Page 113 of I’m The Worst

“What’s happening? Why are we—” she rambles, officially freaking out.

My hand clamps over her mouth, and I haul her back into me.

“Quiet.”

Raising my other arm, gun aimed toward the ceiling, every muscle in my body locks. Russian voices echo from above. Her body goes rigid against mine, shaking, breath hot against my palm, and for one split second, it hits again⁠—

She didn’t stop me.

I feel like I could be sick. Not now.

I shove it down.

Focus.

I jerk my head forward as I release her, motioning for her to move.

She stumbles ahead, boots barely making a sound as we push through the narrow tunnel. My hand grips her shoulder, guiding, forcing speed, while every part of me tracks the noises behind us.

The door at the end of the tunnel comes into view. I surge forward, wrench it open, shoving her through ahead of me. Then I slam it shut, locking it, jamming the metal bar into place with a sharp clang.

We’re in a small garage. Dark concrete floor. An armored black Range Rover is parked in the center.

“Get in.” I toss the duffel into the back seat, and she rushes to the passenger side. I slide behind the wheel, already hitting the switch.

The hidden garage door groans open slowly. Everything is too fucking slow. I slam my foot down the second there’s space—and we’re gone. Tires squeal as I take the corner hard. Headlights flood the street ahead. My gut tightens. Shit.

AJ’s gasp is sharp as I yank the wheel in the other direction, turning into the oncoming traffic. Horns blare around us. Metal screeches somewhere too close.

I don’t slow down.

“Wolff!” she screams.

I block out the sound. Nothing matters except the road in front of me.

My side tears with every movement, stitches pulling taut and uncomfortable. I ignore it. Same way I ignore everything else nagging at the back of my head. We have to leave this fucking country. The closest port is the only option.

“Seatbelt. Now.”

She complies without hesitation, and my foot presses harder on the gas. The engine roars, the needle climbing as I cut between cars.

“What’s happening!?” she cries out, holding on to the door and the seat.

“The Nightshades found us.”

Her hands fly to her mouth, and she jerks forward. “How? How did they⁠—”

I cut across two lanes, tires sliding on ice. A truck swerves, missing us by inches.

“We’re going to the port. Tonight. No stops. No questions. You stay quiet. You do exactly what I say.”

Her wide, panicked eyes dart to me. “Wolff, I— What if they catch me…”

I yank the wheel again, taking a narrow side street at full speed. I see it the second it starts—the way her focus fractures into tormenting flashbacks.

“Wolff…no…no— I can’t go back… I can’t⁠—”

Fuck.