The gun pulled away from my temple.
The guards released my arms.
And I sat there in that expensive chair, bleeding onto expensive leather, knowing I'd just crossed a line I could never uncross.
Knowing I'd damned myself to save her.
And I'd do it again. A thousand times. Without hesitation.
Klaus picked up the file and handed it to me.
"You have forty-eight hours," he said. "Make it look like an accident. No traces. No witnesses. And Drogo?"
I looked up at him.
"Welcome to the family."
18
ALENA
Day three.
Apparently there's a point where worry rots into something uglier. It stops buzzing and starts settling in your bones like cold. I'd reached that point and then kept walking.
My flat looked like a crime scene where the only victim was my sanity. Broken glass glittered under the radiator. The sandwich he'd cut into stupid triangles sat fossilized on the counter like a memorial to good intentions. The wine bottle had bled down the wall and dried there, dark and sticky.
I stared at my phone.
"Okay," I said to it. "One more time."
I called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
You get the picture.
On the third day without Drogo, your brain starts a little game calledWhat Kind of Dead?It's delightful. Ten out of ten psychiatrists would recommend. Is he dead dead? Emotionally dead? Shot? Kidnapped? Or, fun option, perfectly fine and just decided to evaporate from my life like a gentleman.
I hit Lucy's name.
She answered on the second ring. "Babe, please tell me you've heard from him."
My stomach dropped. "You haven't either?"
"Nothing." Her voice was tight, scared. "Marcus has been calling since yesterday. Phone's dead or off. We went to his flat this morning—"
"You what?"
"We used the spare key. Place is empty, Alena. Bed made. No luggage. Like he just... fucking vanished."
My chest constricted. "He told me New York. Work trip."
