfair. If you want something, you fight for it… you take it. And I wanted you, ptichka. I wanted you from the first moment I held you, when you cried so sweetly in my arms. And you wanted me too—you still want me—because no matter what you say, this is real… far more real than your mirage of a marriage. It wasn’t a fairy tale you were living, and Cobakis wasn’t your Prince Charming. He was a liar, a weakling who turned to drinking because he couldn’t cope with the guilt over the massacre he caused. Even if he hadn’t been on my list, I would’ve killed him if I met you—because I would’ve wanted you. If ever our paths crossed, I would’ve made you mine.”
She’s shivering now, and I know I’ve been too honest, revealed too much of the beast within. Yet if there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s lie to her.
With me, Sara will always know what she’s getting, no matter how ugly it may be.
Pulling the blanket over us, I stroke her arm, hip, and thigh until her trembling stops, and when I hear her breathing slow and deepen, I close my eyes, holding her tight.
This may be wrong in others’ eyes, but I have Sara and I’m happy—and I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy too.
34
Sara
As fall progresses and the weather continues to cool, my life with Peter begins to remind me of an extended honeymoon, albeit one where we share our mountain retreat with other people. His attentiveness shows no signs of lessening, and though I keep reminding myself that I’m not here of my own free will, I can’t ignore the fact that Peter is doing his best to ensure my pleasure and comfort. Aside from his profession and the small matter of keeping me captive, Peter Sokolov is everything one could ever wish a husband to be: thoroughly domesticated and so caring I feel like a princess most days.
Every morning now starts with him bringing me breakfast in bed. Like the skilled interrogator that he is, Peter has learned everything I like and dislike when it comes to food, and he indulges me with my favorites daily. Russian-style crepes with raisins and sweet cheese, fluffy omelets, quiches, platters of exotic fruit—I get it all, plus fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee. For lunch and dinner, I’m equally spoiled, so much so that the guys have taken to begging me to claim their favorites as my own.
“You liked shashlik that time, right? Those lamb kebobs Peter made before Nigeria?” Ilya makes a scary-looking attempt at puppy eyes as he corners me in the kitchen.
At my nod, he grins and says, “Then please tell him to make them soon, okay? Just hint that you enjoy lamb in spicy sauce. Please?”
I laugh and promise to do so, as I already promised Anton with apple pie. Despite their role in my abduction, I’m starting to like Peter’s men, and I’m pretty sure they’re starting to like me. That’s a good thing as far as I’m concerned, but Peter seems to be of a different opinion. I’ve noticed him glaring at the guys when they get particularly friendly, as though he’s afraid they might steal me away.
His possessiveness is one of our main problems these days, and one evening, it boils out of control.
“Keep your fucking eyes above her neck,” he roars at Anton after I finish singing my variation of Lady Gaga’s latest hit. I dressed up for this performance, wearing one of the low-cut party dresses Yan got for me, and as Anton and Peter stand up, glaring at each other, I realize that might’ve been a mistake.
“Peter, he wasn’t doing anything,” I say, desperate to diffuse the bristling tension. “I was just singing and he was listening, that’s all.”
“He was fucking drooling, that’s what he was doing.” Peter shoves the chair between them aside. “And it wasn’t the first time, either.”
“Fuck you, man.” Anton’s dark beard quivers with rage as the two lethal men square off, fists clenched and teeth bared. “Nobody’s doing anything they shouldn’t; you’re just too fucking obsessed to see straight.”