Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I settled back against the heated leather and turned my gaze to the window.
The dark outlines of trees raced by, ghostly sentinels keeping watch.
In the distance, there was a hint of the coming dawn—that beautiful glow at the edge of night where the blackness turns to a deep midnight blue right before the sun rises.
How many dawns had I watched, lying awake and terrified in my childhood home? How many times had I counted the minutes until morning, praying the darkness would end?
My eyes burned with exhaustion, but I didn't dare close them.
Every time I did, I saw my father's face contorted in rage.
I saw Artem's cold, calculating stare as he decided our fates.
I saw the gun.
I knew what was happening in that cabin right now.
I knew my father and brother wouldn't be leaving alive.
The strange thing was, I felt nothing.
No grief. No horror.
Just a hollow emptiness where those emotions should be.
What kind of daughter felt nothing at the thought of her father's execution?
The traumatized kind, with bruises on her face.
When we finally pulled up to my dorm, the pale pink glow of dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky.
I frowned at the sight of several men in dark suits standing outside the entrance. My heart rate kicked up again, my hands shaking from that familiar spike of adrenaline.
I shrank back against the seat, my breathing shallow.
The driver turned to me, his face softening slightly. He gestured toward the men with a reassuring nod. He pointed to his chest and then gave me a very American thumbs-up.
Artem's men. Not my father's.
It wasn't as comforting as the driver seemed to think.
One of the men stepped forward as I reluctantly climbed out of the car. Despite his tattooed hands and the scar that bisected his left eyebrow, there was something almost gentle in his eyes. The kind of sympathy you might show a wounded animal.
He led me inside, careful of my injured arm.
"Miss Zaitseva,” he said, his English accented but clear. "The doctor will be here soon. In the meantime, we are fixing your broken door."
I glanced toward my dorm room. The door hung awkwardly on its hinges, splintered where it had been kicked in earlier. A visceral reminder that nowhere was truly safe.
"Thank you," I managed, clutching Artem's jacket closer around me with my good hand.
A door creaked open down the hall, and a bleary-eyed girl poked her head out. Her eyes widened at the sight of the men in suits, the obvious bulges of guns beneath their jackets. She slammed her door shut so quickly I flinched.
Fabulous. I gave it until afternoon classes for me to be the gossiped-about pariah at my new school. So much for shaking off the whole mafia princess vibe I'd been desperately trying to escape.
"I want to take a shower," I said, unable to bear the grime and fear that clung to my skin for another minute.
The man with the tattooed hands frowned, then turned to speak rapid Russian with the others.
I caught Artem's name several times, something cold slithering down my spine each time I heard it.
Were they calling him? Asking permission? I bristled with indignation at the mere thought of it.
After what seemed like an eternity, they nodded. One of the men stepped forward to check the communal bathroom while I ducked into my room to gather my things.
The small blessing was that, with the exception of the door, all evidence of my earlier violent kidnapping had been cleaned up. The overturned desk was righted, the broken lamp removed, and even the blood—my blood—had been wiped from the floor. It was as if the whole thing had never happened. As if I had imagined it all.
I grabbed my shower caddy with shaking hands, along with a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater. Simple clothes that wouldn't aggravate my shoulder. Clean clothes that didn't smell like blood and my father's cigarettes.
As I walked down the narrow hallway with its thick, cinder-block walls painted an institutional beige, one of Artem's men followed close behind. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, a constant reminder that I wasn't alone.
"I'm perfectly fine to shower without a guard," I said, irritation flaring through my exhaustion.
He shrugged, his expression impassive. "Boss's orders."
Boss's orders. I bit back a hysterical laugh.
Less than twelve hours ago, I'd been a somewhat normal college student.
Now I was property being guarded on the orders of a mafia boss.
My new shadow took up a position outside the bathroom door as I entered.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsh and unforgiving on my battered reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back at me. Pale face. Hollow eyes ringed with dark circles. A bruise blooming across my cheekbone where my father struck me. My hair hanging in limp, tangled waves, still matted with sweat and grime.
I turned away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer.