Page 33 of Fierce Pursuit

This was how I was going to die.

Not by Kostya’s hands.

Not by the cops.

But in a holding cell, where the cameras would just happen to malfunction.

And then, poof.

I’d be another nameless woman whose "suicide" didn’t even make the evening news.

Maybe he wasn’t dead?

My pulse pounded so violently I could barely think.

I couldn’t find a heartbeat, but maybe he was still breathing.

He was facedown, his body motionless, so I couldn’t see the rise and fall of his chest.

I needed proof. Something.

Frantically, my gaze darted around the room, landing on a small mirror I had picked up from a souvenir shop tucked inside my favorite thrift store in Wicker Park.

My hands shook as I grabbed it and crouched beside him.

God, he smelled so good.Marina! Focus!

I held the mirror beneath his nose and waited.

My lungs burned from my refusal to inhale, refusal to move, until I saw something.

One second.

Two.

Then…the glass fogged.

My knees nearly buckled with relief.

He was alive.

Which meant I still had a chance.

Not much of one, because when he woke up, he was going to come for me—harder, angrier, unstoppable.

But a chance, nonetheless.

I had to move.

I snatched up the shawl Veronika had given me, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders before throwing on the secondhand leather jacket I had picked up months ago. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I then grabbed the backpack I kept nearby, filled with what little money I had and my fake documents, just in case. I cleared the top of my vanity, sweeping my makeup, perfume and a few silly knickknacks that helped each place feel like home into my bag.

No more time to waste.

Without sparing a glance back at the unconscious Russian on my bed, I bolted downstairs.

My roommates were awake now, their eyes wide, panicked.

I dropped to my knees and fumbled with the knots binding their wrists and ankles.

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