Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine 3)

I mean it, too, even if I have to squash that tiny kernel of guilt-tinged hope about a permanent solution for Monica’s dilemma.

There’s no way I wanted that.

I refuse to believe it.

“I don’t know, ptichka.” Peter cocks his head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Is there something that worries you about that?”

“Everything worries me,” I say bluntly. “How are you going to handle this kind of life? What are you going to do with your time? You say you want to marry me this Saturday, but then what? And what about your revenge? Did you find that last—”

“It’s over.” His tone is bolt-cutter sharp, his face darkening abruptly. “There’s nothing to discuss on that front.”

I stare at him, the food I ate turning into a boulder in my stomach. “What happened?”

He stands up and picks up his half-empty plate, then mine. “Nothing.” Striding to the sink, he deposits the dishes so hard they rattle, then returns to the table to get more.

I get up too, my nerves strung tight as I watch him prowl around the kitchen with poorly controlled violence. “Peter….” Gathering my courage, I catch his wrist the next time he strides by me. “What happened?” I repeat softly, looking up to meet his steely gaze.

The tendons in his thick wrist flex, and I know it would be child’s play for him to break my grip. “Nothing,” he answers instead, and this time, I catch the undertone of bitter grief and rage. “Absolutely fucking nothing.”

I dampen my dry lips. “What does that mean? You didn’t find him?”

His mouth twists, and he carefully extricates himself from my grip. “Let’s just drop it, ptichka.”

I want to, but I can’t. Not if we’re to build a life together.

I won’t marry another man whose secrets could destroy us.

“Please, Peter.” I recapture his hand, squeezing it between my palms. Holding his gaze, I say quietly, “Just tell me the truth.”

His fingers curl in my grasp, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opens them, the bitter rage is gone, veiled by a lack of expression. “I told you—nothing happened,” he says evenly. “And nothing will. Henderson will go back to his regular life, safe and sound, because that’s part of the deal I made.” And as I stare at him, stunned, he says, “It’s over, Sara. There’s nothing more to say.”

I start to speak and stop, unable to come up with the right words. With any words, really. My heart feels like it’s crumbling into pieces, my chest so tight I can’t pull in a breath.

He gave up a chance to fully avenge his family.

For me.

He did all this for me.

“Don’t,” he says tightly, and I realize I can feel a trickle of wetness on my face. The watery blur in front of my vision must be tears.

“I’m sorry.” I let go of his hand and swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks. “I’m just… It’s fine.”

He stares at me, then turns away, resuming kitchen cleanup like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just rip my heart out of my chest and put it in his pocket.

I give myself a couple of minutes to calm down, and then I walk over to my bag and pick up my phone.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks as I press my parents’ number, and I hold up my finger to my lips in a universal silencing gesture.

“Hi, Mom,” I say when I hear the familiar hello. “How are you? How are you feeling?”

“I’m good, honey.” She sounds puzzled. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

I look up at the clock and wince when I see it’s after ten. “Yeah, everything is fine. Sorry to call so late—I had a shift at the clinic and lost track of time. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Me? Oh, no. I was just reading before bed. Your dad is already asleep, though. Did you want to talk to him? I can wake him up if you—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Let him sleep.” I take a deep breath. “Mom, what are you and Dad doing tomorrow night? Are you free for dinner?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peter go still, then resume loading the dishwasher.

“Well, we were thinking of going to Bingo Night, but we don’t have to,” Mom says. “Why, honey? You’re not working tomorrow?”

“I have a light schedule,” I say, and it’s almost true. I’m not on call tomorrow, nor do I have any surgical procedures. And as far as my clinic shift goes, I’ll reschedule it for another day. “Do you guys want to come over for dinner?”

A moment of silence, then: “To your place?”

“Yes. There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” I say as Peter turns to look at me.

This will be only the second time my parents visit my new apartment. I’ve never been particularly good at hosting, so usually, I either come over to their house or we go out for lunch or brunch. With Peter in the picture, though, I figure it’s best if we’re at my place.