Lev catches it, lifts a brow, and shrugs as if to say,“What, I’m breathing wrong now?”
“What? I’m just saying she should make sure they fit,” he says.
“They’ll fit,” Boris mutters, digging into his takeout like he wasn’t just rifling through my underwear drawer earlier.
I blink at all three of them. Then shake my head. Hard.
“Yeah, no. Not doing a fashion show for armed men who just…”…killed someone. Or cleaned it up. Or both.Not a sentence I’m about to test out loud.
A dry cough escapes instead, like I can clear the thought out of my throat. “Pretty sure that’s not in my health plan.”
I start to turn, but Anton’s voice cuts in.
“You’re still wearing blood.”
I freeze. Glance down.
Right. The white shirt.
Speckled red at the hem. Smeared near my ribs where that asshole grabbed me. It’s thin, practically translucent in the light… and I’m still braless underneath.
Anton’s jacket is the only reason I’m not flashing everyone like this isGirls Gone Mafia.
It still clings to my shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling like gunpowder, spice, and whatever cologne smells like it comes with a warning label.
I shouldn’t be wearing it still.
But underneath, I feel naked. Not just physically.
Like I’ve been cracked open and everyone in the room can see the part of me that’s still shaking. Still running. Still waiting for this nightmare to end.
I tug the lapels tighter around myself, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.
I grab the bags and bolt.
“The room’s on your left,” Lev calls after me. “Big-ass door. Can’t miss it.”
He’s not wrong.
There’s only one bedroom in this place… because apparently, guest rooms are for people whoexpectcompany, not killers who like their solitude uninterrupted.
And of course it’s ridiculous. Massive. Sleek dark wood and steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows with blackout curtains drawn halfway, as if the sun’s not allowed in unless it has clearance. Thebed looks like something out of a billionaire magazine spread; low, wide, black frame, sheets so smooth they probably have a thread count higher than my credit score. There’s a plush rug underfoot that sinks like fresh snow.
But zero personal touches.
No books. No framed photos. Not even a plant trying to survive.
A killer’s showroom.
I lock the door behind me and drop the bags onto the bed like they might crawl away if I don’t act fast.
The mirror across from me doesn’t lie.
I look like I’ve been dragged through a crime scene backwards. Because I have.
Hair tangled. Eyes glassy. My feet—bare, filthy from the blood, gravel, and Vegas pavement—are leaving faint prints on the rug.
Jesus.
