I squeeze my eyes shut, her words twisting inside me like a killer’s blade. It shouldn’t hurt, her drugged admission; I should be glad she wants all that with me. But all I can think about is that I’ll never truly have her, never give her the life she wants. Even if I succeed in making us a family, even if Sara warms to me more over the years, the past will always lie between us like a chasm, the lifestyle of a fugitive forever a source of strife and stress. There are no barbecues and picket fences in our future, no dogs and children playing in the yard.
She’ll love our child, but it won’t make her happy.
I could give her everything I have, and it won’t be enough.
A monitor beeps softly as Sara’s breathing evens out, and I open my eyes to find her asleep again, the painkillers helping her rest and heal.
A shallow breath escapes me, an impossible weight compressing my aching lungs.
I should get up, give my men an update and send them after Henderson, but I can’t bring myself to move.
I can’t do anything but kneel at Sara’s bedside, holding her hand as hollow darkness presses in.
53
Sara
When I wake up again, this time without the thick bandage across my eyes, Peter is there, sitting on a chair next to my bed with a computer on his lap. He looks exhausted, more weary than I’ve ever seen him. Dark shadows circle his bloodshot eyes, and his stubble-covered cheeks are hollow, as though he’s lost some weight. He’s working on the laptop, but the moment I stir, his gaze snaps to mine like metal to a magnet.
“You’re awake.” His voice is hoarse as he sets his laptop aside and stands. “How are you feeling, ptichka? Do you need anything? Here, drink some water.” He picks up a cup with a straw from the table next to my bed and bends over me, helping me to a half-sitting position as he presses the straw against my lips.
I’m still a little woozy from the drugs, and I gratefully suck down most of the water. “How long have I been under?” I croak out when he takes the cup away.
Even after drinking, my throat feels like it’s been scraped with sandpaper, my mouth so dry my tongue keeps sticking to my cheeks.
“Three days,” Peter answers, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “The doctors thought it would speed your healing.”
I run my tongue over my chapped lips, feeling the painful swelling on one side. Now that I’m more awake, I realize there’s still a bandage across my forehead—I can feel it pressing down on my eyebrows—and my left shoulder is stiff and sore. “How bad is it?” I ask, wincing as I try to move.
Peter’s jaw flexes. “A shard of glass cut a deep gash across your forehead, and you dislocated your left shoulder. Luckily, you had a seatbelt on, and the airbag absorbed most of the impact from the crash. Still, you’re bruised all over, including over most of your face.” His voice roughens as he speaks, his own face tightening with pain.
Blinking against the sudden sting of tears, I carefully reach up with my right hand, feeling the bandage across my forehead. I should probably worry about how I’ll look with an ugly scar, but all I can focus on is the anguish in Peter’s silver gaze.
I hurt him, this lethal, indomitable man.
I hurt him when he’s been so badly hurt already, when suffering is all he’s ever known.
“It won’t leave a scar,” he says hoarsely, following the movement of my hand. “They have the best plastic surgeons here, and they’re going to fix it. I promise you, my love—I’m going to make it right.”
I stare at him, my eyes burning with an onslaught of emotions. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the painkillers, but I can’t stand the pain in his gaze, can’t bear the knowledge that I hurt him. Because no matter what I’d like to tell myself, I’m fiercely glad to see him, so relieved he wasn’t killed I want to fall to my knees and cry.
If I had to choose between him and my freedom at this moment, I would give up everything to have him in my life.
A knock on the door is followed by two nurses entering the room, and I suck in a ragged breath as Peter rises to his feet.
“Wait!” Ignoring a wave of dizzying pain, I sit up, grabbing his tattooed wrist. “Stay with me… Please, Peter, stay.”
He immediately sits down, covering my hand with his big palm. “Of course.” His voice is deep and soft, as warm as the dark flame in his gaze. “Anything you wish, my love.”
He stays with me while the nurses change the bandage on my head, and when they try to shoo him away, claiming I need rest, I beg him to stay and hold me. I know it makes no sense, but I’m past all attempts at sense and reason. I can’t give up on trying to escape—if nothing else, I owe it to my future child and my parents—but right now, I need Peter with me.