Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
She immediately backs away, and I know she senses the violence pulsing under my skin. When I first learned the truth of what happened, I couldn’t punish the NATO soldiers or the operatives involved—the cover-up was remarkably fast and thorough—so I took out my fury on the terrorist cell that fed them the false information, followed by anyone dumb enough to stand in my way.
My son’s death unleashed the monster within me, and it still roams free.
When there’s a meter of distance between us, Sara stops backing away and regards me warily. “Is that why…” She bites her lip. “Is that why you became a fugitive? Because of what happened back then?”
My hands clench into fists, and I turn away, returning to the table. I can’t discuss this for even a second longer. Each sentence is like a spray of acid over my heart. I’ve gotten to the point where I can go several hours without thinking about my family’s violent deaths, but talking about what happened brings back the devastation of that day—and the rage that consumed me.
If we stay on this topic, I might lose control and hurt Sara.
One movement at a time. One task at a time. I blank out my mind like I do when I’m on a job, and focus on what needs to be done. In this case, it’s clearing the table, putting the leftovers in the fridge, and stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. I focus on those mundane activities, and gradually, my boiling fury eases, as does the urge to do violence.
When I start the dishwasher and turn back toward Sara, I see her watching me warily. She looks like she’s about to bolt at any moment, and the fact that she hasn’t already means she understands her predicament.
If she runs right now, I won’t be gentle when I catch her.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say and walk toward her. “It’s time to go to bed.”
* * *
Her hand is icy in my grasp as I lead her up the stairs, her beautiful face pale. If I didn’t feel so raw inside, I’d reassure her, tell her I won’t hurt her tonight either, but I don’t want to make promises I may not be able to keep.
The monster is too close to the surface, too out of control.
“Take off your clothes,” I order, releasing her hand when we get to her bedroom. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a loose ivory sweater, and though she looks phenomenal in the simple outfit, I want it gone.
I want there to be no barriers between us.
Instead of obeying, Sara backs away. “Please…” She stops halfway between me and the bed. “Please don’t do this. I’m sorry about what happened to your family, and if George was in any way responsible—”
“He was.” My tone is cutting. “It took years, but I got the names of every soldier and intelligence officer involved in the massacre. There’s no mistake, Sara; my list came directly from your very own CIA.”
She looks stunned. “You got it from the CIA? But… how? I thought you said they were involved, that George was one of them.”
“There are many divisions and factions within the organization. One hand doesn’t always know or care what the other one is doing. I know an arms dealer who has a contact there, and he—or rather, his wife—provided the list. But that’s neither here nor there.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Take off your clothes.”
Her eyes dart to the bed, then to the door behind me.
“Don’t. You don’t want to test me tonight, trust me.”
Her gaze returns to my face, and I can feel her desperation. “Please, Peter. Please don’t do this. What happened to your family was awful, but this won’t bring them back. I’m sorry about them, I truly am, but I had nothing to do with—”
“This is not about that.” I uncross my arms. “What I want from you has nothing to do with what happened.” Except even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. My actions are not those of a man courting a woman; they’re of a predator stalking its prey. If she weren’t who she is—if she were just a random woman—I wouldn’t be forcing myself into her life like this.
My desire for her would’ve been gentle and restrained instead of dangerously obsessive.
Sara gives me a disbelieving look, and I realize she understands that too. I’m not fooling anyone. What’s happening between us has everything to do with the dark past we share.
So be it.
I step toward her. “Remove your clothes, Sara. I won’t ask again.”
She backs away again, then stops, likely realizing she’s getting closer to the bed. Even with the thick sweater concealing her curves, I can see her narrow chest heaving as her hands clench and unclench convulsively at her sides.