If I can’t be with her, at least I’ll know where she is and what she’s doing.
At least I’ll be sure she’s safe.
I spend the morning transferring the funds for the closing this Thursday and organizing the upcoming move. I plan to have us in the new house by next week, which means there’s a lot of work to be done. Though the place has just been renovated and won’t require major upgrades, I have to install proper security measures.
Suburbia or not, our house will be a fortress, and no one—least of all Agent Ryson—will be able to accost Sara at home again.
It’s mid-afternoon and I’m washing vegetables for dinner when my phone vibrates on the countertop. Pressing on the screen with one semi-dry finger, I skim Sara’s text.
So sorry. Just got a call from the clinic. They’re completely overrun, and they’re begging me to come in tonight. It’ll only be until ten or so. Again, I’m so sorry.
The zucchini I was washing snaps in half, and I shove the phone away with my elbow to avoid subjecting it to the same fate.
I should’ve fucking known. “If no emergencies come up” is code for “an emergency is bound to come up.” It was that way before Japan, and even though Sara’s current job is less focused on the obstetrics side of OB-GYN, her mindset hasn’t changed.
Work still comes first for her, even volunteer work at the clinic.
It takes me a solid twenty minutes to calm down and start thinking rationally. Sara’s career is one of the reasons I went through all that trouble with Novak and Esguerra, why I agreed to give up my revenge on Henderson. Being a doctor—helping patients—is important to her; she needs her career as much as she needs to be near her family and friends. I knew this when I stole her away, but it didn’t matter to me at the time.
All that mattered was keeping her.
Now that I have her and she’s happy, I can’t regress to that way of thinking, can’t forget what it was like when I was the source of her misery, when every time she looked at me, I saw torment in her eyes.
It’s different now. Whatever her remaining reservations, she’s finally admitted that she loves me—loves me enough to have my child.
A daughter or a son… like Pasha.
For a moment, it hurts to breathe again, but then the pain passes, leaving a bittersweet ache in its wake. I’ve been able to think of Pasha like this more and more in recent months, without the rage poisoning the memories. And I know it’s all due to her.
My little songbird whom I so badly want to cage again.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly let it out and focus on the calming task of making dinner.
If Sara can’t come home tonight, I’ll just have to come to her.
7
Sara
I expect someone from Peter’s crew to take me to the clinic, but Peter himself is waiting for me by the curb.
I grin, some of my tiredness fading as his eyes skim over my body before settling hungrily on my face.
“Hi.” I walk straight into his embrace and inhale deeply as his strong arms close around me, pressing me tightly against his chest. He smells warm, clean, and distinctly male—a familiar Peter scent I now associate with comfort.
He holds me for a few long moments, then pulls back to gaze down at me. “How was your day, my love?” he asks softly, brushing my hair off my face.
I beam up at him. “Crazy busy, but all better now.” I’m ridiculously overjoyed that he came to bring me to the clinic himself.
He grins back at me. “Miss me, did you?”
“I did,” I admit as he opens the car door and helps me in. “I really did.”
His answering smile makes me want to melt into the seat. “And I missed you, ptichka.”
“I’m sorry I have to do this,” I say as we pull away from the curb. The car smells of something deliciously spicy, and my stomach rumbles as I say, “I was really looking forward to having a nice dinner at home.”
Peter glances at me. “I brought you dinner. It’s on the back seat.”
“You did?” I turn around in my seat and spot the source of the delicious smell—another lunch bag. “Wow, thank you. You didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it.” Stretching, I grab the bag and put it on my lap.
I was going to buy some pretzels from a vending machine at the clinic, but this is infinitely better.
“Why do you have to do this?” Peter asks, stopping at a red light. His tone is casual, but I’m not fooled.
He was looking forward to our dinner as well.
“I really am sorry,” I say, and I mean it. When Lydia, the receptionist at the clinic, called me at lunchtime, I came very close to refusing her pleas—but in the end, the knowledge that a few dozen women would miss out on their cancer screenings and essential prenatal care if I didn’t show up won out. “They’re short of volunteers today, and I couldn’t leave them in the lurch.”