Griff: Not sleeping. Got all the time in the world.
Wren: Volkov got out of prison six weeks ago. He made every single meeting with his parole officer until last Monday. Then he went dark. But get this—there are no warrants out for his arrest.
Griff: Someone in law enforcement is helping him. Any idea what he’s been doing since he got out? Besides disappearing?
Wren: When he was arrested for procurement—that’s a terrible term for what he did, by the way—eight girls entered the system in Philadelphia. Sloane wasn’t one of them. Four testified against Volkov in exchange for asylum; the other four were either underage or flat-out refused.
Griff: Not uncommon for trafficking victims. Worked a couple of cases in Afghanistan years ago. The assholes in control convince them if they say a single word, not only will they die, but their families will too.
Wren: Volkov is making good on those threats. One of the girls OD’d on heroin six months after the trial. But the other three? They died in the past month. All home invasions. One in Kansas, one in Spokane, and the last in Orlando.
Shit. This is a hell of a lot bigger than we thought. And Max wasn’t this fucker’s first kill.
Chapter Fourteen
Sloane
I can’t breathe. Sirens blare, getting closer every second, but Dimitri has his hands around my throat and he’s smiling.
“Goodbye, little whore.”
Sitting up with a gasp, I blink hard until the room comes into focus. Until my fingers register the fluffy down comforter clenched in my fists. Grabbing for my phone, I silence the alarm and force slow, deep breaths.
You’re okay. It was just a dream.
Except Max is dead, and there’s a man in the next room whose entire job is to stop Dimitri from making me his next victim.
It’s still early—just after eight—and I don’t know if Griff is awake, but I need some caffeine. The coffee pot is in the main room, so I tiptoe to the door and open it just an inch.
Peering at Lake Zurich through a small crack in the drapes, he takes a sip of coffee, and my God. The man really is nothing but muscle. If there’s an ounce of fat on him, I’ll eat apileof french fries.
His left arm ends a couple of inches above where his elbow should be, and the scars on his shoulder and his waist are a testament to the violence of the attack that stole so much from him.
The rich scent of coffee temporarily distracts me, and I snatch the robe off the end of the bed. I willnotbe making last night’s mistake again. No more parading around in just a t-shirt. Well, in front of Griff anyway. God knows whatBeauty and Stylehas in store for me on the runway tomorrow night.
I don’t want to spook him, so I skirt the small table next to the couch, moving slowly to give him a chance to see me.
The second he knows I’m there, he stiffens. “Shit. Sloane.” Coffee sloshes onto the marble in front of the balcony doors, and he forces out a breath. “I didn’t know you were up. Give me a minute.” Shoulders hunched, he sets the cup down and snags his t-shirt from the couch.
“Remember what I said last night?” The words escape before I realize he can’t see my lips while he’s struggling into the shirt, and I snap my mouth shut until his blue eyes are completely focused on me again. “You don’t have to hide, you know.”
“Hiding is kind of my thing these days.” He shrugs, then nods toward the coffee pot. “Want some?”
“God, yes. But I’ll get it.”
“I can still pour coffee,” he says, an edge to his voice.
“Fine.” Rolling my eyes, I perch on the arm of the sofa while he fills one of the bone china cups for me and tops off his own.
“You take anything in it?” He glances over at me, and the intensity of his stare is both comforting and unnerving—he’s giving me his full attention like I’m the most important person in his world, even though he’s just trying to read my lips.
“Not unless it’s the off season.” I miss lattes. Hell, I’d kill for a bagel right now. “Black coffee, green tea, fruits and veggies, lean protein, and lots of water.”
“That sounds boring as fuck.”
It feels good to laugh, and when I accept the cup, his hand lingers on mine for an extra second. “It’s easy. And mindless. But yes. Boring…’as fuck.’”
Griff sits stiffly, and I slide down across from him, tuck my legs under me, and turn so I’m facing him, the coffee cupped in my hands like it’s the most valuable possession in this world. Which, after last night, it almost is.
