That can’t be right.
Suddenly, a pit opens up in my stomach as my gut tells me that none of this feels quite right.
I look back down at my phone. The burner’s location is still on and it’s here. Right here. Right… behind me.
I turn around and see a familiar silhouette standing in the doorway I just came through.
“Ransome!” I let out. “I was just?—”
“Following me.”
“I—” I look down at my phone and smile then look back up at him. “No, I just?—”
“It wasn’t a question, Amara.”
Ransome closes the space between us in three large strides. They’re the same strides he takes when he storms into work, Monday to Friday, over and over and over.
But this Ransome is not that Ransome. This Ransome is someone I’ve never met. It’s the Ransome I can’t find anything on the internet about. The Ransome that has cocktails with people like Anton Rozanov and Dmitry Rozanov and writes cryptic messages in notebooks he keeps locked in his office.
“You have been following me, Amara.”
“Okay. Yes. Kind of. I figured out your location and I followed you here. But you did the same?—”
“I’m not talking about tonight. You’ve been following me, spying on me, for months.” His dark voice sends ice through my veins. “And I am going to find out why.”
13
RANSOME
I’ve cornered Amara against the locked door, my body caging her in, close enough that I can smell that fucking perfume—jasmine, rose, patchouli—mixing with the scent of her fear.
She looks scared.
She should be.
“I was w-worried about you,” she stutters out. Her attempt at bravery is almost cute. Emphasis onalmost.
“Wrong answer.”
I need to get us inside, away from prying eyes. The room behind her is Rozanov territory—a private basement where no sound will reach unwanted ears. Perfect for the conversation she and I are about to have.
I reach past her for the door handle?—
—and she flinches.
Hard. Like I’m about to strike her.
The reaction stops me cold. My hand freezes in mid-air. I feel a strange surge racing over the surface of my skin. A bit of thrill, a bit of disgust. An odd reaction, to say the fucking least.
The thrill part is easy to unpack. Because there’s a part of me—always has been, always will be—that gets a sick kick out of watching the hitch in Amara’s throat or how her fingers scrabble at the insides of her elbows like she’s trying to disappear into herself. She’s looking at me like I’m a loaded fucking gun with a hair trigger.
And that’s exactly what I am.
But there’s another part—a part I don’t want to examine too closely—that hates the way she recoils from me. Fear makes my business easier. Always has, always will.
So why don’t I quitelikethat Amara is afraid of me?
Grimacing, I turn the handle and push the door open behind her. She stumbles backward into the dimly lit space, and I follow. The door clangs shut behind us with an iron cough.
