Forever Mine: Tormentor Mine: Book 4

Anna Zaires

Description

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.

Informations

• Publié par: Mozaika Publications
• Date de parution: 11 mars 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781631423499
• Langue: English

Extrait

Forever Mine
Tormentor Mine: Book 4


Anna Zaires
Contents



Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part II


Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Part III


Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Part IV


Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Epilogue


Excerpt from Twist Me

Excerpt from Capture Me

Excerpt from The Krinar Exposé

About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 Anna Zaires and Dima Zales
www.annazaires.com

All rights reserved.

Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.
www.mozaikallc.com

Cover by Najla Qamber Designs
www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-349-9
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63142-350-5
Part I
1

H enderson
“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.
Peter Sokolov.
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.
Julian Esguerra.
Lucas Kent.
Yan and Ilya Ivanov.
Anton Rezov.
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.
2

S ara
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.
My stalker.
My kidnapper.
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?”
He grins and steps back, releasing me. “Ricotta pancakes. You hungry?”
“I could definitely eat,” I admit, and watch his metallic eyes brighten with pleasure.
I sit down as he grabs plates for both of us and sets them on the table. Though he only came back for me last Tuesday, he’s already completely at home in my tiny kitchen, his movements as smooth and confident as if he’s been living here for months.
Watching him, I again get the unsettling sensation that a dangerous predator has invaded my small apartment. Partially, it’s his size—he’s at least a head taller than I am, his shoulders impossibly broad, his elite soldier’s body packed with hard muscle. But it’s also something about him , something more than the tattoos that decorate his left arm or the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow.
It’s something intrinsic, a kind of ruthlessness that’s there even when he smiles.
“How are you feeling, ptichka?” he asks, joining me at the table, and I look down at my plate, knowing why he’s concerned.
“Fine.” I don’t want to think about yesterday, about how Agent Ryson’s visit had literally made me sick. I’d already been anxious about the wedding, but it wasn’t until the FBI agent slapped me in the face with Peter’s crimes that I lost the contents of