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)
Fuck, why am I taking this kind of risk? Why didn’t I just tell Karen everything?
Yet even as I kick myself, I know the answer to that question. It’s sitting in front of me, his gray eyes trained on me with an intensity that both chills and warms me inside. I should want to be free of my tormentor, should do everything in my power to have him disappear from my life, but I can’t. I’m not insane enough to warn him and risk getting kidnapped, but I can’t bring myself to accelerate the moment when justice catches up with him, and he’ll have to either run or fight.
It will happen anyway; all I have to do is survive it.
“You work too much,” Peter murmurs, tilting his head as he studies me, and I exhale a shaky breath.
Thank God. He is ascribing my anxiety to tiredness.
“You should ease up, ptichka, take it easy on occasion,” he continues, and I nod, looking down at my bowl to escape the intensity of his gaze.
“Yeah, I guess.” I take a bite of the bread and swallow a spoonful of soup, focusing on the savory flavors to quiet the mental clamor in my head. I’m only partially successful, but it’s enough to enable me to eat another spoonful and then another.
I’m done with my slice of bread and almost halfway through my bowl by the time I work up the courage to look up again. “Why were you waiting here for me?” I ask, recalling how dark the house was when I walked in. “I thought you’d be in bed or taking a shower or something.”
“Because I’ve barely seen you in recent days, ptichka, and I’ve missed you.” His eyes gleam with that peculiar softness I’ve been seeing all week.
My stomach flips, a knot forming in my throat. “You… you have?” He’s never told me this before; though we both know he’s obsessed with me, he’s never admitted to any kind of real feelings.
“Hmm-mm. Here, have some more.” He pushes another slice of bread toward me. “You still look much too pale.”
I pick up the bread and bite into it, looking down again to conceal my expression. The knot in my throat is expanding, my eyes prickling with irrational tears. Why does he have to choose today, of all days, to say these things to me? I need him to be awful to me, not nice. I need to remember that he’s a monster, a killer, a man who’s done things that would make Ted Bundy blanch.
I need him to jolt me out of the fantasy so I don’t miss him when he’s gone.
I manage to hold back the tears as I gulp down the rest of the soup while Peter watches me in silence. It’s unsettling, the way he can just stare at me without doing anything, as if the mere sight of me fascinates him. I’ve caught him doing this more than a few times; once, I even woke up to find him looking at me like this.
It’s disconcerting and flattering at the same time, like his seemingly endless hunger for me.
When my bowl is empty, I get up to put it in the dishwasher, but Peter takes it out of my hands.
“I’ve got this,” he says softly, dropping a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Go up and start getting ready for bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I nod, blinking to hold back a fresh surge of tears, and go up without objections. He often does this too: freeing me from all chores, no matter how small, when I’m tired. He must realize that putting a bowl in a dishwasher would not strain me, but he still treats me like I’m an invalid instead of a doctor exhausted by long hours.
He babies me and I love it, even though I shouldn’t. I should hate everything he does, because none of this is real.
It can’t be.
* * *
I’m already done with my shower by the time Peter comes upstairs, and he corners me in the bathroom, trapping me against the counter just as I finish brushing my teeth. My towel is wrapped around me, but he pulls it off, dropping it on the floor, and the sight of us in the fogged-up mirror—me pale and completely naked while he’s fully dressed in his dark clothes—makes my heart pound with nervous excitement.
He’s especially hungry tonight—and more than a little dangerous.
Sure enough, he wraps one big hand around my throat, and though he doesn’t squeeze, I feel the darkness behind the thin veil of his control, the threat implicit in the controlling gesture. At the same time, his other hand cups my breast, the rough edge of his thumb rubbing over my taut nipple. His eyes hold mine in the mirror, and I see a strange hunger in the silver depths, lust mixed with possessiveness and that intense something that makes my knees go weak and sends hot chills down my spine.