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Lenka pulls up to the broken, overgrown curb of a condemned crack house, and a sense of dread settles into the pit of my stomach. Golden light filters onto the dilapidated structure, a macabre contrast to the dreary street.
This neighborhood is familiar to me. It’s actually not far from where my brother and I were holed up when we first took off on our own—before we were picked up by the Nezhit and initiated into their clan. It’s a known spot for the homeless, the destitute, the addicts who have worn out their welcome in their loved ones’ lives.
Or underaged runaways looking for a place to hide from their bastard of a father.
Only desperate men come here, which makes me more anxious for Alina than I already was.
My knuckles are bruised and bloody from the number of teeth I’ve knocked loose to get this address. But I hardly notice as I fling open the back door of the Escalade and we all filter out. The structure before us is big—closer to an apartment building than an actual house. The characters who peer out through the broken shutters of the home next to us watch with empty eyes.
“We should split up. We have a lot of ground to cover,” Rasputin says, pulling out his gun.
I nod, doing the same as I lead the charge. We burst through the front door and are welcomed immediately by a staircase that spirals up several floors around the vaulted foyer. Hallways extend on either side, several doors sitting cockeyed on their hinges.
Wordlessly, we disperse, me taking the left-side hallway, my ears straining to catch any sound. This is going to take forever with just five men, and my fear is that whoever has Alina will see our arrival and take off before we can clear each room of this monstrosity.
Crushing the thought, I make my way down the hallway door by door, heading toward the back of the building. The rickety building looks as though it might collapse at any minute. The rotting wood floor groans beneath me every time I take too quick a step. The walls even leak air, making the condemned space almost sound alive as the wind whispers through the cracks.
The place is straight out of a nightmare, and it raises my hackles to creep through the abandoned space, where ghosts could lurk around any corner. Room after room, I search, scanning the barren, dust-coated floors before moving on.
As I fling open another door, revealing another deserted room, someone screams.
The sound comes from almost exactly above my head. By how many floors, I’m not sure. But it’s close. And it’s distinctly feminine.
My heart breaks into a sprint as I recognize Alina’s voice a moment later.
“Help me!” she calls, desperation infusing her muffled tone.
Male voices follow, and something hits the ground hard, making my stomach knot.
But I’m already sprinting toward the emergency stairs at the far end of the hall. I wrench open the door to the stairwell and am grateful to find they, at least, are made of concrete and will hold my weight as I take them two at a time.
The stairwell reeks like it’s been used as a toilet for the last ten years. But I hardly notice as I push my body to climb faster, willing myself to reach Alina before she’s gone—or worse. My hand finds the door handle to the second floor after what must be an eternity.
Gun in hand, I wrench it open, prepared to kill anyone who breathes in Alina’s direction. As I step into the hall, not wasting a second to clear the space, someone slams into me. The warm scents of jasmine and vanilla tell me it’s her before I have time to look down. And suddenly, I’m reminded of the first day we met.
She ran headlong into me that day too.
Intense relief washes through me as I realize she’s alive—and safe with me. My eyes scan the hallway for anyone pursuing her, and when I find no one, I lower my gun to wrap my arms around her.
“No, let me go!” she shrieks, her voice ragged as she struggles in my grasp.
She shoves hard against my chest, the force behind it filled with hatred, almost violence. Stunned, I release her. Alina hits the floor, scrambling away from me, her eyes wide in sheer terror. Like she’s scared I’ll hurt her.
My heart plummets as I realize she thinks I’m another one of her captors. That I’m trying to restrain her. Her muscles tense—she’s going to run.
“Easy, Alina. It’s me,” I soothe, speaking low and calm to try and ease her panic.
Shoving my gun into my waistband at my back, I then spread my arms and turn my palms up to show her I mean her no harm. Alina hesitates, pausing in her attempt to flee. Peering up at me from the ground, she actually sees me for the first time, and her face crumples with emotion.
“You’re safe now,” I murmur, kneeling slowly to close the distance between us.
My heart twists at her disheveled state, the angry red mark on her right cheek where someone must have hit her. Her clothes are ripped and dirty, her wrists covered in bruises and raw from being tied up.
I want to murder whoever did this to her. I want to rip them limb from limb, to flay them alive and force them to eat their own entrails.
But first, I want to make sure Alina is all right.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, my voice little more than a whisper as I ease closer, trying not to trigger her flight response. Because she still looks poised to run at a moment’s notice.
