17
Sara
Peter’s expression is unreadable as we walk together down the trail, yet I can sense the anger within him, the lethal volatility that’s as much a part of him as those steel-gray eyes. Despite that, his grip on my hand is gentle, his big hand shielding my palm from the cold air even as it prevents my escape.
“How did you find me so fast?” I ask, concealing my anxiety. At this point, I’m almost certain Peter wouldn’t physically hurt me, but that still leaves a number of ways he can make me pay.
“Ilya followed you,” he says, glancing at me. The chilly breeze reddened his high cheekbones and the tip of his nose, and with the sporty parka he’s wearing, he looks like one of those hardcore athletes who scale Mount Everest for fun. “Did you think he wouldn’t know you left the house?”
