Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
On the phone, he makes it sound like a request, but I know the truth. If I don’t go, they’ll drop me. No more protection. I’ll be exposed. If I refuse the job, I’ll have to run.
Again.
"What’s the job?" I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the ache in my skull to stop. I never get headaches. What the hell?
My gaze snaps to the corner of the room—another shadow in my peripheral vision. But when I look again, there’s nothing.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He fills me in. I nod, yawning into the speaker.
"I’ll be there."
"Wear the blonde," he says.
“What the fuck—does one of your men have a blonde kink?"
I don’t take direct orders from them.
“Is that a problem?” he asks in that calm way of his that strikes fear in the most hardened of criminals. “Let’s just say you might have been sighted last night. I want to throw them off. And honestly, luv, you know better than to question me. I’ll see you in three hours. More accurately, two hours and forty-eight minutes."
The line goes dead.
I set a timer on my phone, punch my pillow, and slam my head back down. I’m so fucking tired.
It feels like minutes later when the alarm blares again. "My god. I’m taking a vacation, and you guys are paying for it,” I mumble into the void. Thankfully, when I open my eyes this time, the shadows are gone.
What the hell happened to me? I had the craziest, most vivid dreams. I feel worse now than before I fell asleep.
I stumble toward the dresser and open the drawer. I freeze, my hand hovering mid-air.
This is not how I fold my clothes. I’m fastidious, always on the go, so I’ve learned to fold my clothing into neat little packages arranged in a vertical row in my drawer. I fold them that way so I can pack a bag in a matter of seconds. These are horizontal and all out of place. Neat, yes, but not the way I left them.
I lick my lips and turn around to face my room.
“Who’s there?” I yell into the darkness. But just as before, there’s no response.
Someone was in here. I know it. I take a slow, careful breath, my fingers curling into fists by my sides. I didn’t flee the controlled, miserable existence I had in Moscow and the threat of servitude to the Bratva only to trade for another kind. No.
I keep my heartbeat steady, my gaze focused. I’ve trained myself to stay calm under pressure.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to think. The Irish? No. They need me. They keep me on a tight leash, but they don’t play these kinds of games. If they wanted me dead for whatever reason, I’d already be floating in the Liffey.
Cillian isn’t a man of subtlety. If he wanted me under his thumb, he’d drag me there kicking and screaming. No, this feels like someone else entirely.
Who else could it be? A random break-in? Unlikely. The exits are too well-guarded.
I have to think this through. I’m the one who sees the details no one else sees. I’m the one skilled at crafting new realities. I erase identities. I disappear when I need to.
But this…
A ghost from my past?
My father’s gone, and even if he were here, this wasn’t his style.
The Irish?
Nah. They need me. I shake my head and walk through my apartment. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I set it up the same everywhere I go.
The living room seems fine, though I wonder if I left those books I was reading on the nightstand or the coffee table? I shake my head and move to the little kitchenette. I open the refrigerator and stare. Looks normal.
I am losing my mind. There’s nothing to see here.
I hit play on the playlist on my phone for some background noise while I go to get ready. I go to the bathroom, when suddenly, my playlist switches from my usual bedtime songs to something… Russian?
Is that a Russian lullaby?
I grab my phone.
What the fuck?
I didn’t add this song to my playlist.
This doesn’t make any sense. Did someone fuck with my playlist? Playlists glitch… right?
God, I’m panicking over literally nothing.
No one’s coming in here to stalk me, change out my towel, and mess with my playlist. I’m not that important. I’m overtired, overworked, and probably need a drink—maybe I should find some random stranger in a pub, give him a fake name, have a good time for myself, and get this out of my fucking system.
Wear the blonde.
I have to get ready. But when I stumble to the closet and sift through everything, my blonde wig is gone. I yank open a drawer with my props and nestled there in front of me are small boxes of white and pink. I stare.