Did he somehow learn that the agent had approached my father?
I’ve been trying to forget about that, to stop worrying about the FBI finding out about Monica’s stepfather, but every so often, I wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare where SWAT agents burst through our bedroom door. Officially, there’s a deal, but Ryson is clearly on a mission of his own.
What has he been telling Marsha? What has she been telling him? My mind spins as Peter orders one final round, then makes our excuses to the guys, leaving them to down the shots on their own as he shepherds me out of the bar and into Danny’s car.
My former assassin is law-abiding enough—or smart enough—not to drink and drive.
I wait until we get home before I bring up what Phil told us. “Peter, about the—”
“Why didn’t you tell me Ryson was still in the picture?” my husband interrupts, stepping up to me. There’s only a faint hint of alcohol on his breath as he leans in, trapping me against the back of the couch with his powerful body.
He’s either had even less to drink than I thought, or his metabolism is off the charts.
My throat goes dry and my breathing jacks up as I see the icy hardness in his metallic eyes. This is the Peter who used to terrify me, the man who’d broken into my house and so ruthlessly interrogated me to find George.
The killer who’s never known remorse.
“I didn’t know he was talking to Marsha,” I say when I’m able to sound semi-calm. I know Peter won’t hurt me outside of our bedroom games, but it’s hard not to be intimidated when he looms over me like this, the heat from his muscular body surrounding me, his nearness both a temptation and a threat.
He might not hurt me, but he will hurt others.
Agent Ryson’s life—and possibly Marsha’s—is on the line.
“No?” His eyes narrow. “What about your parents? You didn’t know he’s been sniffing around them either?”
“No, I—” I stop before I make the situation worse by lying. “Okay, I knew he’d talked to my dad a couple of months back, but I figured it was just the one time. Are you saying he’s approached them again?” My words are coming too fast, but I can’t help it.
I’m terrified both for the agent and of what he might uncover.
Peter stares down at me, then finally steps back, letting me inhale a full breath.
“Earlier today,” he says grimly, and it takes me a second to realize he’s answering my question. “My crew saw him approach your mother when she was at a mall with Agnes Levinson. One of the guys tailed him when he left, and do you want to guess where the fucker went?”
I swallow. “Where?”
“To the hospital. Where you used to work—and your friend still does.”
Of course. That’s what gave him the idea to question Phil tonight. Or more accurately, to interrogate him—only with alcohol instead of a designer drug as an aid.
“Do you think he knows? About Moni—” I stop as it occurs to me that it might not be safe to speak so openly.
If the FBI are on to us, the house might be bugged.
“It’s fine. I do daily sweeps,” Peter says, understanding my concern. “Nobody’s listening.”
Daily sweeps? There’s paranoia, and then there’s whatever this is. I know our house has all the security of a military base—I’ve seen the futuristic tech embedded throughout—but I didn’t realize my husband was that paranoid.
“And no,” he continues while I’m gathering my thoughts. “I don’t think he knows anything. My hackers are keeping tabs on the files related to Sonny Pearson, and nobody’s accessed them in weeks.”
Sonny Pearson? Is that Monica’s stepfather’s name? My stomach tightens as I stare at Peter, images of dark alleys and pools of blood swimming in front of my eyes. I’ve mostly put that murder out of my mind, just like all the other awful things Peter’s done, but now that I know the man’s name, the horror and guilt are fresh again.
“Stop it, ptichka.” Peter’s tone gentles, and I realize my face must reflect my thoughts. Reaching over, he captures both of my hands in his big palms. “Don’t go there again. It’s over.”
Pulling me toward him, he enfolds me in a soothing hug, and I wrap my arms around his waist, inhaling his familiar scent as my cheek presses into his muscled shoulder. It’s perverse to let him comfort me like this, but I can’t resist accepting this from him.
It’s the only way I can cope with loving someone so ruthless.
As he holds me, patiently stroking my hair, I feel a growing hardness pressing into my stomach, and I know that in a few more moments, he won’t be content with simply holding me.
It’s tempting to go along with that, to find refuge in the mind-melting pleasure he always gives me, but I need to make sure of something first.