Page 129 of Axel

But the street yawns, eerie and empty on the sultry night with parked cars sleeping by the curb.

Bolting left, I tread over the undulating cobblestones of Church Street. It’s a running hazard from hell and a risky place to race, so of course, I take it.

For blocks, I run, only turning a couple of heads at the odd spectacle of a woman running like the goddess Nike in a Chanel suit and sneakers through Charleston after midnight.

It’s laughable.

Then it’s odd.

Then…

It’s scary.

Where is Axel?

Based on my pace, it’s been at least twenty minutes. He should be following me by now. I should hear his familiar footfalls or his husky voice taunting, “Nice ass” from a half block behind.

Glancing over my shoulder again, the gas street lamp glows, defeated by the night veiling the road shrouded by oak trees and flanked by stately homes. It’s empty except for a white utility van, oddly parked in an area of luxury cars.

Shit, I hope that van’s for a remodeling job nearby.

No way could Axel’s father track me, anticipating I’d be here and use that white van to nab me.

God, I’ve watchedSilence of the Lambs too many times.

That’s impossible.

Then I remember what Axel warned—anticipate his father, don’t react.

How long could Ruslan Kholodov have been watching Axel King? His son. His declared heir and the next Pakhan? To what lengths would he go to reclaim his honor?

His blood?

Could he already know about me? Maybe he’s been watching Axel’s office. His home. Maybe he already knows about Delta’s and is somehow tracking me, too.

I’m not sure, but I’m fast.

Instinct makes me whip right, turning down a slender, historic alley, famous for its secluded approach to the waterfront. Its cobblestones narrow to only six feet wide, flanked on both sides by white star jasmine spilling over tall, brick walls and ornate iron gates.

It’s a charming alleyway, offering cool shadows on a humid summer’s day.

But by night?

I stop in the middle of the alley and spin around, gasping at a shadowy figure stalking my way, his heavy shoes clapping over cobblestones.

Tall, wide shoulders, dark suit, dark hair: that’s all I can ascertain about the threatening silhouette.

I whip back toward the mouth of the alley, facing the river, and there stands another silhouette. A man with a pooched belly, smoking a cigar.

What the fuck?

I’m trapped?

My pulse skyrockets. Stress attacks my nerves. I feel like a caged animal. A feeling way too familiar and dangerous for me.

Which way do I go? I don’t know, so I turn back to fight the silhouette, slamming its palm over my mouth, about to scream.

“You’re okay, Wildfire. I got you.”

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