Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(60)
In fact, I want to chain her to my bed and always keep her there.
I don’t know what I expected when I returned, but it wasn’t this. I didn’t expect it to be so hard for me to let Sara go about her routine, to go back to the way we lived before Japan. Back then, I also wanted her with me all the time, but letting her leave for work didn’t tear me apart like this, didn’t activate this maddening need to cage her and throw away the key. It was all I could do to act normally this morning, to kiss her on the forehead and drop her off at the office like a good husband-to-be instead of a savage who wants nothing more than to cart her away to his cave.
It’s the one variable I didn’t account for in my planning.
My intensifying obsession with Sara—the one thing that can fuck it all up.
I’m hoping it’s a temporary situation, that I’m feeling this way because we’ve just spent nine months apart and I’ve missed her so intensely. That over time, as the memory of those hellish months fades, separating from her for a few hours will get better, easier… less like torture.
The other possibility—that in Japan, I got used to having Sara with me twenty-four-seven and may not be able to readjust to the old routine—is infinitely worse. The reason why I did all this is to make Sara happy, to give her the ability to retain her career, her relationships with her family and friends. It was impossible when I was a fugitive, but now I can be a part of her life without taking it all away from her.
I can give her everything—if only I can overcome my selfish need to keep her to myself.
49
Sara
I spend the majority of my workday oscillating between heart-pounding joy and spurts of panic.
Peter is alive.
He’s back and we’re together—without me getting kidnapped, no less.
Despite what Peter said about his deal, I half expect the FBI to show up and charge me with aiding and abetting. Nobody comes, however. Everything is normal—or as normal as can be when one is engaged to a former assassin.
I’m not ready to answer my coworkers’ questions, so I hid my hand in my pocket and took off the ring as soon as I had a moment of privacy. Now the huge diamond is sitting at the bottom of my handbag, forcing me to carry the bag with me everywhere.
I don’t know how much the ring cost, but I suspect it was well into six figures.
Did Peter buy or steal it? It’s probably the former—he’s rich enough to afford it—but I’ll ask to be sure. I doubt he’ll be offended; he’s done much worse, that’s for certain.
That I’m even thinking about that, wondering if my millionaire fiancé could’ve stolen my engagement ring, would’ve given any normal person pause. However, I’m no longer in the “normal” camp. Compared to killing my husband, a diamond heist is nothing more than a misdemeanor, one for which I can easily forgive Peter. In general, now that I’ve had time to recover from the shock of his arrival, the sporadic panic assailing me at the thought of marrying him is less intense, almost manageable. Toward the evening, as I get in the car to drive to the clinic, I even start thinking that we could visit my parents this weekend, and depending on their reaction, tell them that we’re getting married soon.
Maybe as soon as this winter.
My heart starts racing again, and I have to take calming breaths before getting out of the car. No, winter is definitely too soon; there’s far too much to plan in such a short span of time. Next spring would be better… maybe even next summer.
A summer wedding is always in fashion.
Yes, that’s it, I decide, walking into the clinic. A year-long engagement would be perfect. We’d have a chance to acclimate to each other, settle into a regular life together. I have no idea if Peter is even capable of living like this, without the adrenaline and danger of his missions. He admitted to me once that he likes killing, that he enjoys the power and control that comes along with dealing death. Addictive, he called it, and I knew then that he’d never give it up.
That the darkness is a part of him, one that can never be erased.
Except he did give it up for me. He quit his job, he said. I haven’t had a chance to question him about that, but there’s only one way to interpret what he said.
He’s going straight.
For me.
So I wouldn’t have to give up everything for him.
My eyes prickle, and it’s all I can do to smile and wave at Lydia as I hurry into the room where the patient is already waiting for me. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, here with her mom for her first Pap smear, and I force myself to push my emotions aside and focus, to give the patient the attention she deserves.
Fortunately, her exam shows nothing untoward, though when the mom leaves the room, the girl admits to having been sexually active since last year. I surreptitiously give her a box of condoms, and when the mom returns, I recommend an IUD—to regulate the daughter’s painful periods and provide protection against unplanned pregnancy in case she does become sexually active in the future.
“My daughter ain’t no slut,” the woman snaps and drags the girl away, making me glad I at least gave her daughter those condoms.
Parents like that can be their kids’ worst enemies.
My next patient is a pregnant woman in her thirties. She has a history of miscarriages and no health insurance. After her, I see another teenage girl—she turns out to have chlamydia—and then it’s time for my last patient.