Page 46 of Fierce Pursuit

No Kostya.

The strange scent of stale coffee mixed with metal and grease lingered in the air. A cold wind swept in from the platforms, nipping at my exposed skin, seeping through the gaps in my coat.

Finally, I heard it. The low, distant rumble of the train coming down the tracks. The vibration of the approaching locomotive hummed beneath my feet.

Almost there. My freedom was all but assured.

I checked my surroundings again, forcing myself tomemorize every single face on the surrounding benches. Looking up, I scanned the grand marble staircases, my pulse hammering at the thought of someone standing just beyond my sight, watching me. I checked the line at Auntie Anne's, where people shuffled impatiently for overpriced pretzels, laughing, relaxed, unaware.

Nothing. Kostya wasn't here.

Relief crashed over me.

The station's PA system crackled, and the announcement came. "Now boarding Train 48 to New York Penn Station."

The crowd shifted. I pushed my shoulders in, keeping my movements small as I scurried toward the carriage. But the shuffle of people around me made my skin prickle. The press of bodies. The jostling, the way I kept getting bumped, nudged, shoved.

Every brush of a coat. Every accidental touch.

I felt exposed. Wide open. Too visible.

I swallowed hard, tightening my grip on my coat, forcing myself not to break into a full sprint.

Don't panic. Don't draw attention.

A man brushed past me, his cologne strong, his shoulders broad. My heart stopped for a second, my throat clenching as I whipped around.

Not him. Not Kostya. Just a stranger.

I sucked in a breath and forced my feet forward.

The line moved. One by one, people climbed into the coach-level carriage. I followed, keeping my head down, my heartbeat pounding so loud I was sure someone would hear it.

Twenty hours. Twenty hours, and I would be in New York.

One step closer to figuring out what the hell I was going to do next, because no one was coming to save me from Kostya.

CHAPTER 11

KOSTYA

Icrushed out the smoldering clove cigarette against the no smoking sign just inside of Union Station. I hated being here. Hated standing in this drafty fucking train station, watching my little rabbit scurry for an escape she would never find.

I would have much rather had her with me, in a warm bed, curled against my chest where she belonged.

Her body soft. Malleable.

Her breath slow and steady as she gave in and let me protect her, keep her.

Instead, we were still playing this game of cat and mouse.

And I was giving her a head start, letting her think she had a chance.

She didn’t.

She was right where I expected her to be.

For over an hour now, she had been curled into herself on that hard wooden bench at the far end of the station, arms wrapped tight around her ribs.

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