Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 4) Read online

  Forever Mine

  Tormentor Mine: Book 4

  Anna Zaires

  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

  Part II

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part III

  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

  Part IV

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  About the Author

  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 © 2018 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: 978-1-63142-349-9

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63142-350-5

  Part I

  1

  Henderson

  “What are you doing?”

  Bonnie’s anxious voice startles me out of my planning, and I look up, shoving the folder I was studying into a stack of files on my desk as I prepare to answer with a plausible lie.

  Only my wife of twenty-three years is not looking at me.

  She’s staring at the computer behind me, where a photograph of a beautiful chestnut-haired bride smiling up at her handsome groom takes up most of the screen.

  Fuck. I thought I’d closed all those pictures. My neck muscles spasm with tension, the bile returning to burn up my throat as I see Bonnie begin to shake.

  “Why do you have his picture?” Her voice turns shrill as her eyes swing to me, accusing. “Why do you have that monster’s picture on your screen?”

  “Bonnie… It’s not what you think.” I stand up, but she’s already backing away, shaking her head, her long earrings flapping around her sagging jowls.

  “You promised. You told me we’d be safe.”

  “And we will be,” I say, but it’s too late.

  She’s already gone.

  Back to the refuge of her bed, her pills, her mindless reality TV.

  Back to where the kids and I can never reach her.

  Sinking back into my chair, I roll my head from side to side, releasing the worst of the agonizing tightness as I pull out the folder again. The list of names stares at me, each letter taunting me, stoking the bitter fires of rage deep in my belly.

  Peter Sokolov and his allies.

  They need to pay, each and every one of them.

  Then and only then will we be truly safe.

  2

  Sara

  I wake up with the startling realization that I’m married.

  Married to Peter Garin, a.k.a. Sokolov.

  The man who killed George Cobakis, my first husband, after breaking into my house and torturing me.

  My stalker.

  My kidnapper.

  The love of my life.

  My mind jumps to last night, and heat spreads through my body—a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. He punished me yesterday. Punished me for nearly standing him up at the altar.

  He took me brutally, and in the process, he made me admit it.

  Made me confess that I love him—all of him, the dark parts included.

  That I need that darkness… need it directed at me, so I can overcome the shame and guilt of knowing I fell for a monster.

  Opening my eyes, I stare at the bland white ceiling. We’re still in my small apartment, but I’m guessing we’ll move soon. And then what? Children? Walks in the park and dinners with my parents?

  Am I really about to build a life with a man who threatened to kill everyone at our wedding if I didn’t show up?

  He must be making breakfast because I smell delicious scents coming from the kitchen. It’s something both sweet and savory, and my stomach growls as I sit up, wincing at the soreness in my hamstrings.

  If we’re going to be fucking in exotic positions a lot, I might have to take up yoga.

  Shaking my head at the ridiculous thought, I go to shower and brush teeth, and by the time I come out, dressed in a robe, I hear Peter’s deep, softly accented voice calling me.

  Or more precisely, calling his “ptichka.”

  “I’m here,” I say, walking into the kitchen—only to find myself swept up in incredibly strong arms and kissed so thoroughly that I lose my breath.

  “Yes, you are,” my husband murmurs when he finally sets me back on my feet. “You’re here, and you’re not going anywhere.” His large hands rest possessively on my waist, his gray eyes gleaming like silver in his stubble-darkened face. Though he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he must not have shaved yet, because that stubble looks deliciously rough and scratchy, making me wonder what it would be like to have him rub it all over my skin.

  Impulsively, I lift my hand to his chiseled jaw. It’s just as scratchy as I imagined, and I grin as he closes his eyes and rubs his face against my palm, like a big tomcat marking his territory.

  “It’s Sunday,” I tell him, lowering my hand when he opens his eyes. “So yes, I’m not going anywhere. What’s for breakfast?”

  He grins and steps back, releasing me. “Ricotta pancakes. You hungry?”

  “I could definitely eat,” I admit, and watch his metallic eyes brighten with pleasure.

  I sit down as he grabs plates for both of us and sets them on the table. Though he only came back for me last Tuesday, he�
�s already completely at home in my tiny kitchen, his movements as smooth and confident as if he’s been living here for months.

  Watching him, I again get the unsettling sensation that a dangerous predator has invaded my small apartment. Partially, it’s his size—he’s at least a head taller than me, his shoulders impossibly broad, his elite soldier’s body packed with hard muscle. But it’s also something about him, something more than the tattoos that decorate his left arm or the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow.

  It’s something intrinsic, a kind of ruthlessness that’s there even when he smiles.

  “How are you feeling, ptichka?” he asks, joining me at the table, and I look down at my plate, knowing why he’s concerned.

  “Fine.” I don’t want to think about yesterday, about how Agent Ryson’s visit had literally made me sick. I’d already been anxious about the wedding, but it wasn’t until the FBI agent slapped me in the face with Peter’s crimes that I lost the contents of my stomach—and nearly stood Peter up.

  “No ill effects from last night?” he clarifies, and I look up, my face heating as I realize he’s referring to our sex life.

  “No.” My voice is choked. “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” he murmurs, his gaze hot and dark, and I hide my intensifying blush by reaching for a ricotta pancake.

  “Here, my love.” He expertly plates two pancakes for me and pushes a bottle of maple syrup my way. “Do you want anything else, like fruit?”

  “Sure,” I say and watch as he walks over to the fridge to take out and wash some berries.

  My domesticated assassin. Is this what our life together will always be like?

  “What do you want to do today?” I ask when he returns to the table, and he shrugs, his sculpted lips curved in a smile.

  “It’s up to you, ptichka. I was thinking we could go out, enjoy the beautiful day.”

  “So… a walk in the park? Really?”

  He frowns. “Why not?”

  “No reason. I’m game.” I focus on my pancakes so I don’t start giggling hysterically.

  He wouldn’t understand.

  We eat quickly—I’m hungry, and the ricotta pancakes (sirniki, he calls them) are to die for—and then we head out to the park. Peter is driving, and when we’re halfway there, I notice a black SUV following us.

  “Is that Danny again?” I ask, glancing back.

  Ever since Peter’s return, the Feds have left us alone, and Peter is much too calm about the tail for it to be anyone but the bodyguard/driver he hired.

  To my surprise, Peter shakes his head. “Danny is off today. It’s a couple of other guys from that crew.”

  Ah. I turn around in my seat to study the SUV. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see in. Frowning, I look back at Peter. “You think we still need all that security?”

  He shrugs. “I hope not. But better safe than sorry.”

  “And this car?” I look around the luxurious Mercedes sedan Peter bought last week. “Is it extra secure somehow?” I rap my knuckles on the window. “This seems really thick.”

  His expression doesn’t change. “Yes. The glass is bulletproof.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  He glances at me, a faint smile appearing on his lips. “Don’t worry, ptichka. I have no reason to think we’ll get shot at. This is just a precaution, that’s all.”

  “Right.” Just a precaution—like the weapons he had inside his jacket at our wedding. Or the bodyguard/driver who’s there to pick me up when Peter can’t. Because normal suburban couples always have bodyguards and bulletproof cars.

  “Tell me about the houses you found,” I say, shoving aside the unease generated by the thought of all those security measures. Given his former profession and the kinds of enemies he’s made, Peter’s paranoia makes perfect sense, and I’m not about to object to whatever precautions he deems necessary.

  Like he said, better safe than sorry.

  “I’m going to show you the listings in a second,” he says, and I realize we’re already there, right by the park.

  He expertly parks the car and walks around to open the door for me. I place my hand in his, letting him help me out, and I’m not the least bit surprised when he uses the opportunity to draw me to him for a kiss.

  His lips are soft and gentle as they touch mine, his breath flavored with maple syrup. There is no urgency in this kiss, no darkness—just tenderness and desire. Yet when he lifts his head, my pulse is just as fast as if he’d ravished me, my skin warm and tingling where his palm cradles my cheek.

  “I love you,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, and I beam up at him, my unease replaced by a light, buoyant sensation.

  “I love you too.” The words come even easier today—because they’re true. I do love Peter.

  I love him even though he still terrifies me.

  He grins and leads me to a bench. “Here.” He pulls me down to sit and takes out his phone, then swipes across the screen a few times before handing it to me. “These are the listings I’ve found,” he says, looking at me with a warm silver gaze. “Let me know which houses you like, and we can go see them.”

  I flip through the pictures as the buoyant feeling intensifies.

  Is this what true happiness feels like?

  “Let’s walk and talk,” I tell him when I’m done looking through the photos, and he gladly agrees, clasping my hand in a firm grip as we wander through the park and discuss the pros and cons of the different houses.

  “You don’t think four bedrooms is too small?” he asks, gazing down at me with a questioning smile, and I shake my head.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Well…” He stops and faces me. “Have you considered how many kids you’d like to have?”

  My stomach dives. Here it is—the topic we’ve been avoiding since Cyprus, when Peter admitted he was trying to impregnate me and I crashed trying to escape. I was expecting it to come up at some point, as we haven’t been using condoms since Peter’s return and he outright told my parents he’d like us to start a family soon. Still, my heart pounds in my chest, and my palm grows sweaty in Peter’s grasp as I try to imagine what it would be like to have a child with him.

  With the merciless killer who obsessively loves me.

  Taking a breath, I reach deep for my courage. Peter is no longer a criminal, no longer a fugitive, and I’m his wife, not his captive. He gave up his vengeance so we could have this—a real life together.

  Walks in the park, children, and all.

  “I’ve been picturing three,” I say steadily, holding his gaze. “But I think I could also be happy with one. What about you?”

  A tender smile blooms across his darkly handsome face. “Definitely at least two—assuming all goes well with the first.” He places his big palm on my stomach. “Do you think there’s a chance…?”

  I laugh, stepping away. “Are you kidding me? It’s way too soon to tell. You came back less than a week ago. If I knew I was pregnant, that would be problematic.”

  “Very,” he agrees, catching my hand and squeezing it possessively. We resume walking, and he gives me a sidelong glance. “I take it you’re okay with this?”

  “With a baby now, you mean?”

  He nods, and I take a deep breath, looking ahead at a group of skateboarding teens. “I guess. I’d still like to wait a little, but I know this means a lot to you.”

  He doesn’t answer, and when I look at him, I see that his expression has darkened, his jaw tight as he stares straight ahead. The buoyant feeling evaporates as I realize I’ve inadvertently reminded him of the tragedy in his past.

  “I’m sorry.” I raise our clasped hands to press his fist against my chest. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your family.”

  His gaze meets mine, and some of the raw agony in it recedes. “It’s okay, ptichka.” His voice is husky as he lifts our joined hands higher to drop a tender kiss on my knuckles. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me. Pasha and Tamila will always li
ve in my memories, but you are my family now.”

  I stare at him, my heart squeezing into an aching ball. He’s right. I am his family—and he is mine. Because the wedding happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to truly think about that, to articulate that reality in my mind.

  We’re married.

  Truly married.

  I can no longer think of George as my husband because Peter holds that title now—just as he can’t think of Tamila as his wife.

  “And you’re right,” he continues as I process that realization. “Family is important to me. I want us to have a child, and I want it soon. However…” He hesitates, then says quietly, “If you want to wait, I won’t force the issue.”

  I stop and gape at him. “Really? Why not?”

  A quicksilver smile flashes across his face. “Do you want me to?”