I have to save them from the monsters hunting us.
68
Sara
I know it’s silly to feel nervous about the dinner after everything we’ve been through, but I can’t help it. For one thing, the only clothes I’ve found in the closet are shorts and T-shirts, and while Peter has assured me that we don’t need to dress up, I’d definitely feel better if I had something like a pretty sundress to put on. Also, after my afternoon nap, my morning sickness has decided to wake up.
It’s apparently as jet-lagged as I am.
I’ve already thrown up once, but I still feel queasy as Peter leads me to the main house. Remembering his insistence on getting me a shrink doesn’t help. Did he already talk about it to our host? I hope not, but knowing my husband, he most likely did.
Procrastination is not a concept he’s familiar with.
Either way, my stomach churns as Peter knocks on the door. A moment later, it swings open, revealing a middle-aged Hispanic woman. “Señor Sokolov,” she says, beaming. “Welcome. And this must be your lovely wife.”
I smile and extend my hand. “Hello. I’m Sara.”
“Oh, hello.” She shakes my hand vigorously. “I’m Ana, Señor Esguerra’s housekeeper. Please, come in.”
We follow her into the house. Inside, Esguerra’s mansion is a stunning mix of traditional and modern décor, with heavy, Baroque-style furniture complemented by gleaming hardwood floors and abstract art on the walls. I recognize a couple of the paintings from an art class I took in college. If they are originals—and I suspect they are—the foyer walls alone are worth millions of dollars.
Ana leads us into a formal dining room, where an oval table is set up with gleaming silverware and gold-rimmed plates. Neither Nora nor her husband is there yet, but I recognize the couple sitting on one side of the table.
Lucas and Yulia Kent.
Their blond heads are bent close together, their hands intertwined on the table as they laugh about something. As we walk in, however, they look up, the smiles disappearing from their faces.
Thick tension pervades the room as Ana disappears, leaving us alone.
Peter is the first to break the silence. “Lucas.” He nods coolly at the hard-jawed man. He then turns to Kent’s model-like wife. “Yulia. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.” Her blue eyes cut toward me, her expression reserved. “And you, Sara.”
My nausea abruptly intensifies.
Oh, crap. Panicking, I look around for a bathroom, but I don’t see one.
“Ptichka…” Peter grips my arm. “What’s wrong?”
If I try to speak, I’ll vomit. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I twist out of his hold and sprint out of the room, back toward the entrance.
I barely make it outside. The second I bend over the porch railing, my stomach expunges all its contents.
Naturally, Peter follows me out and witnesses the whole thing—and so does Yulia, I see out of the corner of my eye. Mortified, I finish heaving as he holds my hair, and by the time I look up, she’s gone.
A second later, however, she returns with a wet paper towel. “Here you go,” she murmurs, handing it to me, and I gratefully accept it to wipe my mouth.
Ana comes out next—Yulia must’ve told her what’s happening. Clucking over me, the housekeeper leads me to a bathroom, where she hands me a brand-new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.
By the time I’ve washed my face and thoroughly brushed my teeth, my stomach feels infinitely more settled.
“You okay, my love?” Peter asks as soon as I come out of the bathroom, and I nod, averting my gaze.
“Sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, catching my hand. “Consider this the official announcement of your pregnancy.”
And dropping a kiss on my forehead, he laces his fingers through mine and leads me back to the dining room.
The Esguerras are already there, sitting across from the Kents when we return. I instantly recognize our host: he’s indeed the gorgeous man I met in the hospital. His dark hair is longer than it was then, but his strikingly sensual features are the same. Unlike that time, however, he’s not radiating grief and rage; he’s calm and in control, like a king sitting on his throne.
A cruel, tyrannical king, given what I know about the man.
For the first time, it occurs to me to wonder what happened to the men who had assaulted Nora and her friend. Did Nora’s husband kill them?
Scratch that. Of course he killed them.
The only question is how much he made them suffer first.
“There you are,” Nora says, looking at me. “Come, sit here.” She pats the chair next to her, and I walk over there.
“Julian, this is Sara,” she says as I stop next to her. “You might remember her from the hospital in Chicago.”
“Of course. It’s good to see you again.” He looks at me with a piercingly blue gaze, and for the first time, I notice something slightly off about his left eye, as well as a thin scar that goes from his left cheekbone all the way into his eyebrow.