Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when someoneʼs dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the dark...
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I SLIDE INTO the driver’s seat of the Mustang, my trembling hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. I glance at the rear-view mirror, catching a final glimpse of my fiancé’s silhouette as it fades into the distance.
I need to get out of here. Out of this place. Out of this city. And as far away from him as possible. My hands are shaking and covered in dried blood — Papa’s blood — and my vision is blurred with tears. I press down on the accelerator and the wind blows back my hair, drying my face.
A glance at the speedometer tells me I’m going to run out of gas soon. Somehow, I make a stop at a beat down gas station. I dig out a crumpled note from the pocket of my jeans. It’s a small mercy that I always have cash shoved in pockets.
Inside the convenience store, the dimly lit space is filled with the scent of gasoline and the murmur of distant conversations. The male cashier’s bored gaze meets mine, and I silently exchange the crumpled note for a cheap burner phone. With shaking hands, I dial a number I memorised.
The line connects.
Rune Volkov waits for me to speak.
I swallow. “Hello?”
It’s a short while, and I think he’s going to hang up on me, when he says. “Miss Morozov. How can I help?”
Relief washes over me.
“You said I could get a favor,” I say.
“I did,” he says, deep and assured, “What do you need?”
“A flight,” I murmur, “To Russia. As soon as possible.”
“Ah.” There’s a contemplative pause. “What does your fiancé have to say about this?”
Torren’s exact words ring in my mind.
I swear to fucking God, if I see you again, I’ll put a bullet straight through your fucking head.
“The further away from him I am, the better,” I murmur, swallowing the knot at my throat.
Rune’s voice remains calm as he probes further, “Your father?”
It’s like my heart is a cake, and he’s slicing right through it. I chew down the feeling and murmur, “He’s dead.”
He’s quiet.
“Are you hurt?” Rune asks after a while, “Injured in any way?”
Even though I know he can’t see me, I shake my head. “No.”
Technically, I have a bust lip and a few bruises. But Rune doesn’t need to know that. And it’s unlikely that he cares.
Another silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but sniffle as I realize. I’m alone. I’m seriously alone. I have no one. I blink back the tears. I can’t afford to cry now. I need to survive this, and right now, I have no one else but the Russian.
