Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“He’s given me access to his emails,” I go on. “In the messages, he tells your father how pissed he is, being the only man on the estate. He asks for backup. Your dad tells him that the Sokolov soldiers are too loyal. He seems pretty pissed about that.”
“Dad doesn’t like it when other people have power, especially if they can keep it without hurting people.”
“We’re not angels, Mila.”
“You’re better than my father.”
“Yes,” I tell her. “Whatever that’s worth.”
I look at her closely, wishing she’d tell me what happened with her father, hoping she’d reveal her pain so I can help heal it. Or is that asking too much from her, from me? I’ve got no reason to think I’d be able to make her feel better, no reason to believe I wouldn’t just add to her heartache.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to get back to sleep,” she murmurs.
“I won’t even be able to sleep at all,” I reply, nodding.
“Shall we, then,” she goes on, a note of intoxicating danger in her voice, “go somewhere? Forget?” She hesitates, guilt flickering in her eyes. “Just for an hour or two?”
I lean forward and press my lips against hers. When she responds by kissing me back with even more passion, I know she means it. I know she wants to erase all this from her mind for as long as possible.
“Have you ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle?” I ask.
Her eyes widen with excitement. “No …”
“It’s time we changed that.”
CHAPTER 13
MILA
Iwrap my arms tightly around Mikhail as he rides through the desert, the world tinged yellow as the sun rises. We left the compound via a secret entrance at the back. When Mikhail brushed his thumb onto what looked like any other part of the wall, a section of it made a mechanical whirring noise and moved away. Then we walked a short distance to a garage, and now we’re riding free.
Clutching onto him tighter, I can hear my laughter within the helmet. Mikhail isn’t wearing one; there was only one in the garage. His hair has come loose, wildly fluttering in the wind. He laughs, too.
“What’s so funny?” he yells over the rushing wind.
“Ask yourself that. You’re the one laughing!”
We both keep going, laughing like precisely what we are—lust- and love-drunk people who have had almost no sleep and a double dose of stress. After another ten minutes, Mikhail pulls up outside a gas station. “Let’s get some breakfast,” he says.
“Okay. I need to use the bathroom, too.”
Mikhail looks down at me, his jaw tight, his eyes searing into me. I know what he’s thinking without having to ask.
“I won’t make a run for it.”
His lip twitches. “I never said you would.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The gas station is deserted except for one employee sitting behind the glass window. The road is empty. Maybe that’s why I feel comfortable stepping forward and throwing my arms around him, standing on my tiptoes and leaning so close I can feel his warm breath on my face. “I don’t want to run away from you.”
Even if, maybe, I should. Even if falling for the Sokolov spare was never part of the plan.
“You risked your life to save a stranger,” he says. “You’re a good, pure person, Mila.”
“Uh … thanks?”
“What I’m saying is …” He gives me a quick but extremely hot kiss. “… you’ve got every reason to want to run.”
“Trust me,” I tell him. “I won’t be long.”
“Meet back here, then,” he says, kissing me again.
When he walks away, it’s with that tight, almost angry posture. I know he’s thinking about returning to the bike and finding me gone, but he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt. He’s trusting me, and that means a lot.
I go to the restroom, which isn’t as gross as I feared. After laying a bunch of toilet tissue on the seat—I may not want to be a princess, but this is fair, I think—I sit down and get to my business.
I’m flushing the toilet when a man’s low, weirdly aggressive voice comes from the main part of the restroom. This is the ladies’ room, so hearing the voice instantly has me on alert.
“Anyone in here?” he grunts. “Cleaning staff. Announce yourself!”
Reminding myself that he’s probably just a guy sick of his job, I reply, “Yeah, I’m in here. I’m coming out now.”
He sighs heavily as though this is the biggest inconvenience he can imagine. When I walk out of the stall, he’s leaning against the sink, his fist wrapped around the wooden handle of his mop. If I had to guess, he’s around thirty: tall, wide, and slightly overweight. Heck, not that I’m judging.
When habit takes me to the sink, he snaps, “Really? Jesus Christ.”
I turn away from the sink on instinct, just like when Dad snaps something at me, just like all my life, when aggression has meant swallowing what I want, what I need, my feelings, my desires, and putting his first. So I turn back to the sink and start washing my hands, taking my time about it. When I walk over to the hand dryer, he grunts, “Ha, ha, ha, got a comedienne here, folks.”