Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 4) Page 21

Back to our temporary home.

  63

  Peter

  “So, what’s up with Yulia and the Esguerras?” Sara asks at breakfast the next morning. “At dinner, it seemed as if there was some tension there, and I remember you mentioned something about it in Cyprus.”

  “Oh, that?” I ladle her some more steel-cut oatmeal with berries. I’ve started researching optimal nutrition for pregnant women, and I plan to shift Sara’s diet toward more healthy foods. “Yes, there’s definitely tension—and for a good reason.”

  She puts down her spoon. “Oh?”

  I debate glossing over the whole ugly story, but she hasn’t had any flashback episodes this morning or last night, and this has nothing to do with her parents or any of the traumatic events she’s been through. So I decide to fill her in, especially since my ptichka seemed to be getting chummy with Kent’s blond wife last night.

  “Do you remember how I told you that Esguerra once had a run-in with a terrorist group and had to be rescued?” I ask. At Sara’s nod, I say, “Well, there was a reason they captured him. His plane had been shot down over Uzbekistan, and that happened because of some information that Yulia provided to the Ukrainian government.”

  “What?” Sara’s eyes grow huge. “Why would she do that? Was she with Lucas at the time?”

  “From what I’ve heard, they’d had a one-night stand in Moscow right before the crash. As to why, that was her job at the time. She worked as a spy for the Ukrainian government in Moscow.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s…” Sara appears to be struck speechless.

  I smile. “Yeah, I know. Kent was on the plane too, by the way. So were nearly fifty of Esguerra’s men. Pretty much all of them perished—which is how Esguerra ended up in a hospital in Tashkent, wounded and unprotected.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Sara breathes. “How is she still alive, much less married to Lucas?”

  I grin. My little civilian is starting to think the way I do. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” I tell her. “I’d left the estate right after that whole mess went down. But I’m guessing she’s alive because they’re married. I helped him retrieve her from Moscow at one point because he wanted to personally punish her, but I don’t know much beyond that. Just that they somehow ended up together and, by all indications, are pretty happy.”

  Sara shakes her head. “Wow. I just… I have no words.” She digs into her oatmeal, and I make quick work of mine before getting up to clear away the dishes.

  As I load the dishwasher, I watch her covertly. She seems lost in thought as she sips her tea, but there’s no sign of that terrifyingly blank look, no hyperventilating or panic attacks connected to the flashbacks. She did wake up from a nightmare once last night, but I made love to her and she fell back asleep.

  Maybe yesterday was an anomaly, and my ptichka will be all right, after all. In any case, the therapist is flying in this morning and will be able to see her as early as this afternoon.

  Another, even better news is that last night’s operation went off without a hitch. With Esguerra’s resources and my detailed files on Henderson, we got everyone we hoped to get—which means we’re one step closer to resolving this situation.

  If there’s any shred of empathy in Henderson, he’ll cave.

  If not, we’ll find him anyway—and he’ll die knowing all those deaths are on his conscience.

  64

  Henderson

  I stare at my computer screen, my skin crawling with horror. The messages filling my inbox are surreal.

  My uncle. My cousins. Bonnie’s family. All our friends.

  Gone.

  Abducted from their homes, their schools, on their way to work, and from their churches.

  With shaking fingers, I click over to CNN and open a web video discussing it.

  “It is now believed that last night’s series of kidnappings in Asheville, Charleston, and the Washington D.C. area may be connected,” the news anchor informs the camera with barely concealed excitement. “So far, no demands have been made, but the police are expecting to hear from the kidnappers at any moment. In total, nineteen citizens have been reported missing, with one of the abductions caught on a security camera.”

  The video flashes to a grainy footage of two masked figures grabbing Uncle Ian as he’s filling up his car at a gas station. The kidnappers’ movements are smooth and coordinated—they’re clearly professionals who know what they’re doing.

  “In another twist to the story, it appears that a number of these citizens have suffered abductions and assaults in the recent past,” the anchor continues, and the camera flashes to a weeping redhead—my friend Jimmy’s wife, Sandra.

  Thank God they let her be.

  It’s bad enough my oldest friend—the one after whom we’d named our son—is in their ruthless clutches.

  “Why does this keep happening to us?” Sandra sobs, her mascara running down her freckled face. “Last time, they beat him up and shot him, and he’s had to retire from the force. And now this? Why? What do they want from us?”

  Me. They want me.

  Acidic bile churns in my throat.

  The cops won’t see any demands from the kidnappers because the demands were sent directly to me.

  Or rather, to the CIA, where a contact of mine knows how to reach me via email.

  I should’ve foreseen this and taken some steps to prevent it, but I assumed that everyone Sokolov had interrogated before is safe, since they knew nothing the first time.

  I underestimated how sociopathic my opponents are.

  My neck spasms, the ever-present pain flaring into agony as I pause the video and click over to my inbox, where I read the last email again.

  Nineteen hours, nineteen lives, the message received by the CIA reads. The clock starts at noon EST. Turn yourself in, Wally, or watch them all die, one by one.

  65

  Sara

  After breakfast, Peter steps out to catch up on some business with Esguerra and his Russian crew, and I decide to go visit Nora in the main house. For the first time in a week, I don’t feel tense or anxious. My stomach is fully settled, and my heart is beating at a normal pace.

  I’m humming under my breath as I walk, enjoying the feel of the warm, humid air on my skin. I feel good, almost like I did before all this happened, before my parents—

  My mind shuts down, a wall of numbness sliding into place as a third shot rings out.

  I look at my husband, on his back and bleeding, then at the agent in the doorway, his face twisted with hatred as he aims at Peter’s head.

  My gaze falls on the gun that Peter dropped while wrestling with the other agent.

  It’s three feet away.

  I reach for it and pick it up. It’s cold and heavy in my hand, adding to the icy numbness in my heart.

  My parents dead.

  Peter about to be murdered.

  I aim and squeeze the trigger a split second before the agent fires.

  My bullet misses, but the gunshot startles him, causing his shot to go wild.

  He spins toward me, and I fire again.

  It hits him in the middle of his vest, throwing him back.

  Without any hesitation, I walk over to him and lift my gun again.

  “Don’t—” he chokes out, gasping for breath, and I squeeze the trigger.

  His face explodes into bits of blood and bone. It’s like a hyper-realistic video game, complete with smell, taste, and—

  “Motherfucker! Sara, what happened? What’s wrong?”

  I snap back to reality, gasping for air. I’m on the ground, curled in a fetal ball, with Lucas Kent crouched over me. His hard features are tense with worry, his pale eyes surveying me from head to toe. Not spotting any obvious injuries, he grips my arms and pulls me to my feet.

  My knees are weak and I’m shaking all over, my sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to my body. I’m also so cold that I’m shivering despite the heat of the sun beating down on my skin.

  “Are you okay?” Kent asks, hold
ing me by my arms. When I nod on autopilot, he lets go of me and demands, “What happened? Did something scare you or hurt you?”

  I shake my head, still breathing too fast to speak.

  “Okay. Diego!” He waves at the guard passing by—the same one who showed us to the house, I realize dazedly.

  “Stay with her,” Kent orders when the young man hurries over. “I’m getting Peter.”

  And before I can object, he takes off at a run.

  66

  Peter

  “Where’s Kent?” Esguerra asks when I walk into the small, modern building that serves as his office.

  He prefers to conduct business away from the house and family—never mind that Nora is well-versed in the ins-and-outs of his illegal empire.

  “How should I know?” I reply as I take a seat next to Yan, who’s looking at his phone. Ilya and Anton are already here as well, with Ilya happily munching on a cookie from the platter that Ana must’ve brought in again. “Isn’t he staying in the house with you?”

  Esguerra frowns. “He was making the rounds with the guards this morning.” He glances at one of the many flatscreen TV monitors lining the walls, then faces us. “All right, we’ll have to fill him in later; I have a call coming up.” His gaze swings to me. “Any word from Henderson?”

  “No, and I wouldn’t expect to hear from him anytime soon. We’re still”—I glance at the clock on one of the monitors—“about an hour from the start of the deadline. I’m guessing we’ll have to make good on our threat with at least a few bodies before he realizes we’re serious.”

  Esguerra nods. “All right. I’ve already given our men the instruction on which hostages are to be killed first. Any word from your hackers?”

  “Actually, yes,” Yan says, looking up from his phone. “They’ve just tracked down the sniper for us—the one who shot the agent during Peter’s arrest.”

  My hand tightens on the table. “Who is he?”

  “He is apparently a she,” Yan says, his eyes on his phone again. “Goes by the name of Mink and is from the Czech Republic. Hold on—the picture is loading now.”

  “What about our doppelgängers?” Anton asks. “Any word on those fuckers?

  Yan doesn’t respond, and when I look at him, I see a vein ticking in his temple as he stares at his phone’s screen.

  “What is it?” Ilya asks, frowning, and his twin wordlessly hands the phone over.

  Ilya’s broad face seems to turn into stone. “Her?” He looks up at his brother. “She is Mink?”

  What the fuck? I snatch the phone from Ilya’s hand and examine the picture on the screen.

  The woman’s face—caught in half-profile by the camera—is young and rather pretty, with delicate features emphasized by the short blond hair standing up in spikes around her pale face. On the side of her neck is a small tattoo of something indiscernible, and her small ear is studded with a dozen piercings.

  “Who is she?” I ask, looking up at the twins. “How do you know her?”

  Yan’s face is tight. “It doesn’t matter.” He grabs the phone from me. “I’m sending men to capture her—she may know where Henderson is.”

  “It does matter,” Esguerra says as Yan’s thumbs tap furiously at the screen. “Who the fuck is she?”

  “We met her in Budapest,” Ilya says when Yan ignores the question. “She works as a waitress in a bar.”

  A waitress from Budapest? Why does that sound familiar?

  “Did you sleep with her while we were in Japan?” Anton blurts out, staring at Yan. “Is she the one Ilya was pouting about?”

  Ilya’s massive jaw tightens. “I wasn’t pouting. But yes, he”—he jerks his thumb at his brother—“fucked her.”

  Yan slams his phone on the table. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  I watch the scene in amazement. Cool, collected Yan is as close to losing control as I’ve ever seen him.

  Ilya’s face goes red, and he stands abruptly, sending his chair crashing to the floor.

  I leap to my feet as well, knowing a fight is coming—and at that moment, Kent bursts in.

  “It’s Sara,” he says, breathing as if he’s run a five-minute mile. “Peter, you need to come with me. Now.”

  67

  Peter

  Ignoring the nagging pain in my side, I carry Sara back to our house. She’s capable of walking—I know, because she told me so in a shaking voice—but I don’t give a fuck about that. She’s so pale and fragile-looking that I have to hold her, have to feel her slender body pressed against me, so I know she’s physically uninjured.

  So that I can pretend she and the baby are all right.

  My blood froze at Kent’s appearance, and I’m still not recovered fully. It doesn’t help that when I sprinted over, my ptichka was even more pale than she is now… even more breakable.

  “Here we are,” I say soothingly as we approach the house. “We’ll get you into a shower right away, okay?” Her clothes are covered with dirt and grass stains, as are her palms, her knees, and half her face.

  She doesn’t object—either to the shower or to my help undressing—which tells me how terrible she’s feeling.

  Yesterday, she’d been all about convincing me that she’s okay.

  When I have her naked, I turn on the water and wait for the temperature to adjust. Then I usher her in and strip off my own clothes before joining her under the spray. The water immediately soaks my bandages, but I don’t care.

  I’m pretty sure those things can come off now, and I’d be fine.

  “What did you see, my love?” I ask quietly as I pour soap in my hand. Despite my worry about her, my cock is hardening, lured by her silky skin and pink-tipped breasts. Ruthlessly, I suppress the urge to do anything but wash her. Sex won’t fix this, no matter how much I wish it could.

  My ptichka needs to face whatever demons she is fighting.

  She needs to let me—and herself—in.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.”

  Fuck. I feel like putting my fist through the glass wall of the stall, but instead, I begin washing her, focusing on being as gentle as I can.

  She doesn’t need any more violence.

  She’s seen too much as is.

  Worry, mixed with a healthy dose of guilt, is still devouring me from the inside as I feed her lunch. I shouldn’t have left her alone for those thirty minutes. I should’ve been there, done something to prevent this.

  Hell, I should’ve protected her from trauma in the first place.

  To my relief, my ptichka seems much more recovered after the shower—to the point that she’s again trying to pretend that all is fine, and that Kent didn’t find her curled up like a wounded child on the grass.

  “Why don’t we let the therapist rest after her flight?” she says when I inform her that I’m taking her to see the doctor immediately after we eat. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to start the sessions.”

  “She’ll rest after she talks to you.” I’m not putting this off—not after what I saw. Esguerra messaged me, wanting me to stop by his office after lunch, but I’m not leaving her alone again.

  Henderson and all that shit can wait.

  Sara sighs, poking at her kale salad, then looks up. “You do know that I’m not going to magically be cured if I talk to this doctor, right?” Her hazel eyes are troubled. “Therapy doesn’t always help in situations such as this.”

  At least she’s finally acknowledging there is a “situation.”

  Getting up, I walk around the table to her chair. “I know, my love,” I say softly, looking down at her upturned face. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I massage them, feeling the tension in the delicate muscles. “It won’t be magic, but it’ll be a start.”

  And sinking to my knees beside her chair, I wrap my arms around her and hold her, needing to feel her heartbeat against mine.

  Needing to convince myself that I can undo the damage I have done.

&n
bsp; 68

  Sara

  The doctor is a tall woman in her late forties. If Sandra Bullock had played the stylish boss/villain in The Devil Wears Prada, she might’ve looked something like this therapist, right down to the trendy designer glasses.

  “Hello,” she says, sticking out her slim, perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Dr. Wessex.”

  “Hi.” I shake her hand. “I’m Sara.”

  We’re in another house similar to the one Peter and I are staying in, in a small office with a window facing the road. I can see Peter pacing around outside; Dr. Wessex was adamant that he can’t be present during my therapy session.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sara.” She takes a seat behind a glossy table, and I sit down on the reclining chair on the other side. “Your husband has told me a little bit about what brings you to me today, but I’d love to hear about it in your own words.”

  I shift in my seat. “I’d really rather not talk about it.”

  She cocks her head. “Why? Is it because it pains you?”

  I take a breath as my chest compresses. “No. I mean, yes, of course. I just… don’t want to think about it.”

  “Because your parents were killed?”

  I flinch and look away.

  “Or because something else happened?” the doctor presses. “Maybe something you have trouble processing?”

  My breathing speeds up, and I clench my hands. As my nails dig into my palms, the small pain helps me stay focused on the present.

  I can’t go there.

  I won’t go there.

  When I remain silent and refuse to look at her, Dr. Essex sighs and says, “Have you ever heard of Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, or EMDR?”

  I give her a blank stare and shake my head.

  “It’s a fairly new, nontraditional psychotherapy that I’ve had great success with over the past year. The idea here is that you’ll go through your negative experiences while focusing on an external stimulus. Specifically, I’m going to ask you to track my hand movements with your eyes as you narrate a specific painful memory.”