“I’m perfectly fine,” I say as a worried look appears on her face and she grabs the hem of my T-shirt—undoubtedly intending to lift it to inspect my bandage. Gently guiding her hands away, I step out of her reach. “Really, I’m okay.”
I can’t believe she’s worried about me when I’ve just savaged her like this. I know I hurt her—I could feel the extreme tightness of her body when I thrust into her. What if I hurt the baby too?
What if she miscarries, like Nora did that time?
As I stand frozen, processing that horrifying thought, she bends over and picks her shorts up off the floor. Her curvy little ass flashes in the air with the movement, and despite the cum still coating my cock, I feel it twitch with interest.
Fuck, I am an animal.
“Sara…” My voice is strained as she faces me. “Are you really okay?”
She blinks. “I told you, never better. Come, let’s go clean up.” And grabbing my hand, she tugs me to the bathroom.
We shower together—well, Sara showers, and I use the handheld showerhead to strategically wash around my bandages—and then she lies down for a nap, claiming food coma and post-sex drowsiness. I lie down with her and hold her until she falls asleep. Then I quietly get up and leave the house.
I know why she’s tired, and it has nothing to do with food or sex. Her body is crashing after the nonstop adrenaline of the past week, and the demands of the growing baby don’t help.
The guilt is like a roll of barbed wire in my stomach.
I did this to her.
I’m responsible for all of her misfortune.
If I hadn’t been so selfishly obsessed with her, if I’d just let her be, she’d still be home with her parents, living her calm, peaceful life. If I’d walked away after our first meeting, she might’ve married someone else… someone who could ensure she spends her pregnancy in comfort and safety.
Instead, she’s with me on the run, suffering from PTSD-like flashbacks and exhaustion.
“Hey there, Peter,” Diego greets me as I walk past him on the road, and I nod curtly, not in the mood for chitchat.
I have one goal right now: to speak with Esguerra.
I need that therapist brought here right away.
Before long, I’m knocking on the door of Esguerra’s mansion.
“Is he here?” I ask Ana when she opens the door for me, and the housekeeper nods.
“Yes, please, come in. Would you like something to eat or drink while I go get him?”
“No, thank you. I’m good.” I follow Ana into the foyer and lean against the wall, too wound up to sit.
She goes up the wide, curving staircase, and a few minutes later, Esguerra comes down, buttoning his shirt as he walks. His hair is disheveled, and a pissed-off scowl is etched into his face.
I either pulled him from a nap or something involving Nora.
My bet is on the latter.
“What is it?” he barks. “Did Henderson—”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I take a breath as his scowl deepens. “It’s personal. I need a favor.”
He stops in front of me, cold amusement replacing the concern in his gaze. “Really? Food and shelter are not enough for you?”
“Do you know any shrinks?” I ask, refusing to take the bait. “Preferably, someone well-versed in the treatment of PTSD.”
He looks taken aback. “For you?”
Remembering Sara’s words, I nod coolly. “For me.”
I don’t want my ptichka to feel embarrassed—not that she should. Needing help to process extreme trauma doesn’t make one weak, just normal.
Esguerra studies me with an unreadable expression, then nods. “I may know someone. How soon do you need her here?”
“Today, if possible. Barring that, tomorrow or the next day.”
“All right. I’ll do my best to get her out here tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say and turn to leave. I know I’ll owe him for this, and he will certainly collect, but if it helps Sara, it will be worth it.
I’d do anything to get her well.
“Peter,” Esguerra calls out as I’m about to step out of the room. When I turn to face him, he says quietly, “Why don’t you and your wife join us for dinner tonight? Nora would love to get to know your Sara better.”
“Sure,” I say, concealing my surprise. “We’ll be here.”
“Seven o’clock,” he says, then turns away and goes back upstairs.
67
Henderson
My back aches from shoveling snow all day, and Jimmy is pissy as fuck that I made him do it with me, but it had to be done.
We needed to have the driveway clear, so we can get away in a hurry if the need arises.
My plan to get at Sokolov and the others—Operation Air Drop, as I’m calling it—is still missing a crucial component, which is the layout of Esguerra’s compound and its security details.
Once we have that, we’ll be able to strike, but in the meantime, I have to do everything in my power to keep my wife and children safe.