This can’t be happening.
I twist and try to shout against his hold, every part of me bracing for something I won’t come back from.
Tears burn down my cheeks. My lungs seize. My mind screams one word on repeat.
No. No. No.
Suddenly, the door bursts open in an explosion, a thunderclap that ricochets through the narrow space as it snaps off the hinges, crashing inward.
The man barely has time to turn before Kirill comes at him like a tsunami. He slams the guy’s face against the sink, the crack of bone on porcelain so loud it sounds like a gunshot.
Again. And again. And again.
The man’s head bounces off the edge of the basin, blood spraying across the floor in messy lines until I can’t recognize his face. His legs buckle, the only sign that he’s alive, but Kirill doesn’t stop. He tosses him on the ground and kicks him in his stomach over and over, and the man lacks the strength to fight back.
Kirill’s foot presses down against his throat, pinning him there, making sure he feels every second of what’s happening.
I stumble backward, hand over my mouth, trying to breathe. Trying to believe this is real.
Kirill’s eyes never leave the guy’s as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small knife.
Then, with a terrifying calm, he drags the blade across the man’s cheek, cutting through skin that’s already split and bloodied, like even that isn’t enough.
My body shudders, struggling to process what’s in front of me. I’ve never witnessed Kirill like this. He looks like a stranger, nothing like the sweet dad from the diner.
I should be terrified. But I’m not. Not even a little. Which says a lot about me, I guess.
The man screams, clutching his face as Kirill calmly slips a hand into his pants, pulls out his wallet, and retrieves his ID. He snaps a photo of it, then pockets the license for himself.
“You should already be dead, Kyle Scott,” he says. “But I want you to remember this. Every time you touch your face, every time you look in a mirror, I want you to remember how close you came to dying. And if you ever so much as look at her again, you won’t get another warning. Do you understand me?”
The man nods, shaking, one good eye stretched wide in terror.
Footsteps sound off behind me, and when I turn, a tall man dressed in black fills the doorway.
Who the hell is this? He’s young, broad-shouldered, with a scar slicing clean through one eyebrow.
“Mikhail,” Kirill says evenly. “Take out the trash. Drop him somewhere with heavy traffic. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a car will finish the job.”
Mikhail offers a faint smile.
“With pleasure, boss.” His Russian accent is thicker than Kirill’s.
Kyle starts mumbling something unintelligible as Mikhail grabs him by the collar and drags him across the floor.
“Get up,” he mutters, lifting him by the arms.
If not for the blood on his face, he could’ve passed for a drunk getting tossed from the club.
As soon as they’re gone, Kirill slips the knife back into his pocket. He turns to me, and just like that, the fury drains from his face. His brows knit together as his hand drags through his hair, his gaze locking on mine like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.
“My God, Sloane…if I hadn’t gotten here in time—” His voice breaks off as his eyes close and his chest lifts with a shaky breath.
“But you did,” I whisper.
He moves toward me, hands reaching without hesitation. They skim over my shoulders, down my arms, across my face, like he needs to touch every inch just to believe I’m real. That I’m still standing.
“Are you hurt?” He cradles my cheek, his thumb brushing the skin like he’s afraid I might shatter.
