Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Hey, gorgeous.”
It’s someone I barely know, a guy from earlier. I don’t even remember his name. He wasn’t even the dumb one who kept whining about his statistics grade. I barely register him, one of the guys sitting behind us. I think?
He smiles at me like he’s owed something.
“What did you do to me?” I ask, my voice shaking. “My head—did you give me something? You fucking gave me something, didn’t you?”
Anger surges through me. I’m Zoya fucking Kopolova. My brothers would slit his fucking throat and tear his limbs from his body. Hell, my sister would.
I slap at him, but my limbs feel heavy. I’m floating. My voice wobbles. “Leave me alone.”
My skin is burning, too hot. My heartbeat is a frantic, uneven mess. I don’t have enough strength to get away from him.
What kind of a fucking loser drugs someone’s soda?
He steps closer. I go to scream, and his hand clamps over my mouth.
“No,” he growls. “Uh-uh. You’re not gonna make a scene.”
“Leave me alone,” I try again, louder this time. “Don’t touch me.”
I fumble for the phone in my pocket, my fingers trembling. I could call Rafail, Rodion, Semyon. Any of my brothers would come.
But if I do…
That’s the end of pretending. School? Gone. Freedom? A memory.
Instead, I smile through the panic. “Alright, alright. Let’s take a selfie,” I say sweetly. “You want proof, don’t you? Sex under the bleachers? Sounds hot.”
He scowls. “Put that away.”
I hear voices. Distant, echoing.
“Hello? Zoya? Where’d you guys go?”
He stiffens and takes a step back. “Don’t move,” he hisses. His breath reeks of stale beer. “You stay right fucking here.”
The moment he turns away, I don’t even think about what I do. I text Seamus, my fingers trembling. I don’t have a lot of time.
Help. Under the bleachers. Bobola Stadium. Drugged. Can’t fight.
My hands tremble.
Will the text go through?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Seconds later, a reply bubble pops up. Relief surges through my veins.
Seamus
Fucking hell
stay there.
I’m on my way.
Whatever you do DO NOT LEAVE
STALL
How? How do I stall a man who’s trying to hurt me?
He comes back, and I force myself to smile. My voice wobbles, and my thoughts are scrambled. “What did you tell them?”
“I said we needed a minute alone,” he says.
I force a giggle. “All you need is a minute?”
My knees buckle.
I collapse like my legs have given out. I gag. And then I vomit, right there.
On the cement.
“Oh, gross,” he groans, backing up.
“It’s your fault,” I spit, wiping my mouth, retching again for effect. “You put something in my drink. What’d you think was gonna happen? I’d fall in love with you?”
He snarls and then shoves me. I fall, cracking my head against the underside of the bleachers.
Blood trickles into my eye.
My god.
This is exactly what Rafail warned me about, exactly what I am supposed to avoid.
And yet—here I am.
Under the bleachers. With children.
And I’m done pretending. I’m only twenty, but I am not a child.
I was born into war, raised by criminals, and lived through the brutal assassination of my own parents. I don’t belong in this fake-normal world.
I fumble for the blade in my boot, but I don’t trust myself to use it. He’s too big. Too fast.
If I slice him and he catches me, the price will be too high.
I always bring a knife because I can’t carry a gun on campus. They’d find out, and I’d be done. But a knife is tricky and hard to handle in situations like this.
The screech of tires.
He’s here. I don’t know how I can be filled with relief and dread simultaneously, but I am.
We aren’t far from the pub, but he must’ve flown like the wind.
Footsteps… fast, controlled, heavy.
And then he’s there.
Seamus.
All black, from head to toe.
His eyes are murderous.
He doesn’t speak. He moves.
“What the fuck?” the guy blurts—seconds before Seamus is on him.
No warning. No words.
Just violence.
One punch, then two.
Bone cracks, then screams.
This isn’t a fight but a sentence.
He drags the idiot to his feet. A blade gleams in his hand, pulled from somewhere I didn’t see.
“You don’t get to scream through this,” he growls. “No one’s finding you tonight. How fucking dare you touch her?”
As I turn away, there’s a sound. A stifled scream. A cry. A gargle.
Then silence.
Oh god, oh god.
When I turn back, my attacker is a crumpled mess. Bloody. Still. His eyes are vacant as he bleeds out onto the gravel.
Seamus kneels, then wipes the knife clean. Taps something into his phone like it’s routine, as if he’s placing a goddamn food order.
Then he looks up at me, stormy blue eyes blazing.
He cleans his hands on his pants, and the black fabric soaks up the blood.
“You alright, love?” he asks, his brows knit over the concern in his eyes.
Love.
Not girl. Not baby. Not even my name. Just—love.
My heart stutters.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.