Page 5 of Fierce Pursuit

Whether she liked it or not.

A waitress sauntered over, all synthetic curves and cheap perfume that couldn't mask the stale cigarette smoke clinging to her skin.

"Hey, sweetheart. Marina’s not here yet, but I can take care of you until she comes in." She bit the tip of her pen,leaving a smudge of coral lipstick. "Want something…special?"

I barely spared her a glance, my jaw clenched so tight I could taste metal. "Coffee. Black."

Her pout was immediate, lips pinching, but I didn't care.

I didn't have time for distractions.

Not when Solovyov's men could already be closing in.

If I found Marina, I knew they wouldn't be far behind.

I glanced at the clock, the second hand ticking away my patience with each jerky movement.

Marina wasn't coming.

She knew I was here.

She was running. Again.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood, the sound cutting through the low hum of conversation. Heads turned. Eyes widened, then quickly looked away. Nobody wanted to meet my gaze. I ignored them all.

My pulse hammered, drumming in my veins as I pushed through the restaurant, past waiters and patrons, and shoved open the kitchen doors, the hinges groaning in protest.

Chaos.

The scent of seared meat and frying oil filled the air, an assault on the senses after the dull mustiness of the dining room. Cooks moved in frantic bursts around the grill, steam rising in ghostly plumes, plates clattering.

But I only saw one thing.Her.

Marina turned.

And for the first time in months, I breathed.

Golden hair spilled over her shoulders, shimmeringunder the dim kitchen lights. A rebellious curl stuck to her temple, damp with sweat.

Those emerald eyes, wide with shock, locked onto mine.

Don't you fucking dare run from me, little rabbit.

She parted her lips, as if about to say my name. I could almost hear it in her voice, the way she used to say it years ago, before my marriage—before Veronika—changed things.

Then something shuttered in her gaze.

She turned and ran.

Instinct took over. I lunged, but a blur of movement cut me off.

A woman stepped into my path, small but unyielding, a chef's knife gripped in her wrinkled hand. The blade gleamed under the fluorescent lights, still slick with onion juice.

A babushka. Her face was lined with age and experience, deep-set eyes in a sea of wrinkles, but her gaze sharp as steel, cutting right through my expensive suit to the monster underneath.

"Why do you go after my girl?" she demanded, her accent thick as molasses, her stance unwavering. The knife didn't tremble in her hand.

I exhaled sharply, my patience unraveling thread by thread. "She's not your girl." I took a step closer, towering over her, my shadow swallowing her whole. "She's mine."

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