Page 10 of Fierce Pursuit

Not really.

Not as long as he was still after me.

Kostya pounded against the glass, then curled his fingers into the narrow crevice between the doors and pulled.

“Good lord," a woman gasped beside me. "Honey, what did you do to that man?"

I rolled my eyes.

Right. Because clearly, this was my fault.

Just an average Tuesday, being hunted by a terrifyingly attractive Russian mafia enforcer.

A man’s voice cut through the tension, full of amusement. “Can you tell me so I can do it too?"

A few people snickered.

"It’s okay, girl," an older woman said, settling into her seat. “You’re safe for now. He’s not getting those doors open. I don’t care how many muscles he has."

And then a sickening creak.

My stomach plummeted.

The doors were shifting.

My heart stopped.

Why wouldn’t he just let me go?

I had run halfway across the world, left behind everything—my home, my life, not even going to my sister’s funeral—all to escape him.

I thought I had finally evaded him in Chicago.

No one should have known me here.

No one.

But he had found me anyway.

I had barely lasted two weeks in New York before he tracked me down and trashed my apartment.

I had just escaped then.

And now…

My hands trembled. My breathing turned shallow.

If he found me here, where would I go next?

Would there ever be a place where I was safe?

I backed away, my spine pressing into the far wall of the train car, my knees weak as I stared at him. At the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The flex of his biceps, the sheer power of his body as he forced the doors apart.

Time slowed.

Everything narrowed to him.

His scowl. His hands. His eyes fierce, determined.

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