Page 175 of Dark King Daddy

I screamed. The sound came out before I knew it was there—a raw, ugly noise. I barely recognized myself in it.

Boris grabbed me.

He pulled me across the seat—my door was open, his hand was on my arm, and he hauled me out of the SUV with a strength that had nothing gentle in it. My hip struck the door frame. My knee hit the running board. I stumbled and the cold air hit my face and the asphalt was under my shoes.

“Across the road,” Boris said. His voice was level. Frighteningly level. He pointed—past the SUV, past the barrier, across the two lanes of empty road to a building on the other side. A warehouse. A loading entrance—a wide metal door, half-open, the interior dark.

“That’s a business,” I said. “There are people—”

“Exactly. There are people. Go. Get inside. Get to the front. Witnesses. You need witnesses.” He put his hand on my back and pushed me toward the barrier. “Go.”

I looked at his sleeve. The left sleeve. Dark. Wet. The fabric clinging to his forearm.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing. Go. Now.”

“You’re staying.”

“I’m staying. I need you to go. If I come with you, they follow you. If I stay, they come to me. You get inside. You get to people. You call your husband.”

The gunfire started again. From the intersection—closer now. The sound bounced off the warehouses and came at me from every direction.

I ran.

The road was thirty feet across. I ran it in shoes that were not made for running, my coat flapping open, my bag with Misha gone—left in the SUV, on the floor, the little ear still poking through the zipper. I did not go back. I did not look back. I ran across the asphalt and my knees ached from the collision and my hand—my right hand, I did not know when—was bleeding. A cut across the palm. The seat frame. I had grabbed something when Boris pulled me out.

The loading entrance was ten feet away. Five. The metal door was open and beyond it was darkness—a warehouse interior, the smell of dust and tile grout and cardboard. A tile showroom. Somewhere behind the dark interior was a front door. A street. People.

I heard Boris behind me. Not following. Firing. The muzzle flash lit the road in stuttered bursts of orange.

I reached the loading entrance. I crossed the threshold into the dark.

I made it six steps inside before the hand caught my coat.

Fingers closed on the collar—a grip from behind, yanking backward. The coat tightened around my throat. I twisted. The fabric was my father’s old coat—no. Daniil’s coat. The oversized one. The one I had grabbed because it was nearest. The buttons pulled against the loops and the collar pressed against the back of my neck and I could feel his breath on my hair.

I ripped forward. The buttons gave. One, two—I heard them scatter on the concrete floor, small sounds in the dark. The coat fell away from my shoulders and the man behind me staggered backward holding empty fabric.

I ran.

The warehouse stretched ahead—a corridor of display racks, each one holding rows of tile samples mounted on wooden boards. Porcelain. Ceramic. Travertine. The names on the labels meant nothing. The racks meant cover. I ducked between two of them, my shoulder striking a board, and a tile sample rattled on its hook.

He was behind me. I could hear his footsteps—heavy, deliberate, not running. He did not need to run. He knew I had nowhere to go.

My right hand burned. The cut across the palm was deeper than I had realized—I could feel the blood making my fingers slippery. I felt faint. My knees ached from the collision—both of them, a deep bruising pain that sharpened with each step. The concrete floor was cold through my shoes.

A workbench. Against the wall, between two display racks. Tools. A score cutter. Boxes. And tile samples—loose pieces, stacked on their edges, waiting to be mounted. I grabbed one. Porcelain. Twelve inches square. Heavy enough.

I turned around.

He came around the end of the rack. A man I did not recognize—dark jacket, close-cropped hair, heavy build. His eyes found mine. He reached.

I swung the tile.

It caught him across the temple. The edge of it—sharp, porcelain, unglazed—sliced a line above his ear. He staggered. His shoulder hit the workbench and the boxes shifted and something fell and the sound was loud in the warehouse. He put his hand to his head. Blood between his fingers. Bright.

I ran.