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)
“You’re way too indulgent with him,” Tamila mutters, then gets up also, throwing on a robe over her pajamas. “I’ll go make us breakfast.”
She disappears into the bathroom, and I grin at Pasha. “You want to play, pupsik?” I throw him in the air and catch him, causing him to erupt in shrieks of excited laughter. “Like this?” I throw him again.
“Yeah!” He’s laughing so hard now he’s practically chortling. “More! Higher!”
I laugh, then throw him in the air a few more times, ignoring the pain in my bruised ribs. I spent the last week hunting down a group of insurgents, and we finally found them yesterday. In the resulting gunfight, I caught a couple of bullets in my vest. Nothing serious, but I could use a few slow days. Still, I wouldn’t miss this playtime for the world.
My son is growing up too fast as is.
I wake up with a bittersweet ache swelling my chest. I don’t need to open my eyes to know where I am, or to realize I was dreaming. The pain of losing Pasha is too sharp, too deeply embedded for me to mistake the dream-memory for anything else, though it is the first time I’ve experienced a pleasant dream so vividly.
Usually, my dreams about my family are soft and blurry—at least until they turn into graphic nightmares.
I lie still for a few moments, listening to Sara’s even breathing and absorbing the feel of her slender body curled up in my arms. She’s finally asleep, her overactive mind at rest. She didn’t talk to me this evening, just lay there rigidly for almost an hour, and I knew she was beating herself up over what happened in the shower. I thought about talking to her, distracting her from her thoughts, but with the memories fresh in my mind and my body hard and aching, I didn’t want to risk the conversation venturing into painful territory.
If she started to defend her husband, I might’ve lost control and taken her, hurting her in the process.
Inhaling, I draw in the sweet scent of her hair and let the familiar surge of lust chase away the lingering tightness in my chest. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I’m certain Sara is the reason why, for the first time in five and a half years, I dreamed of my son without also dreaming of his death. Though holding her naked body without fucking her is a form of self-torture, Sara’s presence in my bed has the same effect on my dreams as her nearness on my waking moments.
When I’m with her, the agony of my losses is less acute, almost bearable.
Closing my eyes, I blank out my mind and let myself sink back into sleep.
If I’m lucky, I’ll meet Pasha in my dreams again.
Chapter 24
Sara
Like yesterday, Peter is gone by the time I wake up. I’m glad, because I don’t know how I would’ve faced him this morning. Every time I think about what happened in the shower, I die a little bit inside.
I betrayed George, betrayed his memory in the worst possible way. I met my husband when I was barely eighteen. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first everything. And even when things had begun going south, I remained loyal to him and to our marriage.
Until last night, George had been the only man I’d had sex with, the only one who’d ever made me come.
The pain slams into me, the grief so sharp and sudden it feels like a physical blow. Gasping, I bend over the sink, my toothbrush clutched in my fist. For the past six months, I’ve been so busy coping with my anxiety and panic attacks, with the guilt of knowing I caused George’s death, that I haven’t had a chance to truly grieve for my husband. I haven’t processed the empty gap that is his absence in my life, haven’t dealt with the fact that the man I’d been with for the better part of a decade is gone.
George is dead, and I’ve been sleeping with his killer.
My stomach roils with nausea as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, hating the image looking back at me. The ease with which I orgasmed last night fills me with red-hot shame. Peter barely touched me, barely did anything. He didn’t even restrain me that much. If I tried, I might’ve been able to push him away, but I didn’t try.
I just stood there and gave in to the pleasure, and then I slept in my torturer’s arms for the second night in a row.
The pain congeals into a thick knot of self-disgust, and I look away from my reflection, unable to bear the censure in the hazel eyes staring back at me. I can’t do this, can’t play this sick, twisted game Peter is forcing on me. It doesn’t matter if he has his reasons, or thinks he does. No amount of suffering excuses what he’s done to George, or what he’s still doing to me.