7
Sara
When I get downstairs, Peter’s teammates are already sitting at the rectangular wooden table, their eyes fixed longingly on the large frying pan sitting in the middle. One of them—the one dressed all in black, with shoulder-length hair and a thick dark beard—looks up as I approach.
“Where is Peter?” he asks, frowning. His Russian accent is only slightly more pronounced than Peter’s. “Food is getting cold.”
“He’s coming,” I say, the heat in my cheeks intensifying as the bearded man’s eyebrows crawl up. He can probably tell what happened upstairs by my swollen lips, if not my shaky inner state. My knees were literally trembling as I walked down the steps, and I’m grateful that Peter’s shirt is loose and thick, concealing the hard points of my n*****s.
If my kidnapper had chosen t
