Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
We stand by the window for a few moments longer, watching the trees outside, and then I walk over to the medicine cabinet and take two Advils, washing them down with a glass of water.
“What’s the matter?” Peter asks, following me with a concerned frown. “Are you sick?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, not wanting to go into all the details. Then I realize he might find out later today anyway and add, “It’s just that time of the month for me.”
“Ah.” Unlike most men, he doesn’t look the least bit uncomfortable with that information. “Does it typically pain you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” As I speak, I feel the cramps getting worse and thank the schedule gods that I’m not on call today. I was going to volunteer at the clinic this afternoon, but I revise that plan in favor of huddling in bed with a heating pad.
“Why aren’t you on birth control pills?” Peter asks, following me as I head upstairs. “I haven’t seen you take anything all this time, and I believe that usually helps with painful periods.”
“An expert on female reproductive health, are we?”
Peter doesn’t bat an eye at my sarcasm. “Far from it, but I did get a pill prescription for Tamila because she had bad cramps. I assume you have a reason for not doing the same?”
I sigh, entering the bedroom. “I do. I’m one of those rare women who can’t tolerate hormonal birth control. I get migraines and nausea, no matter how small the dosage. Even hormonal IUDs give me headaches, so I have to choose between misery a couple of days a month or misery all the time.”
“I see.” Peter leans against the doorway as I begin to undress. I can see the heat in his gaze as he watches me strip down to my underwear, and I hope he doesn’t get any ideas about joining me in bed. He rarely passes up the chance to fuck me.
Ignoring his staring, I grab my heating pad from the nightstand drawer and curl into a fetal position, hugging it under the blanket as I wait for the Advil to kick in.
I hear a quiet patter of footsteps, and then the bed dips next to me.
No, no, no. Go away. No sex right now. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping my tormentor gets the hint, but in the next instant, the blanket is turned down, and a rough male hand caresses my naked back.
“Do you want me to get you anything?” His deep, softly accented voice is low and soothing. “Maybe toast or some tea?”
Startled, I roll over onto my back, clutching the heating pad against my stomach. “Um, no, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” He smooths my hair away from my face. “What about a belly rub?”
I blink at him. “Um…”
“Here.” He gently pries the heating pad away from me and places his warm palm on my stomach. “Let’s try this.” He moves his hand in a circular motion, applying light pressure, and after a couple of minutes, the tight, cramping sensation eases, the heat from his skin and the massaging motion chasing away the worst of the painful tension.
“Better?” he murmurs as I close my eyes in blissful relief, and I nod, my thoughts beginning to drift as drowsiness steals over me.
“It’s very nice, thank you,” I mumble, and as the soothing massage continues, I sink into a warm fog of sleep.
42
Peter
* * *
I watch Sara sleep for a few minutes; then I quietly get up and leave the bedroom. I could sit by her bedside for hours, doing nothing more than watching her, but I have a phone call with a potential client at noon, and I have to discuss a few logistics with Anton before that.
It takes only a couple of minutes to clean up in the kitchen, and then I’m on my way, slipping out the back door to cut across a neighbor’s yard. Ilya’s armored SUV is parked on the street two blocks over, and as I walk, I pay attention to everything: the distant barking of a small dog, a squirrel darting across the road, the brand of sneakers on the jogger who just rounded the corner… The hyper-vigilance is as much a part of me now as my lightning-fast reflexes, and both have kept me alive more times than I can count.
Ilya starts the car as I approach, and as soon as I get in, he pulls out, heading down the quiet suburban street at precisely three miles above the speed limit.
He believes that blending in requires acting like a typical civilian, right down to minor traffic infractions.
“Any trouble?” I ask in Russian, and he shakes his shaved head.
“All quiet, like always.”
Unlike his twin brother and Anton, Ilya doesn’t sound disappointed as he says that. I think he’s enjoying our little stint in suburbia, though he’d never admit it out loud. Out of the four of us on the core team, Ilya looks most like the quintessential thug, with his skull tattoos and a jaw thickened by a youthful flirtation with steroids. His twin Yan, on the other hand, could pass for a professor or a banker, with his neatly pressed clothes and brown hair cut in a conservative corporate style. Personality-wise, though, it’s Yan who revels in our high-adrenaline lifestyle, while Ilya prefers to focus more on strategy and working behind the scenes.