Chapter 2-1
816 Words
2
Sara
I wake up with the startling realization that I’m married.
Married to Peter Garin, a.k.a. Sokolov.
The man who killed George Cobakis, my first husband, after breaking into my house and torturing me.
My stalker.
My kidnapper.
The love of my life.
My mind jumps to last night, and heat spreads throughout my body—a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. He punished me yesterday. Punished me for nearly standing him up at the altar.
He took me brutally, and in the process, he made me admit it.
Made me confess that I love him—all of him, the dark parts included.
That I need that darkness… need it directed at me, so I can overcome the shame and guilt of knowing I fell for a monster.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the bland white ceiling. We’re still in my small apartment, but I’m guessing we’ll move soon. And then what? Children? Walks in the park and dinners with my parents?
Am I really about to build a life with the man who threatened to kill everyone at our wedding if I didn’t show up?
He must be making breakfast because I smell delicious scents coming from the kitchen. It’s something both sweet and savory, and my stomach growls as I sit up, wincing at the soreness in my hamstrings.
If we’re going to be f*****g in exotic positions a lot, I might have to take up yoga.
Shaking my head at the ridiculous thought, I go to shower and brush my teeth, and by the time I come out, dressed in a robe, I hear Peter’s deep, softly accented voice calling me.
Or more precisely, calling his “ptichka.”
“I’m here,” I say, walking into the kitchen—only to find myself swept up in incredibly strong arms and kissed so thoroughly that I lose my breath.
“Yes, you are,” my husband murmurs when he finally sets me back on my feet. “You’re here, and you’re not going anywhere.” His large hands rest possessively on my waist, his gray eyes gleaming like silver in his stubble-darkened face. Though he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he must not have shaved yet, because that stubble looks deliciously rough and scratchy, making me wonder what it would be like to have him rub it all over my skin.
Impulsively, I lift my hand to his chiseled jaw. It’s just as scratchy as I imagined, and I grin as he closes his eyes and rubs his face against my palm, like a big tomcat marking his territory.
“It’s Sunday,” I tell him, lowering my hand when he opens his eyes. “So yes, I’m not going anywhere. What’s for breakfast?”
He grins and steps back, releasing me. “Ricotta pancakes. You hungry?”
“I could definitely eat,” I admit, and watch his metallic eyes brighten with pleasure.
I sit down as he grabs plates for both of us and sets them on the table. Though he only came back for me last Tuesday, he’s already completely at home in my tiny kitchen, his movements as smooth and confident as if he’s been living here for months.
Watching him, I again get the unsettling sensation that a dangerous predator has invaded my small apartment. Partially, it’s his size—he’s at least a head taller than I am, his shoulders impossibly broad, his elite soldier’s body packed with hard muscle. But it’s also something about him, something more than the tattoos that decorate his left arm or the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow.
It’s something intrinsic, a kind of ruthlessness that’s there even when he smiles.
“How are you feeling, ptichka?” he asks, joining me at the table, and I look down at my plate, knowing why he’s concerned.
“Fine.” I don’t want to think about yesterday, about how Agent Ryson’s visit had literally made me sick. I’d already been anxious about the wedding, but it wasn’t until the FBI agent slapped me in the face with Peter’s crimes that I lost the contents of my stomach—and nearly stood Peter up.
“No ill effects from last night?” he clarifies, and I look up, my face heating as I realize he’s referring to our s*x life.
“No.” My voice is choked. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he murmurs, his gaze hot and dark, and I hide my intensifying blush by reaching for a ricotta pancake.
“Here, my love.” He expertly plates two pancakes for me and pushes a bottle of maple syrup my way. “Do you want anything else? Maybe some fruit?”
“Sure,” I say and watch as he walks over to the fridge to take out and wash some berries.
My domesticated assassin. Is this what our life together will always be like?
“What do you want to do today?” I ask when he returns to the table, and he shrugs, his sculpted lips curved in a smile.
“It’s up to you, ptichka. I was thinking we could go out, enjoy the beautiful day.”
“So… a walk in the park? Really?”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“No reason. I’m game.” I focus on my pancakes so I don’t start giggling hysterically.
He wouldn’t understand.
- Writer
