Page 43 of I’m The Worst

He snorts. “Your little girl is trouble.”

“She’s not mine. She’s the Sovereign’s.”

“Then why kill him?”

Because if I don’t return her alive and mostly intact, I might as well dig my own grave.

“We’re stopping at a safehouse.” Not my preferred choice out of the dozen variations I mapped, but it’s warm and the water runs. I figured I’d kill one of his men eventually—just didn’t expect it to be day fucking two.

Savva exhales smoke out of the cracked window. “Where?”

“South.”

I kick the back of her boot. “Get up.”

She flinches, curling away from the contact. She hasn’t spoken in hours. Her hands are still blood-streaked when she rubs her face.

“Where are we?”

On the outskirts of some forgotten town. Snow covers everything, thick enough to swallow footprints. The Sovereign don’t keep many safehouses in Russia. No idea when this one was last used.

Savva complains in Russian, carrying gear up the porch steps. Inside, he’s got a fire going. His men move around the house, setting up a perimeter.

“I have the back room. No one enters the hallway.”

I turn, and she trails me down the narrow, dark hall to the bedroom at the end with a small bed and an attached bathroom. I push the door shut. She stands in the center of the room, shivering.

“Clean up. Shower’s there.” I nod toward the bathroom.

Her eyes flick from the bathroom…to the bed…then back again, before she moves and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

Taking a deep breath, I pull off my shirt. Fuck, the house is cold. I unload my weapons—blade on the dresser, Glock under the mattress, second clip behind the lamp, my body on autopilot.

I hear the shower turn on, and I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

My pulse won’t settle.

My brain won’t shut up.

My nerves are shot to hell.

This is going to be a long fucking night.

She should’ve been done by now.

I run through the layout of the house again. Two exits. One blind corner. One weak hinge. Her movement through the pipes stopped thirty seconds ago.

That’s long enough.

I grab my knife and push the bathroom door open. She’s sitting naked in the tub, staring at the tile while water pours over her. Pink foam slides toward the drain.

She doesn’t look up at first.

“AJ.”

Nothing.

I reach past her and twist the faucet. The pipes groan as the water dies.