Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Panic surged higher, clawing up my throat. Move, damn it!
When pushing didn’t work, I tried to roll him, using whatever leverage I had to wiggle my way free. It was slow, torturous work.
My muscles screamed in protest, my breath came in frantic bursts, but finally I tumbled onto the floor, gasping, my limbs shaking from the exertion. I crawled over to my bureau and yanked open the drawers. Snatching the first pair of panties I saw, a red thong, I pulled them on before putting on a pair of jeans and slipping into my beat-up canvas sneakers.
That was when I saw the blood.
Dark, seeping out of the back of his head.
“No, no, no, no, no…”
The room tilted.
I couldn’t breathe.
This is bad. This is so fucking bad.
I hadn’t meant to kill him.
I just wanted to hurt him enough to get away.
A little maiming, not murder.
If I had just injured him, the Ivanovs might have let it slide as self-defense, a warning, nothing worth starting a war over.
But if he were dead?
There was nowhere on this planet I would ever be safe again.
My hands trembled violently as I reached out, pressing my fingers against his neck, praying for a pulse.
Nothing.
His skin was still warm, but I couldn’t feel anything.
My heartbeat slammed against my ribs, a frantic, caged animal. My vision blurred, dark spots flickering at the edges. Cold sweat beaded my forehead.
Focus, Marina.
I could not afford to panic right now.
A full-blown meltdown would only waste time, and I didn’t have time.
Fix this. Now.
I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to take a slow breath in through my nose.
Hold for four seconds.
Exhale.
Again.
Again.
By the fourth breath, the room had stopped spinning. The dots in my vision faded. My hands still trembled, but at least I wasn’t on the verge of hyperventilating.
Good enough. It had to be good enough.
But I still had a massive unconscious—or dead—Russian enforcer in my bed.
And no plan.
How the fuck was I supposed to explain this to the cops?
“I’m sorry, Officer, I don’t know why he tied up my roommates just to collapse on my bed…with a raging hard-on.”
Yeah. That would go great.
Or worse, calling his brother in Moscow who, if Veronika was to be believed, was the mafia boss for the Ivanov family in Russia.
“Hey, Artem? We met once at my sister’s wedding—y’know, when she married your hot older brother? Anyhoo, long story short, we were getting freaky, I panicked, and I, uh…hit him with a lamp. Please don’t kill me.”
Yeah. That would really go over well.
This was it.
This was how I was going to die.
Not by Kostya’s hands.
Not by the cops.
But in a holding cell, where the cameras would just happen to malfunction.
And then, poof.
I’d be another nameless woman whose "suicide" didn’t even make the evening news.
Maybe he wasn’t dead?
My pulse pounded so violently I could barely think.
I couldn’t find a heartbeat, but maybe he was still breathing.
He was facedown, his body motionless, so I couldn’t see the rise and fall of his chest.
I needed proof. Something.
Frantically, my gaze darted around the room, landing on a small mirror I had picked up from a souvenir shop tucked inside my favorite thrift store in Wicker Park.
My hands shook as I grabbed it and crouched beside him.
God, he smelled so good. Marina! Focus!
I held the mirror beneath his nose and waited.
My lungs burned from my refusal to inhale, refusal to move, until I saw something.
One second.
Two.
Then…the glass fogged.
My knees nearly buckled with relief.
He was alive.
Which meant I still had a chance.
Not much of one, because when he woke up, he was going to come for me—harder, angrier, unstoppable.
But a chance, nonetheless.
I had to move.
I snatched up the shawl Veronika had given me, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders before throwing on the secondhand leather jacket I had picked up months ago. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I then grabbed the backpack I kept nearby, filled with what little money I had and my fake documents, just in case. I cleared the top of my vanity, sweeping my makeup, perfume and a few silly knickknacks that helped each place feel like home into my bag.
No more time to waste.
Without sparing a glance back at the unconscious Russian on my bed, I bolted downstairs.
My roommates were awake now, their eyes wide, panicked.
I dropped to my knees and fumbled with the knots binding their wrists and ankles.
“What the fuck is going on?” John’s voice was shrill. “Who the hell is that guy? Who are you? And why is some twelve-foot Russian hothead after you?”
“It’s not important,” I snapped, working at the knots faster. “You need to leave. Now. He’s not after you. As long as you’re gone when he wakes up, you should be fine.”
John and Travis scrambled upright, rubbing at their wrists, still looking dazed.
“We need to call the cops,” Travis said, already reaching for his phone.