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)
But this?
Will she forgive this?
I hate it. My whole fucking life, I’ve been trying to make him proud. To make him happy. And he’s been a good father, in his own cold, brutal way. Loyal. Strong. Brave.
But now…
“Now we prepare for the blowback from the Kopolovs,” he says. “They’re already here.”
I sit up straighter. “I’ve been tracking them. They’re already in the city?”
My father nods. “Assemble everyone. You know what to do.”
Yeah, I know exactly what to do.
But it’s got nothing to do with what my father has planned.
Chapter 28
ZOYA
The cold water hits like knives, sharp, slicing, merciless. My lungs burn as I break the surface, coughing up seawater and gasping for breath. It hurts. It stings. Not just the water. Not just the impact. But the words. What he said.
What he did.
I’m so cold I can’t think straight. I can’t feel. I can’t even scream. The waves drag me like some discarded toy, bobbing me up and down, crashing over my shoulders, yanking me under again, slamming me into jagged rocks, and then dragging me out just to do it all over again.
But I fight. I swim. I’ve always been strong in the water, quick and graceful. The tide is high tonight, so it’s easier to float, to surface. I push back against the pull of the sea, the waves breaking in the distance like applause for my survival.
I can feel eyes on me, watching. But I can't see through the blur of salt and wind and desperation. I fight harder. I swim with everything I’ve got left in me, and after what feels like an eternity, but must be just minutes, I reach the shore. My fingers claw into wet sand like it’s salvation. My whole body trembles violently.
There’s blood. Something’s cut my leg, but I don’t care. I’m alive.
He pushed me.
Seamus pushed me.
The thought hits me like a second impact. The memory of his voice, those words, the chill in his eyes, colder than the ocean.
How could I trust someone who would look me in the eye and then push me off a cliff? What if the sea had taken me for good? What if I had been pulled under and never surfaced?
To my right, there's a blinking light, red and rhythmic. Some kind of beacon, a rescue maybe, but it doesn’t move. Doesn’t come closer. Is it even for me?
I drag myself to my knees in the shallow surf. The water is fresher here, mixing with the tears I won’t let fall. My hair is plastered to my face, soaked in salt. The wind howls like it’s mourning. My thin dress clings to me like a second skin. Thankfully, it’s light, unlike the jeans I wore earlier.
Thank god, Seamus told me to change.
The sky presses heavy above me, gray and angry. There's a silhouette on the rocky path above the beach. Watching.
I freeze.
Why isn’t anyone helping me? I just survived being thrown from a cliff, swam to shore through god-knows-what, and nobody's moving. No one’s running to help. I blink hard against the salt stinging my eyes.
“Somebody help,” I croak, my voice broken and raw. Still, no one moves. They just stand there.
I double over and wretch again. A sob claws its way up my throat but never escapes. I sit back on my heels, numb and shaking. What do I do now?
I can’t go back up to Ballyhock.
He left me. Discarded me like I was nothing. Was he told to kill me? Was that the plan all along?
Then someone steps forward. My heart stutters. I don’t want to be seen. I want to disappear, but I also want answers.
I have to get out of here. I have to go home. But even that thought feels like a lie now. Is home even safe anymore?
The figure steps closer, tall and calm. Too calm.
Ashland.
Shit.
I freeze. My heart is beating in my throat. He raises a finger to his lips, Shhh, like I’m supposed to be quiet. Then he gestures for me to lie down in the sand.
My instincts scream no. I don’t move. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone anymore, not even Seamus.
Ashland pulls a gun.
Cocks it.
Points to the ground again. “Lie down,” he whispers.
I obey. My spine hits the wet sand. The wind steals the breath from my lungs. Ashland kneels beside me. His fingers reach for my neck.
I slap at him, trying to shove him away. He bats my hands aside like they’re nothing and pins my wrist to the ground. His fingers find my pulse point again.
“Aye,” he mutters, not looking at my eyes. “That’s what I thought. No pulse.”
Wait—what?
He pulls out a phone. Finger to his lips.
When I don’t move, he dials. “I’ve got her,” he says, calm and flat, like a man commenting on the weather. His fingers trail down my neck. I shiver.