I keep running. Away from the alley. Away from Ivan. Away from the choice I can't make and the life I can't live.
Three blocks later, I stop to catch my breath against a building. Chest heaving. Legs shaking. Heart trying to beat out of my ribs.
What now?What the fuck do I do now?
I knew he was a killer. But knowing and seeing are different. Knowing is abstract. Seeing is that snap. That body dropping.
This is too much. This is not me.
Dmitri's still out there. Still hunting me. Still trying to get to Ivan through me.
Ivan's going to lose his mind when he realizes I ran. He probably already has. He probably sent half his men to find me. To bring me back and lock me in my suite, distracted by luxuries and sex.
FUCK. It's all coming too fast. Too real. I can't process. Can't think. Can't?—
Hands grab me from behind.
Strong hands. Wrong hands. Not Ivan's hands.
I swing my purse wildly, trying to hit whoever’s grabbing me—anything to fight back—but it’s no use. They’re too strong.
Then… a chemical smell.
I try to fight. To scream. To escape.
But the chemical is too fast. The captor’s too powerful. Everything's already fading.
Darkness creeps in from the edges, my vision tunneling. Thoughts scatter like dropped coins. The last before everything goes black:Ivan's going to burn the world down.
25
IVAN
The painting explodes against the wall. Some dead French bastard's masterpiece—millions of fucking dollars—reduced to canvas shreds and splinters.
I don't remember grabbing it. Don't remember throwing it. Just the satisfaction of watching expensive shit break.
Not enough.
The coffee table goes next. Marble. Imported from fucking Italy. I flip it. The glass top shatters across the floor, glittering like tears.
Still not enough.
She's fucking gone.
The thought won't stop. Won't shut up. It keeps circling like a vulture over roadkill.
I told her to wait. Told her I'd handle it. Told her she was safe with me.
And she ran.
She saw me kill Fyodor—the traitorous piece of shit pretending to be my man—and she fucking bolted. She ranfrom me.
The lamp goes flying. Then the chair. Then whatever my hands can reach. A vase. Books. A knife. Nothing’s off limits.
I need to destroy something. Anything. Because if I'm not breaking things, then I'm thinking about her out there. Alone. Scared. Running from me.
From what I am. What I've always been.
