Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(65)

I fight the urge to reach in and capture that hand, to haul her against me so I can feel her bubble-slick body rubbing against mine. “You’re going to marry me on Saturday,” I say, my tone harsher than I intended. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

She visibly stiffens and sits up. “Peter, that’s not—”

“Or it can be tonight. I’m not averse to flying to Vegas with you after dinner.” I do my best to keep my eyes off the soft white breasts exposed above the water.

This is too important to get distracted by my lust.

As if sensing my thoughts, Sara sinks back into the water, letting the bubbles shield those tempting breasts from view. “You have a plane on standby?”

“More or less.” I let my teammates keep our plane for now, but I can charter a private jet on a couple of hours’ notice.

With enough money, anything is possible.

“Peter…” She sits up again, this time covering her breasts with one slender arm. “We need to talk about this—about everything, really. You just came back yesterday, and I still don’t really know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. Where are Anton and the twins? Are they here with you?”

“No.” I take a deep breath and tamp down on the instinct that demands I carry her off to Vegas this very second. Sara is right; there’s a lot we haven’t discussed. “They’re in Europe, but they’ll fly in for our wedding,” I explain and stand up.

She follows my example, and I wrap a towel around her as she steps out of the tub. She looks impossibly small like this, with her head bent and the thick towel wrapped all around her slender body.

It makes me aware of how defenseless she is, how breakable.

Reminds me of how I once wanted to punish her… and how I still sometimes do.

“Let’s eat and talk,” I say, reining in the dark impulse. “I’ll tell you everything.”

None of it, though, will change what’s about to happen.

Before the end of this week, one way or another, Sara will be my wife.





52





Sara



Our dinner tonight is a mix of Russian and Asian cuisine, with juicy pelmeni—Russian-style meat dumplings—served with sour cream as an appetizer and a vegetable stir-fry topped with chili-marinated tofu as the main dish.

Lunch was forever ago, and the bout of intense sex combined with the hot bath further depleted my stores of energy. I’m so ravenous that as soon as Peter sets the food on the table, I dig in, devouring five large dumplings and two servings of the spicy stir-fry before looking up from my plate.

“Hungry?” Peter asks wryly as I go in for serving number three, and I flush, realizing I’ve been so focused on the food I’ve barely said a word.

“This is really good,” I say apologetically, and he grins, his metallic eyes as warm as I’ve ever seen them.

“Enjoy, ptichka. I love seeing you eat the food I’ve made.”

“You’re an amazing cook,” I tell him sincerely, and his smile widens further.

“I’m glad you think so, my love.”

“What if you open a restaurant?” I ask impulsively. “You know, like Yulia did? Or a café of some kind?”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “No, ptichka. That’s not for me. But I will feed you anytime you want.”

“No, but seriously…. what are you going to do here?” I put down my fork and study him intently. “Do you have some ideas of what you’d like to do career-wise? You said you quit your job. I assume that means you’re no longer a… um…”

For some reason, the word sticks in my throat, and he lifts his eyebrows, looking deeply amused.

“An assassin? No, ptichka. I’m done with that part of my life.” He spears a piece of bok choy with his fork. “I’m a law-abiding citizen going forward.”

“Really?” I stare at him, both hopeful and disbelieving. I initially thought he might be going straight, but then we had that conversation about Monica. Does that mean I misunderstood? I could’ve sworn there was an implicit promise to do something to the stepfather, but if Peter says he’s going legit, then maybe those were just empty, soothing words, the kind that any guy might say to calm his girlfriend.

Thinking about Monica instantly sours my mood, killing what remained of my appetite, and I push my plate away as Peter grins and says, “Really. That’s one of the conditions of the deal: no more crimes going forward.”

“Oh. Good.”

His eyebrows lift again. “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“What? No!” I force away the heavy feeling blanketing my chest at the thought of Monica and smile brightly. “I’m ecstatic you’re going straight. How could I not be?”

I mean it, too, even if I have to squash that tiny kernel of guilt-tinged hope about a permanent solution for Monica’s dilemma.

There’s no way I wanted that.

I refuse to believe it.

“I don’t know, ptichka.” Peter cocks his head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Is there something that worries you about that?”

“Everything worries me,” I say bluntly. “How are you going to handle this kind of life? What are you going to do with your time? You say you want to marry me this Saturday, but then what? And what about your revenge? Did you find that last—”