Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“When is your next performance?” I ask over breakfast. “I’ve seen the videos of you on stage, but I’d love to see it in person.”
She looks up from her omelet, blinking as if just refocusing on me. “Oh, I actually meant to tell you. Our guitarist, Phil, texted me late last night. He’s secured a gig for us tomorrow night, but only if everyone can make it on short notice. Do you think we can move the dinner with my parents to Saturday?”
My first impulse is to say no. I’ve been counting on having her to myself after the dinner—an event that would likely take two or three hours, max. This performance gig would eat up our entire Friday night, and then we’d still have to get together with her parents over the weekend—which is also when we’re going to be settling into our new place.
Then again, I’ve been dying to see my little songbird on stage, singing her heart out. And this is important to her, so it’s important to me.
“Of course,” I say calmly and get up to start cleaning up. “We can do dinner with your parents on Saturday. Or better yet, invite them over for a Saturday brunch.”
I’ve always known that living this life means I’ll have to share Sara’s time and attention, and I can’t let my obsession with her ruin this for us.
I can handle this.
It’s just something I need to get used to.
I finish cleaning up while Sara gets dressed, and then I drive her to work.
“Don’t forget: the closing is at six today,” I tell her as we pull up in front of her office. “I’ll pick you up at 5:30, okay?”
She nods, still not quite meeting my gaze as she reaches for the door handle.
“Sara.” I catch her wrist as she opens the door. “Look at me.”
She reluctantly obeys, and I reach over with my other hand, tucking an errant strand of glossy chestnut hair behind her ear. “Say it, ptichka. I want to hear the words.”
She stares at me, and I feel the rapid pulse in the slender wrist I’m holding. She’s fighting herself again, fighting her feelings for me, and I won’t stand for it.
“Say it,” I demand, my grip tightening, and I see the exact moment she gives up the fight.
Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply, then opens them. “I love you.” Her voice is quiet but steady as she looks into my eyes. “I love you, Peter… no matter what.”
Something deep within me—a knot of tension I didn’t even know was there—relaxes, and I bring her hand up to my lips, kissing the soft skin on each knuckle. “I love you too. I’ll see you at 5:30, okay?”
“Okay,” she murmurs, and I force myself to let her go.
To let her fly free, if only until tonight.
13
Sara
True to his word, Peter picks me up at 5:30 sharp, and we drive to the title company’s office to sign papers.
“You put the house in my name?” I give Peter a startled look when I see space for only my signature on the documents.
He nods, his lips curving in a smile. “It’s for the best, my love. Just in case.”
A chill wraps around my spine. “Just in case” could refer to any number of things, but when your husband used to be hunted by law enforcement agencies worldwide and still has ties to the criminal underworld, the words take on a particularly sinister meaning.
I want to probe deeper, but the title agent—a pretty, polished woman in her thirties—is watching us with undisguised curiosity, so I just sign at every X and try not to think about the terrifying possibilities.
Like, say, a SWAT team breaking down our door in the middle of the night because they’ve uncovered Peter’s role in Monica’s stepfather’s murder.
“All done,” the woman says brightly when I hand her the last of the papers. “Congratulations on your new home.”
“Thank you.” I stand up and shake her hand. “We’re very excited.”
Peter shakes her hand next, and I can’t help but notice the way she looks at him—like a cat eyeing a saucer of cream. He seems oblivious to her interest, but I still feel an ugly stirring of jealousy.
Maybe I should tell Peter that she upset me?
I quash the dark joke as soon as it pops up in my mind, but it’s too late. I’m back to thinking about everything and feeling sick. All day long, I’ve been trying to convince myself that what happened was a one-off and that Peter will keep his promise not to hurt anyone else, but every time I come close to believing it, I remember what he threatened to do at our wedding if I stood him up.
Murder—or the threat of it—will always be a part of his arsenal, and nobody around me is truly safe. I might as well be walking around with a live grenade.