Page 33 of Claimed By the Pakhan

“But—”

“Let’s have dinner at yours tonight, say, 8 p.m.?”

“Fine,” Chloe sighs. “But let me come with you.”

“No,” I say, taking my leave. “It could be dangerous.”

I apologize for having to cancel at reception and fly out of the double doors, tapping away on my phone, figuring out how to get to Harbor Island from downtown.

I jump on the bus, tapping my foot anxiously on the floor as it sets off toward my destination.

I look through the window, watching the gloomy city stand tall amidst the constant gray. Winter keeps everyone indoors. Only those brave enough to stand the cold leave the comfort of their own home on a day like today.

Rain drizzles down the window like tears, a thick fog looming in the distance as we get closer to the bay.

I’m the only one who gets off the stop, the rest heading to the airport, which is probably my safest option right now.

Mechanical clunking fills the air as I step out of the bus. I tug my brown suede jacket close, wrapping it around my body, resenting myself for not choosing something more waterproof.

My boots clop against the cracked ground as I cross the road. This place is hell on earth, more complicated than a hedge maze. Fuck knows where the entrance is, or how I’m supposed to find evidence that will support the numbers showing on the spreadsheets.

Cold air blows in from the bay, whacking me in the face. The pungent smell of engine grease hits me harder. Definitely thefoulest smell my nose has ever been exposed to. I’d remember this smell. It’s strong enough for me to taste it on my tongue.

I hold onto the smell, wracking my brain for some memories, but the fog is too thick. It drifts through my mind the same way the fog here drifts over the bay, preventing me from seeing more than a few meters ahead.

Rusty shipping cranes squeak on their hinges, disappearing into the fog. I walk through the restricted access zone, passing generators and other mechanical things that could probably flatten me to death. A rusted anchor has been left to rot up ahead, abandoned outside of a warehouse that seems to be meeting the same fate.

I gasp, staring at the thick anchor chains. This is the place to get away with murder. You could wrap a body around these anchor chains, launch the anchor into the water and let nature take care of the rest.

My pulse throbs, my body screaming at me to turn back now while I still can, but this is bigger than fear. Remembering the past will save my life.

I consult the numbers on my phone while ambling through the dockyard, passing a sign that says,“Strictly hi-vis from this point forward.”

Fuck that. I slip through the gate, the metal screeching against the cold concrete, harsher than chalk on a blackboard.

Cranes work in the near distance, the ground shaking each time a container is stacked. A shipping horn blares, the sound going straight to my bones. Being pregnant with twins doubles my risks. I have other lives to be concerned about, not just my own. But avoiding the risks will cost lives too.

I need my fucking memories back.

A pair of footsteps appear behind me, scuffing the concrete, causing me to come to a complete stop. With terrifying machinery in every direction, my chances of making it out of this place alive are slim to none, especially since the pair of heavy footsteps are getting closer.

I take a deep breath in, slowly looking over my shoulder. Perhaps Emil followed me here, since he seems to take pleasure in stalking me.

But the black figure barreling toward me resembles a complete stranger, not the man I know.

I gasp, air lodged in my throat. With nowhere to go, surrounded by containers and unusual machinery, I freeze on the spot and pray for a miracle.

That’s when the lights go out.

11

EMIL

“Your wife cancelledat the last second,” says the receptionist when I go to check in for the ultrasound.

Frustrating, but hardly surprising.

“Did she give a reason as to why?”