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)
Sure enough, he starts having his hackers send me biweekly compilations of all the cutting-edge medical research happening around the world. Some of the material is obviously public—peer-reviewed studies published in the academic journals I used to subscribe to, et cetera—but a lot of it seems to come straight from the companies’ private archives.
“Peter, this is insane,” I say after reading about a gene therapy that holds hope for reversing late-stage breast cancer. “Where did your people learn about this? This is huge.”
“Is it?” He smiles as he looks up from his laptop.
I nod vigorously. “If this therapy is as effective as these researchers’ notes indicate, millions of women’s lives will be saved. How did your hackers come across this? I should’ve at the very least heard rumors about this back home. This is a game changer in cancer treatment. You realize that, right?”
His smile broadens. “What can I say? Our guys are good.”
I shake my head and bury myself back in the detailed study analysis. I should feel guilty that I’m essentially stealing some startup’s intellectual property, but I’m too fascinated to stop reading. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to use this knowledge for financial gain or share it with anyone. My access to the outside world is strictly limited to phone calls with my parents.
It’s the one thing Peter won’t budge on, no matter how much I beg and plead.
“Come on, what harm would it do to have me browse the news once in a while?” I argue after Peter catches me trying to log on to his laptop—a fruitless attempt, given all the passwords and security he has in place. “You can block certain websites, prevent me from using all email and social media if you want. There are a ton of apps for that, and—”
“No, ptichka.” His face is resolute as he takes the laptop away from me. “We can’t risk you performing a search that would expose our IP address to the FBI, nor you figuring out some clever way to get in touch with them. Every website has a place to leave a comment nowadays, and you’re too smart not to know that.”
Frustrated, I give up on accessing the internet and try to think of other escape venues, but none come to mind. The one thing I could try—some kind of coded message to my parents during our brief phone calls—is far too risky. Peter is always with me, listening to every word I say, and I know that if I so much as hint at our location, he’ll cut me off from further contact with my family. He’s said as much, and I know he means it.
No matter how much he indulges me, I never forget that his obsession has a dark side, that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep me his.
33
Peter
As the heated days of summer transition into fall, with the forest bursting into shades of red and yellow, I become increasingly convinced that I did the right thing by taking Sara. Despite our initial rocky start, she’s starting to settle in, and I feel certain that one day, she’ll adjust completely, accepting and embracing her new life with me.
I love her so much it’s like a constant ache in my chest, and though I know she doesn’t feel the same, I sometimes catch a glimmer of softness in her gaze, a warmth that spears through my heart and gives me hope. As her anger over the abduction lessens, our arguments grow less frequent, and though neither of us can forget how our relationship began, the past begins to feel more distant, its grip on our present less painful and sharp.
I still think about Pasha and Tamila, and wake up in a cold sweat when I dream about their gruesome deaths. But the nightmares don’t come nearly as often, and when they do, Sara is always there. I can reach for her and hold her, hear her steady breathing until the memory of the horror fades.
I can also fuck her. It’s the one thing that never fails to soothe me, the single best way to relieve the darkness tormenting me from within.
“Why do you like to hurt me sometimes?” she murmurs one night after I wake her up and take her roughly, fucking her so hard we both end up sore. “Do you have some sadistic inclinations?”
I consider it, then shake my head, though she probably can’t see the gesture with the lights off. “Not in the sexual sense—at least not until I met you.” I have derived pleasure from killing and torturing my enemies, but it was mostly cerebral, a way to feel that violent rush of power and satisfy my sense of justice. At least that’s how it was with the guard who boiled Andrey in the showers and, to a lesser extent, with the terrorists I caught for work. I felt no pity for them; their suffering gave me vicious joy. But my dick never got hard from inflicting pain, and during sex, I was always careful and gentle with women, using my knowledge of the human body to pleasure, not to hurt.