Page 19 of Refrain

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She moves anyway, placing her feet onto the floor. To my surprise, she manages to stand on her own. One step and her knees buckle, pitching her forward.

“Hold on.” I’m across the room in an instant, and I reach for her arm.

But she pivots, suddenly steady. Air rushes past my ears as her right arm swings out, brandishing something she must have been hiding beneath the sweater. Glass. Cylindrical. The whiskey bottle. I dodge the blow, ducking against the couch, only to open myself up to the kick she delivers right between my legs.

“Fuck!” I limp back, gritting my teeth at the pain.

She’s out of the room by the time my vision clears. The moment I make it to my feet, the front door slams shut.

Shit.I could go after her so that she can’t bring her Russian friends back to pay me a visit later. I could. But, in the chaos, I lost my last cigarettes. I need a new pack. I need a shower. The mounting excuses never address the real issue—I’m tired of chasing after people.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHLOE

I’d almost forgottenhow poisonous guilt is. After all, Piotr taught me just one simple rule to live by—Survive. Endure. Trust no one.He wouldn’t appreciate the newest addition to his mantra.Don’t die. I used my last bit of nylon thread on you.

Going off how badly my arm’s throbbing, I’ve probably undone his hard work already—not that it matters. The blood dripping down my fingertips might as well be invisible. I don’t catch notice here, even barefoot. Sluggish movements propel my body forward without requiring too much input from my brain, and it isn’t long before I spot my destination up ahead—Chloe Parker’s home, a flat in an apartment complex on the outskirts of the Syndicate’s reach.

The hallway is empty when I stagger through the doorway and past the main stairwell. Tears burn behind my eyes, impossible to fight back. If Anna were here, her captors would have her on the move after last night, along with the rest of the girls. Disappearing is my only hope to lie low and catch up. Find her.

The plan forming in my head is a simple one. Considering how badly I screwed up the op, Grey would sooner kill me than help cover my ass. Leaving is my only option.

I don’t have much to pack. One bag should be enough. Some clothes. Some money from the stash in my mattress…

Every plan falls apart when I spot my door—namely what’s on the generic welcome mat in front of it.

Thereshouldn’tbe a package lying there. This apartment isn’t even listed under my information stored with the department, but I can’t seem to halt my approach toward the box. Maybe I know all along who it’s from, even before I notice the neatly penned script gracing the box’s white lid, legible from yards away—For my Ksei.

No.I shake my head and force myself to blink.It’s not him.Hope, the pathetic thing it is, forms a pitiful mantra that plays over and over with every step I take.It’s not him. It’s not him. It isn’t him.

I come to a stop inches from the box. On autopilot, I stoop for the lid, running my finger along its crisp edge. It doesn’t disappear. The words don’t meld into something else. I know that script. The heavy-handed placement of the ink and the telltale dash above the I in my name. No one could fake that detail.

My fingers find the end of the lid, and I lift it free. There’s a small, black device inside. A tablet. A note rests on top of it, but I ignore it and turn the device on. The screen lights up, already displaying the still from a single video. A white symbol dares me to strike it. Play.

My fingers shake. I reach out, intending to flip the damn thing over. Somehow, I wind up pressing on the screen instead. A grainy, black-and-white frame begins. Surveillance footage? This snippet stars two figures—a man—hulking, fat, with a balding head. Vlad. He towers over a woman. Blonde. Skinny. Half-naked, with wings sprouting from her back. She has something in her hand.

Something shiny…

I’m a disembodied specter watching my past self. Someone who looks like me, anyway. She’s determined to bash a man’sskull in. Determined to shut him up, even though I can tell from the bird’s-eye view that he didn’t even get the chance to speak before his brains splattered the walls.

It’s messy. It’s sloppy.

Watching it all…I feel nothing. Ismell. My nostrils flare to catch a scent they shouldn’t—spicy, dangerous. Wolf Blood cologne. The tablet falls from my hands and tumbles to the ground, bouncing against my closed door. The hallway is empty, but the scent is even stronger. It’s the fucking note. It reeks of him. I don’t even have to bend down in order to read it.

The three lines of text haunt me as I race from the building:

My beautiful little angel

I’ll come for you soon

Moya lyubov—My love

CHAPTER EIGHT

ESPI

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