Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I threw myself forward, squeezing between the narrowing gap just as the doors sealed shut behind me. The momentum sent me stumbling. I bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees, struggling to suck in air.
My body felt like it had been ripped apart, but I’d done it. I’d made it.
Muted conversations swirled around me; a few passengers who clearly weren’t thrilled by my dramatic entrance sent irritated side-eyes my way.
"Could’ve just waited for the next train," someone muttered.
"Shit, baby, I can think of a much better way to get you on your knees,” another man said, grinning.
I ignored them.
And then—I heard it.
The sharp, jarring thump of fists slamming against the window.
The blood drained from my face.
Slowly, I straightened and turned my head. My stomach plummeted.
Kostya.
His face, flushed with exertion, was twisted in frustration, those piercing blue eyes boring into mine through the scratched, grubby glass. He looked furious, dangerous, and still unfairly handsome.
He shouldn’t look that good.
Not while he was trying to kill me.
It wasn’t fair.
“Marina, you’re in danger!" His voice was muffled by the roar of the engine, but I heard it.
And for the first time, I believed him.
I was in danger.
Because of him.
He was the one chasing me. The one tearing apart my life, hunting me down like an animal.
Why?
Why was he doing this? Why had he taken all the anger, all the rage he felt for my sister, and turned it onto me?
I knew what he must think. That I had helped Veronika betray him. That I had played a part in her affair. That maybe I could have stopped it.
I couldn’t.
No one could have stopped my sister.
But that didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that I had been running since Moscow.
Since the night my sister whispered in my ear, if anything happens to me, you run.
You get out. You disappear.
She knew.
She knew she wouldn’t survive.
But neither of us realized I wouldn’t either.
Not really.
Not as long as he was still after me.
Kostya pounded against the glass, then curled his fingers into the narrow crevice between the doors and pulled.
“Good lord," a woman gasped beside me. "Honey, what did you do to that man?"
I rolled my eyes.
Right. Because clearly, this was my fault.
Just an average Tuesday, being hunted by a terrifyingly attractive Russian mafia enforcer.
A man’s voice cut through the tension, full of amusement. “Can you tell me so I can do it too?"
A few people snickered.
"It’s okay, girl," an older woman said, settling into her seat. “You’re safe for now. He’s not getting those doors open. I don’t care how many muscles he has."
And then a sickening creak.
My stomach plummeted.
The doors were shifting.
My heart stopped.
Why wouldn’t he just let me go?
I had run halfway across the world, left behind everything—my home, my life, not even going to my sister’s funeral—all to escape him.
I thought I had finally evaded him in Chicago.
No one should have known me here.
No one.
But he had found me anyway.
I had barely lasted two weeks in New York before he tracked me down and trashed my apartment.
I had just escaped then.
And now…
My hands trembled. My breathing turned shallow.
If he found me here, where would I go next?
Would there ever be a place where I was safe?
I backed away, my spine pressing into the far wall of the train car, my knees weak as I stared at him. At the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The flex of his biceps, the sheer power of his body as he forced the doors apart.
Time slowed.
Everything narrowed to him.
His scowl. His hands. His eyes fierce, determined.
And the cold, horrifying realization that he was never going to stop.
CHAPTER 4
KOSTYA
Iwas already calculating the fastest way to the next station when someone grabbed me from behind.
Big mistake.
My elbow slammed into his ribs before my brain even processed the threat. The impact reverberated through my arm, a satisfying crunch of bone beneath muscle. Pure instinct, honed by years of violence.
The second I felt his grip loosen, I spun, landing a brutal right hook to his jaw. The crack of knuckles against bone sent a jolt of savage pleasure through my veins.
His head snapped back, eyes rolling white before he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. A marionette with cut strings.
And that was when I noticed the uniform.
A cop.
Could this day get any fucking worse?
Apparently, yes, it could.
Another one came at me, baton already drawn, his face contorted with fury.
At least he had some fight in him.
He swung for my head. Predictable. I lifted my arm, blocking the hit. It still stung like a bitch, pain shooting up to my shoulder, but my wool coat absorbed some of the impact. Before he could wind up again, I grabbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his hairline, and slammed him into the nearest metal pillar.
The satisfying clang echoed across the platform, vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet. Blood spattered across the graffiti-covered metal, bright crimson against faded tags.