I drive.
Her building comes into view—familiar now in a way it shouldn’t be. I park across the street and cut the engine
Lights are off. Windows dark.
I break in anyway and sit on her thrift store couch. Because chasing didn’t work. Interrogating didn’t work. Tearing the city apart didn’t work.
But waiting—
Waiting is different.
She has no where else. She will come back. If she comes back scared, I’ll be here. If she comes back angry, I’ll be here.
If she comes back with a knife in her hand and murder in her eyes—
I’ll still be here.
I lean back, eyes fixed on her front door.
Chapter 16
Ayla
Three days with Gabriel is hell.
Training.
More fucking training.
“If you’re going to stomach Korsakov,” Gabriel says, “you need to learn how to stomach worse.”
I’m staring at the floor. The wooden floors Baba use to glide me on when we danced, now stained dark in places I don’t want to think about.
“If you would have stayed here, you would have never lost that strength.”
The backhand comes fast.
My head snaps to the side. White sparks burst behind my eyes. I taste blood and keep my mouth closed. Don’t touch it. Don’t react. Reacting makes it worse.
There are rules to training.
I fight his men. I train with them. If they hurt me, I hurt them back. That’s allowed. Encouraged, even.
Gabriel is different.
Fighting him back isn’t training.
It’s suicide.
“Eyes up,”
He gestures toward the man hanging from the rafters, rope biting into wrists, shoulders dislocated, head slumped forward like a broken doll. He’s been there all day. Maybe longer.
“Gut him,” Gabriel says, pressing a blade into my palm.
The handle is slick. My fingers hesitate anyway.
Big mistake.
