Page 33 of Dark Possession
I recognize the look in her eyes, though—it’s resolve. Grim determination to see this through, regardless of the consequences.
And I’m ready. Ready to make my move.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lev
I SIT IN my car, engine off, watching as she steps out onto the pavement. The streetlights cast a glow over her, highlighting every deliberate movement. The dress she wears is long and black, hugging her curves like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. The fabric parts high on her thigh, teasing flashes of smooth skin with every step. It’s low-cut, dipping just enough to make my blood heat. The sides are bare, her toned waist on display, and the back? Nonexistent.
A small piece of fur drapes over her arms, useless for warmth but perfect for effect. She moves with a slow, confident grace, like she knows precisely what she’s doing to every poor bastard watching her. Including me.
I wait until she disappears inside the building before stepping out, locking the car behind me. My pulse is steady, my mind sharp, but something twists inside my chest watching her enter that place alone.
I step into the pub, the scent of alcohol and low murmurs filling the air. It’s half-packed, couples leaning into each other, whispers traded over candlelit tables. A few heads turn my way—curious glances, fleeting and harmless—but I keep my head down, blending in. The last thing I need is attention. My pulse is steady, my hands loose at my sides, but my gut is tight with something dark. Anticipation. Rage.
I scan the room, searching for her, but she’s not among the laughing, oblivious lovers. The unease sitting in my chest sharpens. Then I see her. Through the rows of glass bottles behind the bar, past the blur of shifting bodies, she sits in the corner. Her posture is relaxed, her lips painted in something sultry, something dangerous. And next to her—Sergei.
His expression is the same smug arrogance I’ve seen too many times before. That same goddamn smirk that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to break his face open. He thinks he’s in control. Thinks he owns the room. Thinks he ownsher.
He doesn’t see the noose tightening around his throat.
Alina moves with deceptive ease, a slow, calculated flick of her wrist as she pours another drink, her dress slipping higher on her thigh as she shifts in her seat. A long, deliberate blink, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Bait. And he’s taking it.
As I watch, a figure moves into my periphery. The barman steps toward me, wiping his hands on a rag. “What can I get you?” he asks, his voice low and gruff.
I don’t take my eyes off Alina as I respond, “Espresso.”
The bartender nods and moves away, but I don’t stay in one place. I shift down the bar, keeping my movements casual, until a large mirror to my right gives me a different vantage point. It’s not always clear—bottles and shifting figures distort the reflection—but it’s enough. Through the glass, I can see them. Sergei leans in, his grin easy, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass before skimming Alina’s wrist.
I grip the edge of the bar, my jaw locked so tight my molars ache. They drink. Too much. Every time he leans in, his hand grazing her skin, something primal surges inside me. My muscles coil with restrained violence, my blood a slow burn beneath my skin. She laughs at something he says, the sound light, airy—believable.Toobelievable. It digs under my skin, makes my pulse spike. I don’t like how close they’re sitting, how easy it would be for him to slide his hand up her thigh, to pull her into his lap.
I force myself to stay put.Not yet.
Hours crawl by—a test of endurance, a battle against my own instincts. My fingers drum against my cup, tension coiling in my spine. I force myself to take slow, measured breaths, watching every touch, every look, every move. The longer I sit, the heavier the weight of my patience becomes. The room buzzes around me—clinking glasses, muffled conversations, the scrape of chairs—but all I hear is my own pulse, the steady, boiling anger simmering beneath my skin.
Every time she tilts her head and lets out that soft, practiced laugh, my grip tightens, my nails digging into my palm. I want to tear him away from her, to grab him by the throat and slam his smug face into the table. But I wait. Because this is the game, and we’re playing it to win.
When they finally rise from the table, I exhale, but it doesn’t ease the tension. Sergei’s movements are slow, lazy with alcohol, his grip on her arm possessive, fingers curling around her wrist like he has the right. Alina sways slightly, feigning intoxication, but I see the stiffness in her posture, the careful way she moves. She’s still in control—for now.
Then Sergei looks at her like she’s something he’s about toenjoy—like he owns her. My vision darkens at the edges. They leave the pub, and I’m right behind them.
The cold air outside is sharp against my skin, but it does nothing to cool my rage as I watch them pile into a cab, Sergei’s hand still clamped around her wrist as if he’s afraid she’ll vanish. I clench my fists, watching as they drive off, their taillights disappearing into the night.
I move fast, slipping into my car and pulling the door shut without a sound. My hands are steady as I start the engine, the low hum a contrast to the storm inside me. I reach for my phone, fingers swift as I pull up the tracking app. With a few taps, I activate the GPS on her phone. The screen loads for a second too long, the small spinning icon taunting me.
Come on.
The second the map pings, my lips curl in satisfaction. I lock the screen and place the phone on the passenger seat, my foot pressing lightly on the accelerator as I ease into traffic. I keep my distance, trailing their cab without drawing attention. The city lights blur past, streaking through the windshield in golden smears. The occasional brake light flashes red, distant warning signs I have no intention of heeding.
The further we go, the darker the streets become. The neon glow of the city fades, replaced by cracked asphalt and boarded-up windows. The air here feels different—thicker, weighted with the kind of silence that comes from neglect. The kind of place where no one asks questions.
The ping on my screen makes my grip on the wheel tighten. A cheap motel.
Unexpected. A man like him should have better taste, but this isn’t about comfort. It’s about secrecy. No witnesses. No questions.
And soon?
No Sergei.
