Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine 4)

All the usual rules of engagement are out the window.

“Where are we going?” I ask, mostly to distract myself from growing nausea. The so-called morning sickness has been striking at random times of the day and night, and all the jostling from going down the stairs isn’t helping.

“A safe house,” Peter says without looking at me, and I realize his face is unusually pale, his temples covered with beads of sweat from the exertion.

He’s not as recovered as he’s pretending.

It takes all my willpower to bite back a plea for him to stop and rest. Instead, I pick up my pace, so he doesn’t have to exert any effort to tow me along. “You’re not going to tell me where it is?”

“No.” His gaze cuts toward the ceiling corner, and I see a faint red light glowing there.

Of course. Cameras.

I should’ve known better than to ask.

We go down the rest of the way in silence, and Peter stops when we reach the door to the lobby. Slowly, he opens it a fraction and waits, peering through the crack.

“All clear,” he murmurs after a minute, and I exhale a shaking breath as we step out.

“Mr. Sokolov,” the blond receptionist says in surprise as we pass by her desk. “Are you leaving already?”

“Yes. I will settle the bill later.”

She starts to say something else, but we’re already exiting the building into a courtyard that serves as the parking lot. It’s freezing but beautiful out here, with the white glow of moonlight outlining the snow-covered peaks of the Swiss Alps surrounding us. I barely notice any of it, though, as Peter leads me into the parking lot.

My stomach is now in full-blown revolt, and I have to swallow repeatedly to avoid throwing up.

Suddenly, he stops and crouches between two cars, yanking me down with him.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispers, reaching for his M16, and a second later, a black SUV screeches to a stop in front of the clinic.

44

Peter

I expect Interpol agents to jump out of the car, but instead, I see a man dressed all in black.

“Anton!” I stand up and wave, letting him see me. He spins around, relief breaking out on his bearded face.

“Get in!” he shouts, jabbing his thumb at the car. “We have to go.”

Sara is already on her feet next to me, and I grab her hand as I half run, half limp toward Anton’s SUV. My calf burns like hell, and I feel like I tore some stitches in my side, but none of that matters.

Anton doesn’t panic easily, and he looks more than a little on edge.

He jumps back in behind the wheel as we reach the car, and I throw myself into the back seat, gritting my teeth against a wave of pain. Sara climbs in beside me, and we peel out of the parking lot before she even closes the door.

“Yan and Ilya?” I ask when the worst of the pain subsides, and Anton gives me a grim look in the rearview mirror.

“Interpol crashed their meeting in Geneva. I haven’t heard from them since.”

“Fuck.” I close my eyes, feeling sick to my stomach. My body is still on the fritz, weak and shaky—definitely not in any kind of shape to take on a slew of armed agents if they come for us next.

Opening my eyes, I glance over at Sara and find her taking slow, deep breaths, her delicate profile a greenish shade of white.

“You okay, ptichka?” I murmur, and she gives a short nod.

“Morning sickness,” she says in a barely audible whisper, and I squeeze her hand, my chest tightening with a mixture of fury and guilt.

My Sara is pregnant. This is the time in her life when stress is most toxic. She should be resting in the comfort of our home, being coddled by me and her family—not running from the authorities, having witnessed her parents’ deaths.

I never should’ve agreed to spare Henderson’s life. That ublyudok needed to pay—and this time, he will.

I’m going to tear him apart, piece by bloody piece.

First, though, we need to get out of this alive.

“I tried getting in touch with you,” I tell Anton as he turns onto the road leading toward the private airport reserved for the clinic’s patients. “Did you dump your phone?”

He nods. “I had just landed and was on the phone with Yan when Interpol stormed their meeting place. So I destroyed it, just in case.”

“Good.” Our phones are untraceable, the signal bouncing off satellites all over the world, but it’s best not to risk it. “Any chance they got away?”

“Anything is possible,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like he believes it.

“Anton…” Sara’s voice is strained. “I’m so sorry, but can you stop the car?”

“Pull over,” I tell him, and he swerves off the road, hitting the brakes. The car is still moving when Sara opens the door and leans out, heaving. I wrap one arm around her slim waist and gather her hair in my other hand, holding it away from her face as she vomits.