Instead, I left.
I picture him at breakfast, eager to see me, eager to get started on our projects for the day. Then I imagine him realizing I’m notthere and I’m not coming. I imagine him cutting his pancakes into neat squares, glancing at the empty chair where I usually sit.
The thought tears me up inside.
Maybe I should go back. Not to stay but to say goodbye properly. To kneel in front of Sasha and tell him I’m not disappearingbecauseof him. It’ll hurt either way, but at least it would be a proper goodbye.
I think about texting Roman, but the reasons I left return. It’s not safe. Roman’s not safe. And what’s more, it’s clear the CPS visit was a tactic to get to Roman. Whoever it was, they’re comfortable using Sasha, which means they might usemeto get to Sasha.
I need to leave before I sink even deeper into Roman’s world, before I let him too far into mine.
When I walk out of the station, the city feels different somehow. It’s louder, messier. It reminds me that Roman’s world is a lifetime away from all of this, where regular people live.
I pull my coat tighter and head down, scanning out of habit. It’s one more thing Kyle drilled into me when I was younger, when he was still in academy training and was all about situational awareness.
Face up. Hands free. Know your exits.
My building is only a few blocks away. It’s a plain, brick square with a lobby that always smells like onions. It’s cramped, small, and a little depressing. But it’s home. I’ll go there, check my bank balance, see what my options are. I need to call Mom. I’ve only texted with her since working for Roman. I need to fill her in, see what we can do about her bills.
I’m rounding the corner toward the side entrance of my place when a shadow detaches from the wall ahead. Then another. The men are tall, muscular, and heading right for me.
My body knows what to do before my brain catches up. My stomach drops, and every nerve in me goes sharp.
I slow just a bit, my mind scrambling for options. There’s a street. Light traffic. A few pedestrians on the block I just turned from, but they’re not close enough. My keys are in my pocket—I could put those between my fingers. Phone’s there too. But not my pepper spray.
The first man steps into my path, blocking the sidewalk. The second moves behind me, cutting off my escape.
My blood runs cold.
“Amalie Denning?” the first one asks. His voice is casual but menacing, his words tinged with a Russian accent.
My heart pounds. I try to remain calm, as if I’m not on the verge of a total freak out. “Nope.”
He smiles like he knows what I’m doing and thinks it’s cute. “Yeah. It’s you.”
The second man reaches for my arm.
Once more, my body reacts before my brain. I twist hard, jerking away. Then I bring my knee up fast into the space between us. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to make the second guy step back out of instinct so he doesn’t get hit.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap. My voice shakes, more out of anger than fear.
The first one’s smile disappears. “We’re not here to hurt you, sweetheart.”
He steps closer and I see the zip tie he’s holding.
I move backward, looking for an opening. The second man has recovered from his dodge and lunges toward me. He grabs for my bag strap. I yank it back, using the momentum to swing the bag hard into his face. It connects with a satisfyingthwack, and he stumbles back, his hand going to his nose.
“Bitch!”
“You got that right,” I spit at him. Then I bolt.
But the first guy is too quick. He catches my wrist, holding it with a vice-like grip. He yanks me toward him, twisting my arm behind me. Pain flashes white hot at my shoulder.
Panic’s starting to flare. “Let go of me!” I shout.
His mouth is close to my ear. “Stop fighting. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Go to hell.”
