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I paced the floor, one hand on my hip, the other stroking and rubbing my face as I tried to figure out if the past hour had been a dream.
He was no longer here, near me, or anywhere in the room, but his touch on my skin, on my arm and everywhere else left a burning sensation. Stormy gray eyes with deep, dark chasms held my mind captive. And the flick of his tongue on my lips left a trail of heat in its wake.
Part of me was glad he had gone. But the other part … the other part wanted to pull him by that damn tie and catch his tongue in my mouth.
Oh, Ava.
Why?
Why did I want to do this so badly? It annoyed me. He was the enemy. He had hurt Declan and crafted plans to destroy my father. I should have been repulsed by him. Disgusted, at least. But the opposite was true.
He should be happy; that was what he wanted. To leave an unforgettable impression on me that would never let me forget him—he said so himself. And it worked.
As I gazed into the depths of his eyes, I wanted to ask him why his warm breath smelled of cherry; I wanted to know the man beneath the dress shirt and tie; I wanted a glimpse of the stories the ink had etched on his skin.
I knew he had stories. A man of his kind could not have become what he was without scars from the past. But Viktor Voronin-Varkov had to be one of those men who would rather take six bullets than talk over a cup of coffee.
Ava O’Sullivan!
Stop!
I had to force myself to stop thinking about him. He had invaded my thoughts—intruded! There were important things at stake. Things like protecting my father.
Exhausted, I leaned against the wall of steel bars, ignoring the cold seeping through my shirt into my back. Just as I knew my nightmare had a past, I knew my father well, just as I knew my name.
Declan and I were right: my father was as caring as he was fiercely overprotective. To guarantee my freedom, he would agree to Viktor’s terms to bring me back safely, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be the cause of my father’s weakness; I didn’t want to be his downfall.
I had to somehow prevent him from getting hurt. I may not have spent much time with him, but a year with him taught me things I never would have learned had I remained that young, naïve girl in Denver.
It was up to me to devise an escape plan. If I succeeded, my father would not have to negotiate, and we would be free of the Russians. Problem solved. War over.
Now the multimillion-dollar question: How do I get out of here??
I knelt on one knee and reached under the sole of my foot for my little secret weapon. One of the tricks my father had taught me in my first week with him. As my fingers felt the plastic sleeve inside my sneakers, my lips curled into a small smile.
The knife had a permanent place, in some part of my clothes or my shoes, since the day after my father asked me, “Mo leanbh [my child], what would happen if you were suddenly attacked in an alley?”
I looked at him with a sheepish grin. “Why would I be in an alley? You always have Declan tailing me. Plus, I am always in a car.”
He'd given me a playful grunt that said he didn’t like it when I outsmarted him but went ahead anyway to make his point. “Okay. What if you get attacked in the car? What’s your defense?”
I laughed out loud. “Trick question? It is Declan, isn’t it?”
He hadn’t laughed as I’d expected. The dark brows above his green eyes drew together into a thin line and he’d stared at me disapprovingly. “You must always be ready. The enemy can strike at any time, Ava. And no, you can’t trust Declan to have your back every second. You have to learn how to protect yourself.”
Then, after his speech, he gave me a small knife. The same knife that I proudly pulled out of my sneakers.
I tiptoed over to the big shiny padlock and stuck the blade of the knife in, just like Dad had told Declan to teach me. I heard a click and thought I was making progress. Until I heard heavy footsteps that didn’t sound like the knife picking the lock.
Startled, I quickly retreated. My eyes widened and I struggled to make out through the darkness who the intruder was. The footsteps on the floor were close. At first, I thought it was Viktor. But there was something different about them.
Viktor’s steps had poise, were calculated, and announced his intimidating presence. These steps, however, were scattered. They were even lousy, sounding like the echo of worn boots on concrete.
The light came on and terror gripped me with nasty claws. This man—whoever he was—was not Viktor. He was scrawny, bald, and had a viper and falcon tattoo that reached up to his head; and he had crazy blue eyes like a psychopath. Unlike Viktor, he had a scary look on his face that screamed lunatic.
I took more steps back.
It was perhaps the craziest thing, but deep, deep down I knew my nightmare would never ogle at me the way this man was—like I was a three-course meal. Hatred burned in this man’s eyes. Fiery and blazing like a volcano.
