Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Anton is right. We have to act now.
Get the plane and the supplies ready, I text back. We’re flying out early morning.
Got it, Anton responds. I assume you want the Americans on her?
Yes, I text. Tell them to stay close near the clinic.
The last time my team and I had to go out of the country on a job, I hired a few locals to watch over Sara in our absence and report to me on her movements. They’re highly vetted, and though I don’t trust them nearly as much as my guys, so far I’ve been pleased with their services.
They should be able to protect her while I’m gone.
Setting my phone alarm to go off in four hours, I climb under the blanket with Sara and pull her into my embrace, curving my body around hers from the back. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away, and as I close my eyes, breathing in her scent, a feeling of peace settles over me.
Nothing is resolved between us, but for some reason, I’m certain that it will be, confident that we’ll make this work, whatever “this” turns out to be. It’s the only way, because I can’t picture my life without her.
Sara is mine, and I’d die before I set her free.
33
Sara
* * *
A persistent buzzing drags me out of sound sleep. For a second, I’m so disoriented I think it’s the middle of the night.
Rolling over onto my side, I blindly grope for the vibrating phone. “Hello,” I croak, grabbing it from the nightstand without opening my eyes. My lashes feel glued together, my head so heavy I can barely lift it off the pillow.
“Dr. Cobakis, we have a patient going into premature labor, and Dr. Tomlinson was called away on a family matter. You’re next in line to be on call. Can you be here soon?”
I sit up, a spike of adrenaline chasing away the worst of my drowsiness. “Um…” I blink the sleep out of my eyes and realize sunlight is seeping in through the cracks in the drapes. The alarm clock by the bed reads 6:45—less than an hour before I need to get up for work anyway. “Yes. I can be there in about an hour.”
“Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”
The second the scheduling coordinator hangs up, I jump off the bed to rush to the shower—and stop dead, feeling the soreness deep inside. Memories of last night rush in, scorching hot and toxic, and all remnants of grogginess fade.
I had sex with Peter Sokolov last night.
He hurt me, and I came in his arms.
For a moment, those two facts seem irreconcilable, like an ice storm in July. I’ve never been into pain—just the opposite. The couple of times George and I explored kink, the light spanking he gave me distracted me from my orgasm instead of turning me on. I don’t understand how I could’ve come after such rough sex, how I could’ve found pleasure when my body felt torn and battered.
And that orgasm wasn’t the only one. My tormentor woke me up in the middle of the night by sliding into me, his fingers skillfully teasing my clit, and despite being sore, I came within minutes, my body responding to him even as my mind screamed in protest. Afterward, I cried myself back to sleep while he held me, stroking my back as though he cared.
No wonder I felt so groggy; with all the sex and crying, I only got a few hours of sleep.
Swallowing the ball of shame in my throat, I force myself to keep moving. I have to get dressed and go to the hospital. No matter how it feels right now, my life didn’t end last night. I have no idea if I did the right thing by encouraging Peter to bed me, but what’s done is done, and I have to move on.
The good news is that I don’t have to see him again until tonight.
Maybe by then, the idea of facing him won’t make me want to die.
* * *
The day flies by in a blur of work, and by the time I come home, I’m both exhausted and starved. I was so busy I skipped lunch, and though I’m dreading another night with my stalker, I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his cooking.
Peter Sokolov might be a psychopath, but he’s an excellent chef.
To my surprise—and a small measure of disappointment—no delicious smells greet me as I walk in from the garage. The house is dark and empty, and I know without going from room to room that he’s not there. I can feel it. My home seems colder, less vibrant, as if whatever dark energy Peter Sokolov emits was giving it a vitality of sorts.
Still, I call out, “Hello? Peter?”
Nothing.
“Are you there?”
No response.
Could my plan have worked so quickly? Is it possible that one taste satisfied whatever sick craving my stalker had for me?