Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(57)

I know what he’s talking about, of course—the ring is still heavy on my finger—but I’m nowhere near ready for that discussion. I didn’t even think this discussion would happen. He didn’t ask me to marry him; he told me that’s what’s happening. So it’s not like I was supposed to—

“Don’t, Sara.” He drops the towel and steps close, backing me against the vanity counter. “Don’t play games with me.” His jaw flexes as he grips the smooth stone on both sides of me and leans in. “Are you going to marry me?”

I stare up at him, frozen, unable to speak or think. I didn’t expect that he’d demand an answer. That he’d want an answer at all. From the very beginning, he’s made all the decisions in this strange relationship of ours, and it’s hard to believe that he’s giving me a choice in this.

That he’s giving me the option of not marrying him.

“What if…” I swallow, gripping the towel harder. “What if I don’t want to?”

His face tightens. “Is that a no?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. How can I answer when my brain is mush from his sudden return and all the orgasms he’s wrung from my body? I want to slink away, crawl under my covers and sleep so I can wake up with some magical clarity, but even in this foggy state, I know it’ll never happen. There will never be a clear yes or no when it comes to Peter, never an easy decision to be made. What we have together is a shrink’s wet dream, and I could sleep for a week straight without gaining any insight into our mutual insanity.

Yes or no. Do I marry the assassin who once tortured me? He loves me, and I’m almost certain I love him. The “almost” is there because a tiny part of me still cringes away in terror, in the toxic sludge of guilt, self-loathing, and shame. Even if I eventually forgive him for George’s death, I can never forget that he’s a killer—that in the name of vengeance, he’s inflicted massive suffering and pain.

That he himself has suffered more than I can comprehend.

I hold his gaze, feeling the temperature in the humid bathroom dropping, sensing the growing darkness in the hard metal of his gaze. “Yes. It’s a yes.” The words leave my lips of their own volition, like some demon yanked me by the tongue. Yet as soon as I say it, it feels right.

It feels like it was fated.

The dangerous tension leaves his face, though I still sense the menace deep within. “Good,” he says softly, pushing away from the counter. Turning, he walks out of the bathroom, and I slump over the sink, taking deep breaths to calm the churning in my stomach.

I said yes.

I agreed to marry my tormentor.

Oh dear God. What have I done?





45





Peter

I watch my beautiful fiancée sleep, alternating between joy and dark satisfaction. Her fine-featured face is particularly sweet and delicate in her repose, with one slender hand tucked in a half-open fist under her cheek and plush lips slightly parted.

I should probably turn off the bedside light and go to sleep as well, but that would mean missing this. Some irrational part of me is afraid that if I close my eyes, it’ll all turn out to be a dream, a fantasy like the ones that sustained me all these months.

My Sara.

Finally, I have her.

She’s mine, and soon, the whole world will know it.

She was completely worn out by the time I finally brought her to bed, so tired she fell asleep right away. I held her for about an hour, ignoring the renewed stirrings of my body, and then I got on her laptop to start making the appropriate arrangements.

She agreed to marry me. The elation I feel at the thought is almost violent. I’d been prepared to resort to harsher measures to convince her, but I didn’t have to.

She said yes.

She’s still wearing my ring on her left hand, the one that’s currently tucked inside a blanket. I’m tempted to pull the blanket away so I can look at it again, but that might wake her, and I want her to get good sleep.

After all, this Saturday is our wedding.

Over the past month, while I waited for the bureaucrats to get their paperwork in order, I had time to plan it all out and grease all the requisite palms. So unless Sara hates what I’ve chosen, we’re all set in terms of venue, dress, flowers, photographers, and nearly everything else that goes along with a small, private wedding. There are still a few small decisions to be made—like who’d officiate the ceremony—but I want Sara, and hopefully her parents, to weigh in on those.

It really does help that she agreed.

Taking a deep breath, I climb into bed next to her and turn off the light, then curve my body around her from the back, holding her tight as she mumbles something in her sleep.

My ptichka.

She’s not a fantasy anymore.

This is as real as it gets, and when I wake up, she’ll still be here.

She better fucking be.





46





Sara

I wake up to the mouthwatering smell of eggs and bacon, mixed with some kind of baked goods. Pancakes? Biscuits, maybe?

Did I fall asleep at my parents’ house again?

Prying open my heavy eyelids, I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

My apartment’s plain white ceiling.

Instantly, the memories rush in, and I sit up with a gasp, throwing off my blanket.