“You did great,” he says. “You gave me a lot to go off.”
“What happens now?” I press, fidgeting. “What are you going to do?”
“You heard me earlier. We’re going to end this. Make it clear who they’re really dealing with.”
Before I can grasp the severity of what he’s said, Killian rises from the booth and beckons me to follow.
“Time to go,” he grunts. “There’s a lot to sort out, but it’s getting late. Let’s get you home.”
It’s begun to feel like the walls are starting to close in on me.
The next two days pass with me unable to rest or settle my nerves. I lay awake at night agonizing over the fact that I’ve told Killian things that would enrage Fedorov.
If he found out, he’d hurt Eva. He’d take away her medications or find other cruel and demented ways to punish her.
I worry about the fact that Killian and his men might be in over their head attacking places like the Vodka Room and Fedorov’s private estate.
It feels like they’re underestimating the Bratva. They might’ve crushed them a couple decades ago when the two mafia families battled it out, but a lot has changed—there’s a lot Killian doesn’t even know about.
…but there’s also a lot hanging in the air between us too, which only makes me more confused and conflicted.
We’ve never talked about the kiss from the other night. We’ve been acting as if it never happened.
It makes sense when you pause and consider the fact that there’s been too much going on. Between filling in as Clan Chief and training for his big fight against Darnell Thompson, Killian doesn’t exactly have time for girl trouble.
He’d probably be better off if he stopped worrying about meandEva altogether.
I’m kept at the studio at almost all times.
In the event Killian’s gone or he can’t take me with him, he has the buttonmen fill in. They park themselves outside the studio door and make it clear they’re guarding me. Nobody gets in or out without going through them first.
I wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t already going stir-crazy. At least before I had the Banshee to escape to. As hard as it was working there, I miss my shifts.
I’ve even come to miss the customers who were stingytippers.
Something’s got to give. I’m not cut out for sitting around and letting days pass by as Eva’s stuck in Fedorov’s clutches.
“Stay put,” Killian says. He’s slid a firearm into the waistband of his jeans and pulled a T-shirt over his head. “I’ve got an errand to run. Cian’ll be watching over you.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“No.”
“But—”
“The answer’s not changing. This isn’t the kind of errand you can come on,” he interrupts gruffly. “Behave yourself. I mean it.”
I bite back my next protest and fold my arms. He glares at me until I give a cooperative nod. My promise that I’ll be a good little protectee in his absence.
He walks out of the studio with the door thudding shut after him.
I give it a few minutes. Peek out the peephole to double check if Cian’s really posted outside the door. Pace the length of the studio deciding what I can do to get some fresh air.
Then my gaze slides to the window where there’s a fire escape attached to the side of the building. It would be a quick climb to the street below.
A couple rungs and I’ll be downstairs, finally breathing in fresh air and moving my legs more than a few steps at a time in a cramped studio apartment.
It might not sound like much, but Ineeda moment.
