Fear floods through me, the same kind I felt in high school—cold stares in hallways, whispered slurs behind my back, that look some people get when they’ve decided you’re everything that’s wrong with the world. That split second of terror when you realize someone’s decided you don’t belong, that your existence is somehow offensive enough to warrant whatever comes next.
The guy screams when his wrist twists the wrong way, then goes limp.
People are looking now, staring, but then I notice something else. How fast everyone looks away like they didn’t see anything. No one’s calling security, no one’s moving.
They should be stopping this, right?
The man finally turns around.
Leather boots. Tight black shirt. Blood smeared on his knuckles, tattoos snaking up both arms.
Brown eyes locked on mine. The tattoo under his eye.
It’s him.
Fuck. No, no, no. This can’t?—
I’m going to die.
He’s going to finish the job he didn’t at the clinic. He probably couldn’t pull it off then because he was injured, and now he’s here to make sure I don’t talk.
I take a few steps back, then take off running.
A hand grabs my shoulder and yanks me back so hard I slam into a solid chest.
“Don’t fucking run from me,” he breathes against my ear in a thick accent. “Now do as I say and follow me.”
I try to search for Camilla, but I don’t see her. His hand wraps gently around my wrists. He tugs me forward and starts walking, glancing back to make sure I’m following.
I feel like I’m floating as I trail after him. I keep trying to spot security, someone who might step in, but there’s no one.
He leads me to an elevator and pulls out a black card. Scans it. The doors slide open, and he lets go of my wrists, pushes me inside, then follows and hits a button. The elevator starts moving up.
My palms are so slick with sweat that even wiping them on my pants doesn’t help.
The dizziness hits next, chest squeezing tight from fear. What is he going to do with me? Is this how I die? In some fancy elevator, murdered by the man whose life I saved?
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so terrified. Save a bleeding stranger, get murdered by said stranger in some fancy elevator or in a soundproof room.
It’s like the world’s worst karma boomerang. I hope I’m wrong about him. When he was at the clinic, I saw the fear in his eyes, no matter how much he tried to hide it. He was scared of dying, and that alone proves he has some humanity. But that doesn’t mean he won’t kill me.
The elevator ride feels endless, and it’s only making my thoughts spiral even more.
What if no one will ever find my body? Camilla doesn’t even know where I went. She’ll think I just disappeared, maybe that I finally snapped and ran away from everything.
No one will ever know what actually happened to me.
The elevator dings, and he steps out. His cologne lingers, and damn, it smells good. I chew on my lip and follow, hating myself for even noticing.
The city skyline spreads out in the background with floors of black marble, polished so smooth I can see the lights bouncing off them. The walls are dark wood with soft golden lights glowing along the edges.
The hallway stretches ahead in a T-shape. He takes the left, and I trail after him.
A woman approaches us, says something to him in Russian. He nods once and keeps moving. When he reaches a door, he holds it open for me. I freeze for half a second, swallow hard, then step inside.
It’s a big office with glass windows on one side, a wall of bookshelves behind a dark wooden desk, and two black chairs in front of it. He brushes past me and lowers himself into the chair behind the desk, then lifts his hand and gestures for me to sit.
“Please don’t kill me, I did everything you said.”
