Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine 4)

“Zdes’,” Ilya says suddenly, and Yan takes a sharp right, nearly sending me flying. I manage to catch Peter’s shoulders, but he still groans in agony as his injured leg hits the seat in the front.

“Is he okay?” Ilya asks gruffly, glancing back. The sky is beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn, and his shaved skull gleams in the twilight-like darkness, its pale smoothness marred only by the intricate pattern of his tattoos.

“Depends on your definition,” I answer, keeping my voice low. I don’t want to distract Yan again. “He needs a hospital. Badly.”

“What about you?” Ilya’s deep voice softens. “I heard what happened to your—”

“I’m fine.” My tone is harsher than I intended, but I can’t go there right now, can’t poke at that dark well of grief and despair. I can feel it bubbling under the surface, but as long as I don’t touch it, don’t open it, I can keep myself from drowning in it.

Ilya studies me for a moment longer, then turns back to face the front window. I hope he’s not offended, but even if he is, I can’t gather enough energy to care. Now that I’m no longer in charge of getting us to safety, I can feel myself starting to unravel, thread by agonizing thread, and it takes all my willpower to hold the fraying ends together.

I have to stay strong.

If not for myself, then for Peter and our baby.

We bump along for ten more minutes before we turn onto another paved road and I see a decent-sized plane standing a dozen yards away.

“This is the airport?” I look around, taking in the forest surrounding the narrow strip of asphalt that seems to end not too far in the distance.

“More of an illegal airstrip,” Yan says, hopping out of the car. “Ilya, help me get him out.”

I move out of their way as they lift Peter out of the car and carry him onto the plane. Grabbing the first-aid supplies, I hurry after them, expecting to see Anton, Peter’s friend and their teammate, inside.

To my surprise, instead of Anton’s bearded face, I’m confronted with the hard features of Lucas Kent—the arms dealer whose home I stayed at in Cyprus. He’s standing inside the luxurious cabin, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hello,” I say warily, and he nods at me, his square jaw tight. He must still be upset with me for persuading his wife, Yulia, to help me escape.

That, or he’s just worried about this operation.

“We have less than two hours before my guy’s shift is over,” he says to the twins, confirming that it’s at least partially the latter. “Place him here”—he nods toward a cream-colored leather couch—“and we go.”

The twins do as Kent says, and he disappears into the pilot’s cabin. A minute later, the engines start with a roar, and I sit down next to Peter on the couch as the plane begins rolling. Yan and Ilya each take a seat at the front, and I look out the window, holding my breath as the plane speeds up.

With an airstrip this short, it’ll take a hell of a pilot to clear the trees ahead as we lift off.

Apparently, Kent is a hell of a pilot because we clear those trees without any issues. I can hear the powerful engines revving up as we climb at a steep angle, and a wave of relief rolls over me as I realize we’re in the air.

Not over the border yet, but at least up in the air.

As soon as the plane levels off, I inspect Peter’s wounds. There’s some fresh bleeding around his calf, but the stitches in his side and arm have held, though the side continues to look angry and inflamed. I feed him another dose of crushed-up penicillin with water and put on fresh bandages.

It might be my imagination, but he feels a little cooler to the touch by the time I’m done, and his face looks more relaxed. It’s more like he’s sleeping rather than out of his mind with the fever.

I wipe a damp towel over his face and neck to cool him down more, then kiss his stubble-roughened cheek and walk over to where the twins are sitting.

“How’s he doing?” Ilya asks, getting up. “Will he make it until we get to the hospital?”

I swallow a lump in my throat. “I think so. That is… yes, he will.” I hadn’t let myself think that he wouldn’t, not really, but the awful possibility had been there, gnawing at my chest and burning a hole in my stomach.

“He’s a tough bastard,” Yan says, his green eyes gleaming as he lounges in his seat, looking like a corporate shark in his perfectly tailored dress pants and pinstriped shirt. “It’ll take more than a few bullets to kill him.”