Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(37)

As Mom’s health improved and the novelty of my return wore off, my visits with them have gone from a daily to a weekly occurrence. My parents are always glad to see me, of course, but they also value their independence. My dad, in particular, takes pride in being self-sufficient, and I don’t want to take it away from him by constantly hovering over them like a nursemaid.

My parents love me, but they don’t need me as much as I once thought—or so I tell myself to soothe the guilt that inevitably accompanies my craving for Peter.

My perverse wish that he’d come and take me.

I’ve thought about it so often I can picture it like a movie in my head. I’ll enter my apartment one day, and he’ll be there, big and dangerous, as lethal and beautiful as ever. He’ll be there despite the police patrols outside, despite all of the Feds’ precautions.

He’ll be waiting to steal me away, and nothing I say will matter.

That’s probably the most shameful part of these fantasies: that I never have a choice in them… and that I like that. I want Peter to steal me away, to just come and take me over my objections. Then and only then will I be able to live with the knowledge that I once again disappeared from the lives of the people who love and need me, that I abandoned my family, my patients, my bandmates, and my friends.

I need Peter to be bad, so I can be at least somewhat good.

I have to hate him in order to love him.

I’m beginning to understand that about myself, to embrace the perversity within me, but what I don’t understand is why I’m still here if he wants me. It can no longer be about my parents, so it must be about something else—something he hasn’t told me.

I’ve racked my brain for what it could be, and the best I can come up with is something he said when we were parting. I asked him if I’ll be home until Mom recovers, and he started to say that he had to finish with something first as well. He didn’t disclose what it was, though, nor so much as hint at how long that something would take. The only thing I can imagine being that important to him is his vengeance, but I don’t know why that would keep him from me for so long.

He was hunting Henderson when we were together, and according to the FBI, that’s what he’s doing still.

Two months ago, right after I got Peter’s note, Ryson had me brought to their downtown office again. I nearly had a panic attack, thinking that the Feds somehow learned about the note, but as it turned out, Ryson wanted to question me because Peter and his men struck again, “interrogating” five more US citizens in their quest to uncover Henderson’s whereabouts.

“They were all in Charleston, South Carolina,” Ryson told me. “Once again, Sokolov got in and out of the country undetected. We need to know how he’s doing it, so we can stop him from wreaking havoc on people’s lives.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that,” I said truthfully. Peter never spoke much about his connections or how he does the impossible things he does. As awful as I feel about the people he terrified and tortured, I know nothing that can help the Feds in this regard.

Assuming I wanted to help, that is. If Peter was unable to get into the US, he wouldn’t be able to hurt more people. However, he also wouldn’t be able to retrieve me, and that perverse, contradictory part of me—the one that keeps me awake at night, thinking of that note with a mixture of joy and trepidation—can’t stand that possibility.

I need him.

I crave him so much it hurts.

Before that note, I was able to hold the pain in, to be strong as I told myself that it was over, but hearing from Peter—knowing he’ll be back—stripped away my fragile new defenses, plunging me back into that endless waiting mode.

“Come back,” I whisper, hugging a pillow to my chest as I stare at the TV screen. “Please, Peter, I need you. Come back for me and take me home.”





29





Peter



“You what?” Yan stares at me like I’ve sprouted a pair of tentacles.

“I contacted Lucas Kent about arranging a meeting with Esguerra,” I repeat, stirring the pasta sauce. “Hand me that basil, will you?”

Yan doesn’t move, so Ilya silently pushes the chopped basil toward me, and I sprinkle it liberally over the sauce. I’m making Italian food tonight—a cuisine my men feel quite neutral about, but Sara loves.

For you, ptichka. So I feel like you’re here with me.

I’ve started doing that this week, talking to her in my mind. It’s probably not healthy, but it makes me feel closer to her, as though she’s here with me instead of an ocean away.

Maybe it’s because I know I might see her soon, but I’ve been missing her even more than usual. Each day without her is fucking torture.

“I thought you were going to kill Kent,” Yan says, frowning in confusion. “For letting Sara crash.”

“And I still might, just not at this time.” I dip a long spoon into the sauce and taste it before adding a pinch more salt. “I need him to get me into Esguerra’s compound.”

Anton comes up to stand next to Yan. “So that’s your grand plan? To have Kent hand you on a silver platter to Esguerra? You do remember the guy swore to kill you, right?”

I give him a level look. “He won’t kill me if he wants the name of Novak’s asset.”