Page 27 of Sinister Promise

Ran with everything I had.

I pushed hard, my lungs burning with each breath.

The guard shouted behind me, but I sprinted with every ounce of strength I possessed.

I ran as though chased by the devil himself...because I was.

I reached the main road just as a bus stopped less than a block away.

I waved frantically, shouting for the driver to wait as I flew down the sidewalk.

By some miracle, I managed to board just as the doors slid closed behind me. Panting a bit to catch my breath from the mad dash down the street, I swept my arm behind me to hide the gun from the driver as I reached into my back pocket for my Metro pass. I’d learned the hard way after getting mugged a few years ago to keep it and my apartment keys on me and leave my wallet at home on these overnight shifts.

Swiping my card, I kept my body angled away from the few bleary-eyed passengers as I stepped down the narrow aisle before collapsing into the first empty seat.

I tucked the gun between my thigh and the seat.

No one looked twice at me—nothing to see, just another late-night worker heading home.

The normality was jarring.

These people had no idea what existed just blocks away, what I'd just escaped.

Still, I was not safe.

This was merely a moment's reprieve.

The gun pressed against the back of my thigh like a fucking telltale heart.

I’d taken it for protection, but now realized it was evidence too—evidence of what I'd witnessed, what had been done to me.

Taking it to the police and asking for protection wasn’t even worth thinking about.

I should dispose of it, but not yet.

Not until I was truly safe.

Because Pavel would come for me.

And when he did—I didn't know if I would survive.

But I knew I wouldn't surrender again.

CHAPTER 7

PAVEL

"Your turn, Durak," Gregor taunted, slapping down an ace on the table. "Defend that, if you can."

I exhaled a stream of smoke and assessed my hand.

Six cards left against Gregor's three. Not promising.

"Fuck you," I muttered, tossing down my only defense—the ace of spades.

Cheers and jeers erupted around the oak table where my brothers and cousins had gathered in the basement of Gregor's house. Leather armchairs, hunting trophies, and vintage vodka advertisements adorned the wood-paneled walls of what his wife Samara insisted on calling his man cave.

Glasses clinked as Damien poured another round of the cheap American vodka they'd selected as part of my punishment.

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