In his own office.
A bubble of hysteria pulls in my chest, and I have to put a bloody hand over my mouth to stop myself from cackling at the thought.
For the first time in days, I feel something sharp and clear.
Not numbness. Not emptiness.
Terror.
Holy shit, what did I do?
What the fuck did I just do?
I'm in Morozov territory. In their club. With their dead Pakhan in a pool of blood on his floor, and I'm holding the murder weapon.
His men are downstairs, and they'll come up eventually to check on him. They'll find?—
Me.
This.
I'm dead. I'm so fucking dead.
I need to?—
Move. I need to move.
There are cuts across my palms where the letter opener slipped, and they sting.
As I look at it, I wonder who the hell to call.
Adrian? He'd probably thank whoever kills me for this.
Luc? He chose Adrian. Always chooses Adrian. He'd go right to him.
Police? I just murdered someone. They'd arrest me.
There's only one person.
One person who might come.
Even though I betrayed him. Even though I'm nothing to him now. Even though he hates me.
My fingers slip around the screen as I try to scroll through my contacts. It takes what feels like an eternity before I finally get it.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!
My panic grows until?—
"Gemma?" Saint's voice. Confused. Concerned. "Where are you? I came home and you were gone?—"
"I need help." My voice is shaking. "Please. I need." I sob.
