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“Where am I?” I mutter blankly in some jumbled accented combination of Russian, Irish, and American, my brain confused. I struggle to remember where I was before I blacked out and who I am today. Priscilla, Pasha, or someone else entirely.
My eyes stay closed, too heavy to lift, but I sense a presence, my brain waking up faster than the rest of me.
“Don’t move,” a voice with an Irish accent answers, and I freeze.
The harsh, acrid smell of metal flares my nostrils. I open my eyes to see a dark metal cylinder. Swallowing, I look up at Riordan O’Rourke covered in blood.
Déjà vu hits me so strongly and if I weren’t lying down, I’d fall over.
He’s also holding a gun,mygun, with the barrel pointed at my forehead.
No, no, no… Please tell me he doesn’t think I’mactuallya Bratva whore who will stab him in the back the moment he takes his eyes off me.
Riordan gives me a wicked grin. “Hello, Prissy.”
