Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(58)
Was last night real? Is Peter here?
A flash of something bright catches my attention, and I glance down at my left hand, where a giant diamond is sparkling in the barely-there sunlight seeping through the lowered blinds.
Holy shit. It is real.
Peter is here.
I’m officially engaged to him.
Throwing on a robe, I run to the kitchen, where I not only smell but hear the sizzle of frying bacon.
The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.
Dressed in nothing but a pair of dark jeans, Peter is standing over the stove, expertly flipping over an omelet. On another frying pan are bacon strips, and on a plate by the oven is a stack of pancakes. The muscles in his broad back ripple as he moves, the jeans riding low on his narrow hips, and I literally have to swallow my saliva as he turns around to face me, revealing a solid eight-pack and a powerfully built chest dusted with dark hair.
The few pounds he lost only refined his incredible physique, made him even harder, more dangerous.
“Good morning, ptichka.” His deep voice is like a tiger’s purr as he looks me over, his gaze traveling from the tips of my bare toes to the top of my sleep-mussed hair. The tattoos on his left arm flex as he sets the spatula down on the counter and starts toward me.
“Oh, um… good morning.” I back away, realizing I rushed in without so much as splashing water on my face. “I’ll be right back.”
I beeline for the bathroom before he can stop me. Swiftly, I brush my teeth, then jump into the shower for a quick rinse. My heart is galloping in my chest, and my breathing is fast and shallow.
Peter is here.
In my kitchen, cooking up a storm.
I should probably take a moment to calm myself, but I don’t want all that delicious food to get cold.
After all, my fiancé made it for me.
My stomach flips, my heart rate accelerating further, and I force myself to take deep breaths as I towel off and put the robe back on.
Then, squaring my shoulders, I head back into the kitchen.
47
Sara
“What time do you have to be at work?” Peter asks, serving me an artfully arranged plate of vegetable omelet with strips of bacon and a side of pancakes.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. “In about forty minutes.” I’m lucky I woke up when I did, because I completely spaced out on the alarm last night.
I’m probably spacing out on something right now, because even though I’m outwardly calm, on the inside, I’m a hyperventilating mess.
Peter is here.
He’s here, and we’re engaged.
“I’ll walk you to your office,” he says, sitting down across from me with his own plate. “Unless you’re taking the car?”
I cautiously spear a piece of pancake with my fork. “I was planning to go from there straight to the clinic, so yeah…”
He doesn’t blink. “Okay. I’ll ride with you and then go grocery shopping. Your fridge is nearly empty. How late are you going to be at the clinic?” He begins consuming his omelet with obvious hunger.
“I’m scheduled to be there until ten, but if there’s any kind of an emergency, I might end up staying later,” I say, watching him warily. Is he going to object? Try to control this portion of my life? George was understanding about my long hours, as he often worked late himself and had to travel a lot for work, but I don’t know how Peter feels about it. He didn’t stop me from working a lot before, but that was different.
Back then, he was just biding his time before stealing me away.
“Okay. I’ll pick you up there.” He gets up and walks over to the counter, where my handbag is sitting. Reaching in, he fishes out my phone and starts typing on it.
“What are you doing?” I ask, puzzled.
“Giving you my number.” Finishing his task, he slips my phone back into my bag and returns to the table. “So you can call me when you’re close to being done at the clinic. I don’t want you in that area alone at night.”
“You’re not having me watched anymore?”
“I am, but they keep their distance—and I won’t.” He cuts into a piece of bacon, then looks up. “It’s for your safety, ptichka.”
His voice is soft but firm, utterly inflexible. He’s not going to compromise on this, and for some reason, I’m okay with that. Instead of making me feel restrained and controlled, his pathological need to protect me fills me with a kind of bubbly warmth. I’ll never forget how it felt when the two methheads tried to rob me by the clinic, and as traumatic as it was when Peter killed them, in hindsight, I’m grateful he was there. Besides—
“Are you expecting any trouble?” I ask as the thought pops into my head. “I mean, you must have quite a few enemies, with your former profession and all…”
He puts down his fork and meets my gaze. “It’s always a possibility, ptichka, I can’t lie. That’s why I’m not going to take the security team off you—and why I created a new identity before coming here. I didn’t want anyone in my former life to connect Peter Garin in the suburbs of Chicago with Peter Sokolov the assassin. In fact, part of the deal I made with the authorities is that Peter Sokolov no longer exists. He’s listed as deceased in FBI, CIA, and Interpol records, as are Yan and Ilya Ivanov and Anton Rezov. The amnesty deal itself is highly classified, with only a few high-ranking individuals in the FBI and CIA privy to all the terms. The rest, like Agent Ryson, were told to just back off and keep their mouths shut. Of course, Esguerra and Kent know who I am, and there’s always a chance I’ll be spotted and identified by a former client or some such. However, unlike my name, my face wasn’t widely known, and in any case, the chance of a random encounter with someone from my former life is small—especially in this part of the world.”