Obsession Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 2) Read online

  Obsession Mine

  Tormentor Mine: Book 2

  Anna Zaires

  ♠ Mozaika Publications ♠

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Anna Zaires & Dima Zales

  www.annazaires.com

  All rights reserved.

  Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.

  www.mozaikallc.com

  e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-238-6

  ISBN: 978-1-63142-239-3

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part II

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part III

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part IV

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Excerpt from Twist Me

  Excerpt from Capture Me

  Excerpt from The Krinar Captive

  About the Author

  Part I

  1

  Peter

  “They’re gaining on us,” Ilya says as the whine of sirens and the roar of helicopter blades grow louder. Light from the cars on the other side of the highway bounces off his shaved head, creating the illusion that his skull tattoos are dancing as he glances in the rearview mirror with a worried frown.

  “Right.” Ignoring the adrenaline pumping in my veins, I tighten my arm around Sara, preventing her head from sliding off my shoulder as Ilya zooms around a slower-moving car. I expected the pursuit, of course—one doesn’t steal a woman guarded by the FBI without consequences—but now that it’s happening, I find myself worried.

  My three teammates and I can handle a high-speed chase just fine, but I can’t endanger Sara that way.

  Reaching a decision, I tell Ilya, “Slow down. Let them catch up to us.”

  Anton twists around in the front passenger seat, his bearded face incredulous as he grips his M16. “Are you insane?”

  “We can’t lead them to the airport,” Yan, Ilya’s twin, points out. He’s sitting on the other side of Sara, and he must’ve caught on to my plan, because he’s already rummaging in the large duffel bag we stored under the backseat of our SUV.

  “Do you think the Feds know we have her?” Anton glances at the unconscious woman pressed to my side, and I feel an irrational flicker of jealousy as his black gaze roves over Sara’s face, lingering for a moment longer than necessary on her plush pink lips.

  “They must. Those guys tailing her were stupid but not completely inept,” Yan says, straightening with a grenade launcher in his hands. Unlike his twin, he favors a conservative hairstyle and neatly pressed business clothes—his banker disguise, as Ilya calls it. In general, Yan looks like someone who wouldn’t know how to handle a wrench, much less a gun, but he’s one of the most lethal individuals I know—as are the rest of my team.

  Our clients pay us millions for a reason, and it has nothing to do with our fashion choices.

  “I hope you’re right,” Ilya says, tightening his grip on the wheel as he glances in the rearview mirror again. Two black government SUVs and three police cruisers are now four cars behind us, blue and red lights flashing as they pass slower-moving vehicles. “American police are soft. They won’t risk shooting if they know we have her.”

  “Nor will they open fire in the middle of a highway,” Yan says, pressing a button to roll down the window. “Too many civilians around.”

  “Hold off for a moment,” I tell him as he moves closer to the window, the grenade launcher in hand. “We want the chopper as low as possible above us. Ilya, slow down some more and get into the right lane. We’re taking the next exit.”

  Ilya does as I say, and we switch into the slower lane, our speed dropping below the posted limit. A gray Toyota Camry zooms past us on the left, and I press Sara closer to me, telling Yan to get ready. The noise from the helicopter is deafening—it’s hovering almost directly overhead now—but I wait.

  A few moments later, I see it.

  The sign for the exit, coming up in a quarter mile.

  “Now,” I yell, and Yan springs into action, propelling his head and torso out the window, the grenade launcher in his hands.

  Boom! It sounds like the mother of all fireworks just went off above us. Brakes screech all around us, but we’re already at the exit, and Ilya swerves off the highway just as all hell breaks loose, cars colliding in both lanes with a clang of crumpling metal as the chopper above explodes in a fiery metal ball.

  “Fuuuck,” Anton breathes, staring at the mess we left behind. With the flaming chopper pieces raining down, a giant Walmart truck is in the process of flipping over, and no less than a dozen cars have already crashed, with more ramming into the pile with each second. The government SUVs are among the victims, and the police cruisers are trapped behind them. There’s no way our pursuers will be able to follow us now, and though I’m not happy about the injured civilians, I know this is how we’ll make our escape.

  By the time they regroup and send more cops after us, we’ll be long gone.

  Nobody is taking Sara away from me.

  She chose me, and she’s staying mine.

  We get to the underpass where we left our other vehicle without pursuit, and once we switch cars, we all breathe a little easier. I have no doubt the Feds will locate us, but by the time they do, we should be safely in the air.

  We’re almost at the airport when Sara lets out a small moan, her eyelids fluttering open as she stirs at my side.

  The drug I gave her has worn off.

  “Shhh,” I soothe, kissing her forehead as she tries to wriggle out of the blanket cocooning her from neck down. “You’re okay, ptichka. I’m here, and all is well. Here, drink this.” With my free hand, I open a sports bottle filled with water and press it to her lips, letting her suck down some liquid.

  “What… where am I?” she croaks hoarsely when I take the bottle away, and I tighten my arm around her shoulders, preventing her from unrolling the blanket and exposing her nakedness. “What happened?”

  “Noth
ing bad,” I assure her, setting the bottle down to brush a strand of hair off her face. “We’re just going on a little trip.”

  On the other side of Sara, Yan snorts and mutters in Russian something about major understatements.

  Sara’s gaze darts toward Yan, then bounces all over the car, and I see the exact moment she realizes what’s happening.

  “Please tell me you didn’t…” Her voice rises in pitch. “Peter, tell me you didn’t just—”

  “Shhh.” Turning her fully toward me, I press two fingers against her soft lips. “I couldn’t stay, and I couldn’t leave you behind, ptichka. You know that. It’s going to be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’m going to keep you safe.”

  She stares at me, her hazel eyes filled with shock and horror, and despite my certainty that I did the right thing, my chest tightens unpleasantly.

  Sara warned me about the FBI, knowing I would most likely take her with me, but she probably didn’t expect me to do it like this. And maybe there was some other way, something I could’ve done that wouldn’t have involved drugging her and stealing her in the middle of the night.

  No. Shaking off the uncharacteristic self-doubt, I focus on what matters: reassuring Sara and getting her to accept the situation.

  “Listen to me, ptichka.” I curve my palm around her delicate jaw. “I know you’re worried about your parents, but as soon as we’re airborne, you can call them and—”

  “Airborne? So we’re still in—? Oh thank God.” She closes her eyes, and I feel a tremor run through her before she opens her eyes to meet my gaze. “Peter…” Her voice turns soft, cajoling. “Peter, please. You don’t have to do this. You can just leave me here. It’ll be so much safer for you… so much easier to get away if they’re not searching for me. You could just disappear, and they’ll never catch you, and then—”

  “They’ll never catch me regardless.” My tone is clipped, but I can’t help the flare of anger as I lower my hand. Sara had her chance to be rid of me, and she didn’t take it. By warning me, she sealed her fate, and it’s too late to back out now. Yes, I drugged and took her without asking, but she had to know I wouldn’t leave her behind. I told her how much I loved her, and though she didn’t say the words back to me, I know she’s not indifferent. Maybe this is not precisely what she wanted, but she chose me, and for her to beg me to leave her behind now, to try to manipulate me with her big eyes and sweet voice… It hurts, this rejection of hers, though it shouldn’t.

  I did kill her husband and force my way into her life.

  “We’re here,” Anton says in Russian as the car slows, and I turn my head to see our plane some twenty meters ahead.

  “Peter, please.” Sara begins to struggle inside the blanket, her voice rising in volume as the car comes to a complete stop and my men jump out. “Please don’t do this. This is wrong. You know this is wrong. My whole life is here. I have my family and my patients and my friends…” She’s crying now, her struggles intensifying as I bend to grab her blanket-wrapped legs and haul her out of the car. “Please, you said you wouldn’t do this if I cooperated, and I did. I did everything you wanted. Please, Peter, stop! Leave me here! Please!”

  She’s hysterical now, twisting and bucking in the confines of the blanket as I back out of the car, holding her against my chest, and Anton shoots me an uncomfortable look as he helps the twins get the weapons from under the backseat. Though my friend had suggested on more than one occasion that I should just take Sara if I want her, the reality of it must be crueler than he imagined.

  Other people might deem us monsters, but we can feel—and it would take a heart of steel not to feel something as Sara continues to beg and plead, struggling inside the blanket cocoon as I carry her to the plane.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her when I bring her into the passenger cabin and carefully deposit her into one of the wide leather seats at the front. Her distress is like a poison-tipped blade in my side, but the thought of leaving her behind is even more agonizing. I can’t picture my life without Sara, and I’m ruthless enough—and selfish enough—to ensure I won’t need to.

  She might be having second thoughts about her decision, but she’ll come around and accept the situation, just like she was beginning to accept our relationship. And then she’ll be happy again—happier, even. We’re going to build a life together, and it’s going to be one she’ll enjoy as well.

  I have to believe that, because this is the only way I can have her.

  This is the only way I can know love again.

  2

  Sara

  Tears of panic and bitter frustration roll down my face as the wheels of the jet lift off the runway, and the lights of the small airport fade into inky darkness. In the distance, I see the light clusters of Chicago and its suburbs, but before long, they disappear too, leaving me with the crushing knowledge that my old life is gone.

  I’ve lost my family, my friends, my career, and my freedom.

  My stomach roils with nausea as shards of glass pierce my temples, my headache aggravated by whatever Peter injected to knock me out. Worst of all, though, is the suffocating sensation in my chest, the awful feeling that I can’t get enough air. I take deep breaths to combat it, but it only worsens. The blanket is like a straightjacket, keeping my arms pinned to my sides, and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.

  My tormentor carried out his threat.

  He kidnapped me, and I may never see home again.

  He’s not next to me now—as soon as we took off, he got up and disappeared into the back of the passenger cabin, where two of his men are sitting—and I’m glad. I can’t bear to look at him, to know that I was stupid enough to warn him when he already knew everything.

  When he had that needle ready and was toying with me.

  How did he know? Were there cameras and listening devices inside the hospital locker room where Karen confronted me? Or did the men Peter assigned to follow me spot my FBI tail and tell him? Or maybe he has some connections in the FBI, just like that one contact of his had in the CIA? Is that possible, or am I reaching? Either way, it doesn’t matter now; the point is, he knew.

  He knew, yet he pretended not to, playing with my emotions while he waited for me to crack.

  God, how could I have been such an idiot? How could I have warned him, knowing that something like this could happen? How could I have come home when I suspected—no, when I knew—what my stalker was likely to do if he learned about the impending danger? I should’ve told Karen everything when I had the chance, let her send the agents to my house while the FBI took me into protective custody. Yes, Peter might’ve still escaped, but he wouldn’t have taken me with him—not at that point, at least. I would’ve had more time to plan, to figure out the best way for me and my parents to stay safe. He would’ve most likely returned for me, but there was at least a chance the FBI could’ve protected us.

  Instead, I walked right into Peter’s trap. I went home, and I let him lie to me. Let him fool me into believing that there was something human—something good—within him. “I love you,” he said, and I fell for it, buying into the illusion that we had something genuine, that his tenderness meant he truly cared for me.

  I let my irrational attachment to my husband’s killer blind me to the reality of what he is, and I lost everything.

  The tightness in my chest grows, my lungs constricting until every breath is a struggle. Rage and despair mix together, making me want to scream, but all I can manage is a pained wheeze, the blanket around my body as smothering as a noose around my neck. I’m too hot, too restrained; my head is pounding, and my heart is beating too fast. I feel like I’m suffocating, dying, and I want to claw at my throat, to tear it open so I can suck in air.

  “Here, it’s okay.” Peter is crouched in front of me, though I didn’t see him return. His strong hands are loosening the blanket, smoothing my hair back from my sweat-dampened face. I’m shaking and wheezing, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack, and
his touch is bizarrely soothing, taking away the worst of the suffocating sensation.

  “Breathe, ptichka,” he urges, and I do, my lungs obeying him the way they refuse to obey me. My chest expands with one full breath, then another, and then I’m breathing semi-normally, my throat opening to let in precious oxygen. I’m still sweating, still shaking, but my pulse is slowing, the fear of suffocating disappearing as Peter liberates my arms from the blanket and hands me a man’s black T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a chance to grab any of your clothes,” he says, helping me pull the enormous T-shirt over my head. “Luckily, Anton stashed a change of clothes in the back. Here, you can put on these pants, too.” He guides my trembling feet into a pair of men’s black jeans, helps me put on a pair of black socks, and removes the blanket altogether, throwing it on the table next to us.

  Like the T-shirt, the jeans are huge on me, but there is a belt inside the loops, and Peter tightens it around my hips, knotting it at the front like a tie before rolling up the pant legs.