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“Heave, what?”
“Christ,” she groans, palming her forehead. “On the count of three, ram that tree trunk of a body of yours against this door.” Before I can agree, she’s counting. “One, two…”
On three, we both throw our weight forward, tumbling out into an alleyway nearly half a block away from the backside of the club.
I’ll be damned.
Once I have my bearings, I realize my rental car is only two, maybe three streets over. Two decades of training kicks in, and I step back into a familiar skin—survival mode.
I run all of two feet before a small but firm hand grabs my arm. “You aren’t just going to leave me here, are you?”
What an asinine question. “Yes.”
Zasha swings around in front of me and lands a solid punch in the center of my chest. “I just saved your ass, and you repay me by throwing me to the wolves?”
“I cannot take you with me…” My automatic excuse stalls on my tongue. The danger doesn’t leave with me. There’s a fifty-million-dollar freight train still barreling straight toward her. I came to Miami to warn her parents, but once Miami’s most feared duo watches that camera footage, they won’t listen to a damn thing I have to say.
I took this job, and I’ll finish it.
Bending down, I grab Zasha around the waist and haul her over my shoulder.
“Mik!” she squeals as I run. “What the hell?”
I slap her ass. “Quiet.”
Bracing her palms against my back, she lifts her head to scan her surroundings. “Where are we going?”
“I do not know.”
Unfortunately, it’s the truth. I’m running on adrenaline and acting on impulse. All I know is that it needs to be far away from here. Once I secure a safe place for Zasha, I’ll text Niko the location, then disappear.
Anonymity requires keeping your ass off the radar, which is why after driving for six long hours to St. Marys, Georgia, I pull into the parking lot of a pay-by-the-night motel, pay in cash, then climb into bed fully clothed while she stands seething by the door.
“So are we going to pretend like nothing happened?” she asks, a quiet fury in her voice. “Just keep staring at each other in complete silence?”
“You seemed to have no problem with it for four hundred miles.”
“You tried to leave me!”
“And you told me you were a twenty-five-year-old stripper.” I glare at her over my shoulder.
A smirk paints her lips. “I told you a lot of things you wanted to hear.”
“Go to sleep, Zasha.” I need her to close that wicked mouth and move away from me so I can loathe myself in silence. Not only for the sins I’ve committed, but for the violent desire to repeat them.
“You go to sleep.” Sighing, she crosses the room. “I’m taking a shower.”
Good. Stay there all night.
As the bathroom door slams, I groan out a thick breath of relief and frustration. This undeniable need I have for her isn’t realistic. Twenty-five years of experience and life separate us.
It’s a reality I can’t allow myself to forget again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZASHA
St. Mary’s, Georgia
