Page 15 of Fierce Pursuit

I knew where she lived, of course.

I went straight there after leaving the police station and stopping long enough to change suits, my patience threadbare. A few lights were on inside, shadows shifting behind the thin curtains. She was home. No doubt getting ready to run again.

The last thing I needed was another chase through Chicago.

I made my way to the tiny backyard, grabbed a rustedmetal lawn chair, and jammed it under the back storm door handle. If she wanted to escape, she’d have to throw herself out of a damn window. I made a mental note to keep her far from any on the first floor.

Satisfied, I returned to the front door, my pulse hammering, head aching. I inhaled slowly, forcing myself to smother the anger simmering in my chest.

She was probably scared. Adrenaline had overridden her common sense, that had to be it.

She was, after all, a woman alone, stranded in a foreign country, working in a rundown diner.

Still, it made sense why she had run. A girl raised with every luxury, suddenly stripped of her security, left to fend for herself in a world that chewed up the weak. Of course she panicked. Of course she thought she had to handle this alone.

Once I had her cornered, once she had calmed down, we would talk.

No breaking down doors. No threats. No grabbing her and hauling her over my shoulder. No more attention-drawing scenes.

She would see reason.

I knocked.Actually knocked, like a civilized person, instead of the leashed animal I felt like. I had no choice. Not only Gregor but the boys over at the Four Monks were now on high alert over my actions in Chicago. The last thing I needed was any more attention.

A pause. Then the door creaked open a few inches.

But it wasn’t Marina standing there.

A skinny man with floppy black hair and a beaniepulled low over his eyes blinked at me. “Can I help you, bro?”

Whatever control I’d managed to hold onto snapped.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but I didn’t hear a damn word.

The only sound was the relentless pounding of my heart, urging me to kill.

I moved without thinking.

One second, he was standing there and the next, I had him by the throat, shoving him backward into the house. The door slammed shut behind us with a finality that should have terrified him.

It didn’t. Not yet.

I fixed that.

Driving him into the wall, I pinned him there with my forearm pressed against his scrawny throat. His eyes bulged, hands clawing at my arm as he tried—and failed—to pry me off.

“Who the fuck are you?” I growled, daring him to give me a reason to snap his neck.

A slow burn twisted in my gut, something I didn’t want to name, something I refused to acknowledge. My jaw ached from clenching so hard, but I didn’t loosen my grip.

Not even when his lips parted on a stuttering, useless breath. “I’m…I’m…I’m?—”

Pathetic.

I ripped him off the wall just to slam him back against it. The drywall crunched under the impact, the sound sharp and satisfying. A dent. A reminder.

“Tell me who you are,” I ordered.

The boy trembled. Weak. Spineless. This was the kind of man she trusted to be close to her?

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