Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
That’s actually not a bad idea. Marsha and anyone else who suspects Peter’s real identity will think I’m completely nuts, but as long as I don’t confirm their suspicions, there will be room for doubt. After all, how crazy is it that the man who murdered George and kidnapped me got full amnesty and is now about to marry me? My friends might as well think I’ve got some kind of masochistic tendencies and have decided to hook up with a man who shares many of my tormentor’s traits.
It’s certainly a simpler explanation.
“So we tell my parents the truth, and stick to the Peter Garin story with everyone else,” I say, getting up to help him clear the table.
“That’s what makes sense to me,” he says and glances at the clock. “You should get dressed and going, ptichka. You don’t want to be late.”
Right. For my job. I almost forgot about that.
“Here, let me help you,” I say, walking over to put away the leftovers, but he waves me away.
“I’ve got it, don’t worry. Just go get ready for work.” And dropping a quick kiss on my forehead, he starts loading the dishwasher.
48
Peter
I drive Sara to her office and leave the car with her, so she can go to the clinic after work as planned. It’s only a ten-minute walk from her office to her apartment building, and the grocery store is on the way, so I stop by and load up on the basics for tonight’s dinner. It’s not a lot, only what I can easily carry in one hand—I like my gun hand always free—and I make a mental note that we’ll need a second car, just like everyone in the suburbs.
That’s not the only thing we’ll need, either. The fridge in Sara’s tiny kitchen is only a meter tall, and the kitchen itself is barely usable. I spent my formative years in a freezing, crumbling cell in Siberia, so I’m not picky about living quarters, but I see no reason for us to continue with an apartment that was clearly designed for a single occupant.
Tonight, when Sara returns, we’ll discuss living arrangements, as well as our upcoming wedding on Saturday.
Of course, I know why cars, apartments, and wedding details are on my mind. Thinking about logistics is distracting me from the urge to grab Sara and lock her in my bedroom, so I can fuck her all day long. And then all night. And then for a week after that.
In fact, I want to chain her to my bed and always keep her there.
I don’t know what I expected when I returned, but it wasn’t this. I didn’t expect it to be so hard for me to let Sara go about her routine, to go back to the way we lived before Japan. Back then, I also wanted her with me all the time, but letting her leave for work didn’t tear me apart like this, didn’t activate this maddening need to cage her and throw away the key. It was all I could do to act normally this morning, to kiss her on the forehead and drop her off at the office like a good husband-to-be instead of a savage who wants nothing more than to cart her away to his cave.
It’s the one variable I didn’t account for in my planning.
My intensifying obsession with Sara—the one thing that can fuck it all up.
I’m hoping it’s a temporary situation, that I’m feeling this way because we’ve just spent nine months apart and I’ve missed her so intensely. That over time, as the memory of those hellish months fades, separating from her for a few hours will get better, easier… less like torture.
The other possibility—that in Japan, I got used to having Sara with me twenty-four-seven and may not be able to readjust to the old routine—is infinitely worse. The reason why I did all this is to make Sara happy, to give her the ability to retain her career, her relationships with her family and friends. It was impossible when I was a fugitive, but now I can be a part of her life without taking it all away from her.
I can give her everything—if only I can overcome my selfish need to keep her to myself.
49
Sara
I spend the majority of my workday oscillating between heart-pounding joy and spurts of panic.
Peter is alive.
He’s back and we’re together—without me getting kidnapped, no less.
Despite what Peter said about his deal, I half expect the FBI to show up and charge me with aiding and abetting. Nobody comes, however. Everything is normal—or as normal as can be when one is engaged to a former assassin.
I’m not ready to answer my coworkers’ questions, so I hid my hand in my pocket and took off the ring as soon as I had a moment of privacy. Now the huge diamond is sitting at the bottom of my handbag, forcing me to carry the bag with me everywhere.