I also respect my need to see the brat pay for all the pain she’s caused our family. For all the trouble, the fucking riddles, the deaths.
Maybe after I bring her home tomorrow, he’ll let me kill her. Deep down, I realize the odds of that happening are unlikely. This woman may have betrayed us, but she’s still Roman’s daughter.
That doesn’t change the fact that the witch is yanking us around. Arranging a meeting to hand over the stupid piece of jewelry I brought, only to constantly change the time and location, sometimes to spots that are hundreds of miles away. I’ve given up on trying to figure out her reasons.
The newest place’s Fort Leavenworth. If it weren’t so late, I’d head out that way.
I release a heavy sigh. The glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror sours my already foul mood.
My dark hair hangs limp over my ears. I probably need a haircut. I haven’t shaved today, so my beard is starting to show, lending my face a darker, grimmer quality. Gray bags hover beneath my eyes, contrasting with the icy blue irises staring back at me.
My exhaustion shows.
That’s why I’m stopping to book a room and grab a hot meal. Maybe I’ll also find a bar and order a drink or two. If I’m lucky, I’ll hook up with the first pretty woman I meet. After all, I’ve never had any issues getting laid.
And right now, I could really use some stress relief.
I roll onto the fifth floor of a parking garage in the middle of town. The location’s within walking distance of several hotels.
Killing the engine, I snag my bag from the passenger seat and swing out of the truck. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Rainwater runs down the garage walls in thin trickles, blowing in from the open sides and flowing toward the center drains.
I close the door, and the click of the lock echoes in the concrete space. I scrub a hand over my bleary eyes. Considering my fatigue, maybe I’ll skip the stress relieving activities. Food, a hot shower, and sleep sound pretty fucking fantastic. I adjust the bag on my shoulder and step?—
Pain lances the back of my head. The strike propels me forward, and my knees shriek as they slam into concrete.
My hand shoots out and brushes a leather-clad foot.
I lunge for the ankle, the leg, anything to grab and break.
But the appendage has vanished, snatched back before I could secure my grip. I throw myself against the car next to me as I drag my gaze up from an ankle to a knee, a thigh, and then the shapely hip of a woman lying on her side. Dressed in all black, she nearly blends in with the roof of the SUV beside me.
The rest of the details filter through my brain as I dodge a heel aimed right at my nose.
Five-eight, maybe five-nine. Athletic build. Lean muscle under tactical pants that hug long legs. A formfitting black jacket over a thin torso.
And holy shit, her face. “Beautiful” doesn’t do her justice.
Striking. Ethereal. Elegantly otherworldly with her pale, almost luminous skin, high cheekbones, and those full red lips pressed into a concentrated line. More of a threat than a smile.
She’s young. Mid-twenties, maybe.
Dark, bottomless eyes stare right through me, cold and glittering in the fluorescent lighting.
White hair the color of frost and sun-bleached bone falls over her shoulder from a high ponytail, the tip soaked and dripping.
Recognition sets in.
Though I’ve only ever seen her in the video she sent Roman, where she admitted her misdeeds and demanded her mother’s locket, I could never forget that hair or face.
A stunning woman. A harbinger of death.
Anika Kozlov.
The Pakhan’s daughter. The one who supposedly died fifteen years ago on Chaos Island. The one who used false evidence to frame Sasha, who forced me to pull the trigger on an innocent young man.
The woman I’m supposed to bring back to Chicago.
I’ve never considered myself lucky, but there’s a first time for everything.
