Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
I wasn’t going to stop him. They were creative, gentle and also very dominant lovers. And we hadn’t had sex in the kitchen. Yet.
When Nix didn’t offer a witty reply about getting me out of my panties, we both looked to him.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked.
Nix looked pissed. His hair was messed up, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tense. He had his pistol on his hip right next to his badge.
“Seaborn lied.”
Donovan’s hands slipped out from under my shirt and he stepped back.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Donovan asked.
The arrest had been all over the local news outlets. TV, radio, internet, newspaper. People were relieved to know the murderer had been found, that it had been a crime of passion not random.
“They installed one of those red-light cameras on Main by the library,” he said.
Donovan nodded. “I remember. Pops promised it was a way to make crossing the street safer.”
“The photos and tickets are issued once a week. The technician went through the pile today. Guess who’s on it?”
“Seaborn?” I asked.
Nix shook his head as he went to the fridge to get a beer. “Erin Mills.”
“When?”
He popped the top, guzzled a third of the bottle in one go. “The night she was killed. Miranski said the photo was stamped at twelve-thirteen a.m.”
I’d gotten home around eleven-thirty and had been asleep at that time. “If she was in her car then, that means she wasn’t at the house.”
“Seaborn said he killed her at midnight.”
“Holy shit,” Donovan murmured.
“Wait.” I held up my hand. “If Seaborn said he killed her at midnight but the traffic camera captured her alive and downtown almost fifteen minutes later, that means—”
“He’s lying. He didn’t do it.”
My stomach dropped at what he was saying. “Then who killed Erin?”
Nix shrugged, set his beer on the counter. “He’s still out there.”
Tormentor Mine
By
Anna Zaires
Part I
Chapter 1
5 Years Earlier, North Caucasus Mountains
Peter
“Papa!” The high-pitched squeal is followed by a patter of little feet as my son propels himself through the doorway, his dark waves bouncing around his glowing face.
Laughing, I catch his small, sturdy body as he launches himself at me. “Miss me, pupsik?"
“Yeah!” His short arms fold around my neck, and I inhale deeply, breathing in his sweet child scent. Though Pasha is almost three, he still smells like milk—like healthy baby and innocence.
I hold him tight and feel the iciness inside me melting as soft, bright warmth floods my chest. It’s painful, like being submerged in hot water after freezing, but it’s a good kind of pain. It makes me feel alive, fills the empty cracks inside me until I can almost believe I’m whole and deserving of my son’s love.
“He did miss you,” Tamila says, entering the hallway. As always, she moves quietly, almost soundlessly, her eyes downcast. She doesn’t look at me directly. From childhood, she’s been trained to avoid eye contact with men, so all I see are her long black lashes as she gazes at the floor. She’s wearing a traditional headscarf that hides her long dark hair, and her gray dress is long and shapeless. However, she still looks beautiful—as beautiful as she did three and a half years ago, when she snuck into my bed to escape marriage to a village elder.
“And I’ve missed you both,” I say as my son pushes at my shoulders, demanding to be free. Grinning, I lower him to the floor, and he immediately grabs my hand and tugs on it.
“Papa, do you want to see my truck? Do you, Papa?”
“I do,” I say, my grin widening as he pulls me toward the living room. “What kind of truck is it?”
“A big one!”
“All right, let’s see it.”
Tamila trails behind us, and I realize I haven’t spoken to her at all yet. Stopping, I turn around and look at my wife. “How are you?”
She peeks up at me through those eyelashes. “I’m good. I’m glad to see you.”
“And I’m glad to see you.” I want to kiss her, but she’ll be embarrassed if I do it in front of Pasha, so I abstain. Instead, I gently touch her cheek, and then I let my son tow me to his truck, which I recognize as the one I sent him from Moscow three weeks ago.
He proudly demonstrates all the features of the toy as I crouch next to him, watching his animated face. He has Tamila’s dark, exotic beauty, right down to the eyelashes, but there’s something of me in him too, though I can’t quite define what.
“He has your fearlessness,” Tamila says quietly, kneeling next to me. “And I think he’s going to be as tall as you, though it’s probably too early to tell.”
I glance at her. She often does this, observing me so closely it’s almost as if she’s reading my mind. Then again, it’s not a stretch to guess what I’m thinking. I did have Pasha’s paternity tested before he was born.