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“How… how do you know my name? Who are you?”
His green eyes smile at me, but his face remains deathly serious. “I’m Ivan, and I know a lot more than your name, sweetheart, but there’s not time to talk. Just trust me.”
My nails sink into the ground like the earth is trying to throw me off. The shooting starts up again, but this time, Ivan doesn’t cower. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a pistol, jumping up and firing a few shots before taking cover again.
Good god, he’s armed. I knew he was trouble by the way he reacted to the shooting, taking action like he knew this was going to happen. The gun backs up my initial feelings about him.
Trouble, no matter how handsome, is still trouble.
I learned that in college, but back then, it didn’t mean I was at risk of getting riddled with bullet holes. I’d rather get my heart broken than turned into Swiss cheese, but Ivan seems like he could do both with very little effort.
“I said, don’t move,” Ivan says as he returns to me, squatting down with a scowl on his face. “They’re not going to spare you just because you’re a civilian.”
A civilian? What does that make him? Is he with the police force?
There’s simply no way, not with the Russian letters tattooed on the side of his face.
“I’m not moving,” I say, even as I turn my head to check the ring on his finger.
It’s a ruby on his pinky finger, set in the exact same gold band with cryptic etchings as Dimitri always wore.
“Jesus, girl, you don’t know how to listen,” he growls, pushing me down into the ground harder. “Don’t move or you’re going to get fucking shot.”
I don’t know whether it’s a threat or a warning, but I heed it this time, covering my head with my hands and pressing my entire body into the ground. It’s freezing cold and flooded with enough water to drown in, but it’s better than the alternative.
“Fucking bastards,” Ivan growls, firing off a few more shots before ducking down again. “I knew they’d be here. Can’t get them off my ass.”
“Who?” I ask, speaking into the ground for fear of moving again.
“There’s not enough time to explain,” he replies, grabbing my shoulder and tugging it. “Come. We have to move.”
“You told me not to.”
Ivan snarls something in Russian, probably something profane, and he grabs me, tossing me on his shoulder and sprinting off like I don’t weigh a thing. The world bobs up and down as I dig my nails into his back, trying to hold myself steady enough to see what’s happening as he takes us away from the fight.
I can see the attacking car now, rolling slowly down the street as it’s fired at from multiple directions. Several of Ivan’s men are also ducked behind gravestones, creating a semicircle of firepower, but it’s doing surprisingly little against the vehicle.
It must be bulletproof, but that only raises more questions than it answers. Regular street thugs don’t have access to bulletproof cars, and drive-bys don’t usually take this long. This is a park and shoot situation, and the car might as well be a tank.
Whoever is behind this, they’re not only after Ivan. They’re trying to shed as much blood as possible.
The smell of smoke enters my nose as Ivan carries me away. It’s not from his gun, though. I can smell it in the thick black wool of his coat, mixed with spices and something that reminds me of Dimitri.
It’s earthy, peppery, and warm.
“My car is parked down the road,” Ivan says, slowing his pace. He pats me on my ass absentmindedly to reassure me, but all it does is send an unwarranted jolt of thrill through my core.
“You can put me down,” I say, afraid I’ll lose my grip on the situation if he touches me like that again.
“Once we’re to the car. I don’t want you running off,” he replies.
None of this makes any sense. Why would I run off when he’s the one trying to save me? Am I being kidnapped?
My racing thoughts can barely coagulate into coherent ideas before being pushed away by more questions. My heart is pumping just as fast, flushing my face with heat as we break away from the rain and find shelter in Ivan’s car.
It’s a two-door coupe, glossy black and nearly invisible in the pouring rain. It’s only once I’m set down in the passenger’s seat that I realize he’s driving something exotic.
Ivan falls down in the seat beside me, slumping into the smooth red leather as he pushes a button to start the engine. It roars to life, cutting through the white noise of rain on the windshield.
