Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(62)
Sara
I thought I did a good job fixing my smeared mascara before leaving the clinic, but as soon as I step outside and lay eyes on Peter’s tall, broad-shouldered figure, the smile on his hard face disappears.
“What’s wrong?” he asks sharply, stepping forward to grip my hands. “Did someone hurt you?”
I attempt a smile. “No, of course not. Everything’s fine.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t lie. You’ve been crying.” His gaze drops to my bare left hand. “Where is your ring?”
“I… didn’t want to have to explain.” Despite my best efforts, my voice is overly thick, and I see his expression darken further.
“Did someone say something?” he demands, and I shake my head, pulling my hands out of his grip and taking half a step back.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I glance around us, but the street is dark and quiet, deserted except for an SUV idling by the curb on the other side. His ride, maybe? Looking up, I meet Peter’s gaze. “I just got upset over a patient, that’s all.”
His harsh expression eases slightly. “I see. I’m sorry, ptichka. Did someone get hurt?”
I swallow against a fresh influx of tears. “It’s a long story. Let’s just go home.” I start turning toward my parked car, but he catches my arm.
“I’ll have it taken home, don’t worry,” he says and leads me toward the idling car—a black Mercedes SUV with suspiciously thick tinted windows.
The driver rolls down his window as we approach.
“Take her car home,” Peter orders, and a big, hard-looking man climbs out of the vehicle and hands over the keys to Peter.
I blink as he walks by without so much as a nod to me. “Is that—”
“One of the security experts I’ve had watching you? Yes.” Peter leads me around the car to the passenger side and opens the door for me, helping me climb inside before walking back to the driver’s seat.
“I’ve decided that instead of us getting another car, Danny will be your driver going forward,” he says as he starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “I’ll still pick you up most of the time, but if I can’t get here in time or you need to leave right away, I’ll know you’re safe regardless.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. I don’t have the energy for this right now—not with my heart in pieces over Monica’s tragic story.
Not when I know that tomorrow morning, she’ll be picking up her brother and confronting her assailant in the process.
“What happened, ptichka?” Peter’s big, warm palm covers my thigh, massaging the tense muscle before withdrawing. “What got you so upset?”
I hesitate for a second, then capitulate. Who cares if Peter knows the whole story? So I tell him everything, from Monica’s visit to the clinic before my kidnapping to what happened today.
Peter listens expressionlessly until I finish. Then he asks softly, “So this girl is the reason you were assaulted by that alley that night?”
I sit up straight, jolted by a sudden fear. “It’s not her fault!” The last thing I need is for my overprotective assassin to blame Monica for the methheads who tried to rob me.
“Not saying that it is.” He pulls off the highway onto my exit and stops at a red light. “Just want to make sure I have all the facts.”
My heart skips a beat. This is not going in the direction I expected.
“Why?” I ask, staring at his hard profile. “What do you need that for?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t worry about it, my love. Your patient will be fine, I promise.”
My mouth goes dry. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I didn’t tell him Monica’s name, but it wouldn’t be hard for someone with Peter’s knack of finding people to triangulate who she is.
“Peter…”
The light switches to green, and he presses on the gas, still not looking at me.
My pulse speeds up further. “Peter, please tell me you’re not going to…”
“Going to what?” He turns onto my street. “I told you, you have nothing to worry about. She’s going to be fine, this girl you helped. You don’t need to worry about her.”
She will be fine… but what about her stepfather?
I want to ask, but I can’t bring my mouth to form the words. If I say it out loud, it will make it real, instead of just a terrifying possibility in my mind.
It will make me culpable.
We pull into the parking lot of my building, and I exit the car before Peter has a chance to walk around and open the door for me. My heart is hammering in an audible rhythm, and my palms are sweating even though I tell myself I’m likely misinterpreting the situation.
Peter might just be soothing me, telling me what he thinks will calm me down.
I want to believe it, and with any other man, I would believe it. If this were Joe Levinson or any one of my bandmates, I’d take those words as nothing more than an empty reassurance, a kind of “there, there, all will be well.” But this is Peter, and I can’t make that kind of assumption.
I have to—
“When are we going to see your parents?” Peter asks, and I look up, startled, to find him standing next to me. Reaching over, he gathers my hand in his big palm and starts leading me toward the building, saying, “We need to discuss the arrangements for this Saturday with them.”