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Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine #4)
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I fought against fate, and I won. I made a deal with the devil to keep her.
It was supposed to be over. We were meant to be happy.
Too bad my enemies had other plans.
Note: This is the conclusion of Peter & Sara’s story. It is strongly recommended that you read Twist Me and Capture Me trilogies before embarking on this book, as there will be major spoilers for those series.
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“What are you doing?”
Bonnie’s anxious voice startles me out of my planning, and I look up, shoving the folder I was studying into a stack of files on my desk as I prepare to answer with a plausible lie.
Except my wife of twenty-one years is not looking at me.
She’s staring at the computer behind me, where a photograph of a beautiful chestnut-haired bride smiling up at her handsome groom takes up most of the screen.
Fuck. I thought I’d closed that tab. My neck muscles spasm with tension, the bile returning to burn up my throat as I see Bonnie begin to shake.
“Why do you have his picture?” Her voice turns shrill as her eyes swing to me, accusing. “Why do you have that monster’s picture on your screen?”
“Bonnie… It’s not what you think.” I stand up, but she’s already backing away, shaking her head, her long earrings flapping around her skinny face.
“You promised. You told me we’ll be safe.”
“And we will be,” I say, but it’s too late.
She’s already gone.
Back to the refuge of her bed, her pills, her mindless reality TV.
Back to where the kids and I can never reach her.
Sinking back into my chair, I roll my head from side to side, releasing the worst of the agonizing tightness as I pull out the folder again. The name inside stares at me, each letter taunting me, stoking the bitter fires of rage.
I’m the last person remaining on his list. The only one he hasn’t killed yet for what happened in that shitty village in Dagestan. One mistake, one careless order given, and this is the result. For years, he’s hunted me and my family, torturing our friends and loved ones in an effort to get to me, starring in my children’s nightmares, destroying our lives in every way.
And now, thanks to his buddy Esguerra’s pull with our government, he’s allowed to roam free. To marry his pretty, chestnut-haired doctor and live in the United States as if all’s forgiven and forgotten.
As if his promise not to kill me is something I’m supposed to believe.
My gaze falls on the rest of the names in the folder.
Yan and Ilya Ivanov.
Sokolov’s allies—monsters, all of them.
They must pay for what they’ve done.
Like Sokolov, they must be neutralized.
Then and only then will we be truly safe.
I wake up with the startling realization that I’m married.
Married to Peter Garin, a.k.a. Sokolov.
The man who killed George Cobakis, my first husband, after breaking into my house and torturing me.
The love of my life.
My mind jumps to last night, and heat spreads throughout my body—a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. He punished me yesterday. Punished me for nearly standing him up at the altar.
He took me brutally, and in the process, he made me admit it.
Made me confess that I love him—all of him, the dark parts included.
That I need that darkness… need it directed at me, so I can overcome the shame and guilt of knowing I fell for a monster.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the bland white ceiling. We’re still in my small apartment, but I’m guessing we’ll move soon. And then what? Children? Walks in the park and dinners with my parents?
Am I really about to build a life with the man who threatened to kill everyone at our wedding if I didn’t show up?
He must be making breakfast because I smell delicious scents coming from the kitchen. It’s something both sweet and savory, and my stomach growls as I sit up, wincing at the soreness in my hamstrings.
If we’re going to be fucking in exotic positions a lot, I might have to take up yoga.
Shaking my head at the ridiculous thought, I go to shower and brush my teeth, and by the time I come out, dressed in a robe, I hear Peter’s deep, softly accented voice calling me.
Or more precisely, calling his “ptichka.”
“I’m here,” I say, walking into the kitchen—only to find myself swept up in incredibly strong arms and kissed so thoroughly that I lose my breath.
“Yes, you are,” my husband murmurs when he finally sets me back on my feet. “You’re here, and you’re not going anywhere.” His large hands rest possessively on my waist, his gray eyes gleaming like silver in his stubble-darkened face. Though he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he must not have shaved yet, because that stubble looks deliciously rough and scratchy, making me wonder what it would be like to have him rub it all over my skin.
Impulsively, I lift my hand to his chiseled jaw. It’s just as scratchy as I imagined, and I grin as he closes his eyes and rubs his face against my palm, like a big tomcat marking his territory.
“It’s Sunday,” I tell him, lowering my hand when he opens his eyes. “So yes, I’m not going anywhere. What’s for breakfast?”