Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Pakhan, please.” He holds out his hands, palms up.
The animal in me knows what’s coming as Niko straightens and begins to pull away.
“No.” I grab his shirtsleeve. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Don’t I?” His face is so beautiful, and his tone so benevolent. “You think this is jealousy?”
“I don’t know what this is. I only know you’re better than this.”
“Jealousy is a toxic trait, my darling. It’s wanting something you don’t have. Being territorial is protecting what you do have.” He nods, and Federov backs away, Sergei lunging for Aslanov, who begins to fight and flail.
“No, Niko.” I grab his wrist this time, but fear seems to have hollowed out my bones. “You don’t have to do this.”
“No.” He takes my hand in his. “You’re wrong. This is who I am.”
“But he’s not a threat to me,” I say frantically, sweat beginning to bead on my brow. Am I worried about Aslanov, Niko’s soul, or seeing something I can’t unsee? “You’re not a murderer,” I plead.
He smiles and lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Everyone is a murderer, darling. You just haven’t found your person yet.”
I swing away, my whole body shaking, but not before I see the gun tucked at his back. I dive for the door handle, feeling like I might be sick. My hand curls around the door handle, my shoes slipping against the polished floor as I struggle to get out.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
A crack rings out, and all I can think is that made-for-TV gun noises aren’t realistic, and silencers aren’t so silent.
My hand shakes as I pull my phone out. I expect it to be Holland, and I’m about to silence the call when Hugh’s name flashes on the screen.
The sickness in my stomach intensifies. I don’t know how, but I know something is wrong.
“Mummy?” My heart stops. Hugh never calls me Mummy anymore.
“Yes, darling, I’m here.”
“I need you to come home,” my son continues, his voice vibrating with unshed tears.
I swallow over my heart where it’s lodged in my throat. “What is it? Is Holland there?”
There’s a catch in his voice. “You can’t speak to her. She’s sleeping,” he says on a choked sob.
“I’ll be there as—”
“Hurry, please. And Mummy? Dad says you’re not to bring Van.”
“What?”
“He says or else.”
I rub at the red stain on my finger, only making the smudge of lipstick worse.
“The private terminal, did you say, love?” The cabbie’s voice carries through the acrylic screen. The back of his gray hair stands in a spikey whorl as though he’d recently just dragged himself from a nap.
“Yes, please.”
“You don’t have much luggage with you,” he adds cheerfully. Turning his head, his gaze dips to the tiny satin clutch on my lap.
“No, I know. I have a family emergency.” Swallowing, I press my thumbnail into the palm of my hand, willing myself not to cry.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you there any quicker.”
His expression firms, and the black cab swings down a side street, causing my clutch to almost slide from my lap. My phone starts to buzz. I silence Niko’s call. So much for him paying attention to the message I’d left him. It was hardly subtle.
I need time to think, I’d scrawled in red lipstick across the huge hallway mirror. Please don’t follow me.
I’d grabbed my clutch from the hallway table and slipped unseen out the back door. I’d run in the direction of the South Kensington Tube station, blindly, stupidly, trying to make my way to Heathrow airport. I’d even booked a flight—before I remembered my new credit card slotted away in my clutch. It’s amazing how fast you can get a private jet in the air when you double the booking price.
I try Holland’s number again, but it connects immediately with her voicemail. Meanwhile, Sandy’s phone just rings out. I chew the inside of my lip as I give myself another talking-to. Tom must’ve gone to watch Hugh play soccer. Holland probably saw no harm in letting them go home with their father, and Sandy is most likely out with the ghillie, chasing deer and romping through the fucking heather. Only, I know this can’t be true—apart from Sandy, because that’s likely where he is. Holland wouldn’t do anything without calling me first, and I can’t remember the last time Tom went to one of Hugh’s matches. I consider calling Griffin to come with me, but I already feel bad about last night.
I also briefly consider calling the police, but what would I say? I have a funny feeling about things?
No, I can do this on my own. This is Tom we’re talking about. I could take his lanky arse, no problem. Besides, the man is a weasel.
The cabbie gets me to London City Airport in record time. The wheels are up, and we’re airborne long before my Heathrow flight would’ve boarded. I have a car booked at the other end. While it’s probably the quickest route I could’ve ever taken, it still feels like a dozen years as the car drives along the newly resurfaced driveway.