Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Thankfully, almost everyone has left. I don’t want them to see me in the company of this stranger. But I need to know why the hell he was allowed entrance into our rehearsal. Only producers and their selected associates can attend. Not even our family and friends are allowed in.
Though he was sitting beside Matt, our executive producer. Does that mean he knows him?
I stay one step behind him, feeling like I need to watch him and get a read on when he’ll make his next move.
He stops abruptly and I crash into him, my head colliding against a wall of muscle. I wince, taking a step back.
The stranger tilts his head to the side. “Walk beside me.”
When I don’t make a move to comply, he continues, “Or I can hold you with an arm around your waist.”
“I’ll do it,” I blurt, falling in step at his side. I don’t look at him the entire way until we reach the parking lot.
A black Mercedes waits for us there. It’s the spitting image of the one I saw that night, but there are no bullet holes anywhere.
The passenger door opens and the lean man with long hair steps out and opens the back door.
Seeing him brings back memories from last week and it takes everything in me not to give in to nausea.
“I have my car,” I whisper.
“Give me your keys and it’ll be at your apartment building.”
“No, thanks.” There’s no way in hell I’m letting him—or his men—near me more than need be.
He watches me for a beat before he continues guiding me to his car. He gently ushers me inside and follows after me. The man with long hair slides into the front seat, and the other man, the bulky blond, Kolya, is behind the wheel.
Are they his guards or something? Just what type of man is he if he needs guards?
The car leaves the parking lot and I keep a careful eye on the city through the window, trying to memorize as many twists and turns as possible. If I somehow end up getting kidnapped, I need to know where the hell he’s taking me.
“How come you haven’t asked about my name?”
The stranger’s calmly spoken words pull me out of my observation. He’s watching me with a particular interest that makes my skin crawl.
“Does it make a difference whether I know it or not?” I try to keep the venom out of my voice.
“I suppose it doesn’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s Adrian Volkov.”
I briefly close my eyes to rein in the pain. Now that I know his name, he’ll never let me go. For some reason, I feel like I’ve signed my fate.
First, my death certificate, and now, my fate.
Just what more is he going to take from me?
The car comes to a halt in front of a cozy-looking diner. I don’t know why I expected him to take me to some high-end restaurant with a waiting list. This is surprising, and not in a good way.
He gets out first and offers me his hand. I’m about to ignore it, but he grabs my palm and pulls me out. We step into the restaurant, and the guards remain outside in the car.
The inside of the restaurant is as cozy as the exterior. The soft yellow lighting casts a warm hue on the red banquettes. The tables are dark wood and there are multiple creative quotes about eating for the soul hanging on the walls. A few people are scattered throughout, chatting joyfully. I wonder if they’ll help me if I say the man holding my clammy hand is a serial killer or if they will be killed themselves.
The stranger, Adrian, leads me to a back table that’s separate from other people and away from doors and windows. I realize it’s on purpose when he pushes me to the end of the booth that’s near the wall.
He settles opposite me, and when the waiter comes, he doesn’t even touch the menu as he says, “An unopened bottle of your best wine.”
“Salad,” I whisper, opting not to check the menu myself. The sooner I’m out of here, the better.
“What type, miss?”
“The simplest one you have.”
The waiter nods and leaves.
I’m acutely aware of Adrian watching me, his fingers casually interlaced on the table. They’re lean, masculine, and have veins etched across the surface.
And now I’m ogling them.
I can’t believe I’m ogling the same fingers that held a gun to my forehead. Or maybe I’m watching them because of that fact. I know people like him exist, but I’ve always wondered how they could so easily end lives. Do they not feel, or have they become desensitized to it like I have to haters?
However, when I had that question, I never thought I’d ever be this close to one of his kind.