Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
She might be having second thoughts about her decision, but she’ll come around and accept the situation, just like she was beginning to accept our relationship. And then she’ll be happy again—happier, even. We’re going to build a life together, and it’s going to be one she’ll enjoy as well.
I have to believe that, because this is the only way I can have her.
This is the only way I can know love again.
2
Sara
Tears of panic and bitter frustration roll down my face as the wheels of the jet lift off the runway, and the lights of the small airport fade into inky darkness. In the distance, I see the light clusters of Chicago and its suburbs, but before long, they disappear too, leaving me with the crushing knowledge that my old life is gone.
I’ve lost my family, my friends, my career, and my freedom.
My stomach roils with nausea as shards of glass pierce my temples, my headache aggravated by whatever Peter injected to knock me out. Worst of all, though, is the suffocating sensation in my chest, the awful feeling that I can’t get enough air. I take deep breaths to combat it, but it only worsens. The blanket is like a straightjacket, keeping my arms pinned to my sides, and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.
My tormentor carried out his threat.
He kidnapped me, and I may never see home again.
He’s not next to me now—as soon as we took off, he got up and disappeared into the back of the passenger cabin, where two of his men are sitting—and I’m glad. I can’t bear to look at him, to know that I was stupid enough to warn him when he already knew everything.
When he had that needle ready and was toying with me.
How did he know? Were there cameras and listening devices inside the hospital locker room where Karen confronted me? Or did the men Peter assigned to follow me spot my FBI tail and tell him? Or maybe he has some connections in the FBI, just like that one contact of his had in the CIA? Is that possible, or am I reaching? Either way, it doesn’t matter now; the point is, he knew.
He knew, yet he pretended not to, playing with my emotions while he waited for me to crack.
God, how could I have been such an idiot? How could I have warned him, knowing that something like this could happen? How could I have come home when I suspected—no, when I knew—what my stalker was likely to do if he learned about the impending danger? I should’ve told Karen everything when I had the chance, let her send the agents to my house while the FBI took me into protective custody. Yes, Peter might’ve still escaped, but he wouldn’t have taken me with him—not at that point, at least. I would’ve had more time to plan, to figure out the best way for me and my parents to stay safe. He would’ve most likely returned for me, but there was at least a chance the FBI could’ve protected us.
Instead, I walked right into Peter’s trap. I went home, and I let him lie to me. Let him fool me into believing that there was something human—something good—within him. “I love you,” he said, and I fell for it, buying into the illusion that we had something genuine, that his tenderness meant he truly cared for me.
I let my irrational attachment to my husband’s killer blind me to the reality of what he is, and I lost everything.
The tightness in my chest grows, my lungs constricting until every breath is a struggle. Rage and despair mix together, making me want to scream, but all I can manage is a pained wheeze, the blanket around my body as smothering as a noose around my neck. I’m too hot, too restrained; my head is pounding, and my heart is beating too fast. I feel like I’m suffocating, dying, and I want to claw at my throat, to tear it open so I can suck in air.
“Here, it’s okay.” Peter is crouched in front of me, though I didn’t see him return. His strong hands are loosening the blanket, smoothing my hair back from my sweat-dampened face. I’m shaking and wheezing, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack, and his touch is bizarrely soothing, taking away the worst of the suffocating sensation.
“Breathe, ptichka,” he urges, and I do, my lungs obeying him the way they refuse to obey me. My chest expands with one full breath, then another, and then I’m breathing semi-normally, my throat opening to let in precious oxygen. I’m still sweating, still shaking, but my pulse is slowing, the fear of suffocating disappearing as Peter liberates my arms from the blanket and hands me a man’s black T-shirt.