“Where…are we going?” She remains frozen against the wall like prey, clearly hoping stillness will save her.
Nothing will.
“You’re going to help me find what I’m looking for.”
Chapter 3
Kirill
“Move.” I pitch my voice low to minimize the echo in the empty hallway.
Jordan stumbles as I push her forward, tensing against my fingers on her elbow.
Not nearly enough resistance to matter. She’s weak.
My hand easily fits around her entire arm. Her face is thinner than natural, and her waist looks about as big around as my thigh.
That half a grapefruit is starting to make sense.
She could use a good meal. Some red meat and potatoes. Maybe a nice stew.
Why the fuck do I care what she eats?
I tighten my grip on her elbow.
“You’re hurting me.” Fascination rather than fear tinges her voice.
Wrong reaction. People should find me terrifying. That’s the point.
I loosen my hold, just a fraction. She’ll be inconvenient if she’s marked up, bruised, or crying. People tend to notice sights like that and might try to jump in and help. Which would mean I’d have to kill them and dispose of their bodies.
The stairwell smells like piss and bleach, the overhead light flickering as we descend down three floors of cramped steps. With each landing, her feet slow more. She’s testing my patience.
My grip tightens again, hitting the bundle of nerves beneath her skin.
She gasps, her arm spasming under my touch. “I don’t understand what you want. I don’t have anything. I’m not who you think I am.”
I don’t answer. Words are ammunition, so I only use them when necessary. Every syllable is a bullet you can’t take back.
Outside, garbage and exhaust permeate the early evening air. As a siren wails in the distance, I scan the street out of instinct.
Three parked cars on this side and two across. A homeless man hunched in a doorway half a block down. No immediate threats.
She shivers, and I realize she’s wearing nothing but that thin flowy dress and leggings that show off long legs. No jacket. Ridiculous fuzzy socks with moons on them.
I should have grabbed her shoes. Cold, cramped feet will slow us down.
As if she heard my thoughts, she spins around. “I need to go back. My shoes, my?—”
Too late. “No.”
My Audi, a black sedan with tinted windows, waits twenty yards ahead. Anonymous and forgettable. I haul her down the cracked sidewalk.
She drags her feet, her body slumping as she strains against me. “At least tell me where we’re going. Or why. Is this about money? Because I don’t have any, which you could probably tell from my place. But I could maybe get some, or?—”
“Stop talking.”
She digs her socked feet deeper into the sidewalk. “If it’s not money, then what? Because honestly, the universe doesn’t reward this kind of aggressive masculine energy, and your chakras are seriously misaligned right now, which might explain why you’re doing this whole…” She waves her free hand vaguely at me, “…intimidation thing.”
