Page 90 of Twisted Princess

My skin tingles with disbelief.

And opposite to my heavy feet as Vinny dragged me toward Keoghan’s office, right now, I feel like I could walk on air.

As Gleb guides me toward Pearl’s front doors, I find the club has opened in the time we’ve been here. Patrons are starting to arrive. Which makes our exit all the more challenging because people keep stopping to stare at me in my dress.

I don’t care. I’m so grateful to be done with the Irish mafia that I’m practically skipping down the front steps. A smile tugs at my lips, and as I look around, even the colors of the world seem brighter, more full of life. They welcome me into this new reality—a reality without a dark blade hovering over me like a guillotine.

Gleb’s hand never leaves my elbow, his arm a stabilizing force at my back. And he guides me with a determination that tells me he doesn’t think we’re out of the woods just yet.

But strangely enough, I trust Keoghan.

At least, I trust that he means it when he says we’re free to go.

I could cry with relief, and the tears blur my vision as Gleb pulls me to a stop in front of a silver Tacoma parked by the curb. He opens the passenger door.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

Heat warms my cheeks as it takes me several seconds to gather the layers of my skirt before I can accept his help into the cab. And the delay makes me self-conscious as it accentuates the hindrance I must be to Gleb. It’s like a physical manifestation of the trouble I’ve introduced into his already-challenging life.

Outside, in the bright sunlight, sitting in an old truck, I suddenly see my dress for the theatrical statement it truly is. It might be beautiful, but it’s so completely over the top—a gaudy show of extreme wealth and power. A production that Vinny put on to prove how completely he intended to own me.

As Gleb closes the passenger door and rounds the front of the truck, I reach up to remove the veil’s comb from my hair. I ball the sheer fabric and shove it unceremoniously in the pocket of the truck door.

What I wouldn’t give for a change of clothes—a pair of jeans and one of Gleb’s soft, loose-fitting T-shirts that smell like him. The rich combination of leather and pine with just a hint of motor oil and sweat. Somewhere along the line, I started associating that masculine scent with comfort—normalcy. And I long for it now with a deep and throbbing ache.

But I’m so eager to put Boston in the rearview mirror that it can wait.

Gleb seems on board with that plan as he wordlessly hops into the driver’s seat. Turning the key, he brings the motor roaring to life. And he’s pulling out a second later. I can tell it’s taking considerable effort for him to maintain the speed limit as he takes us out of town.

Collapsing back against the bench seat, I take a few moments to breathe deeply, to truly appreciate the scent of freedom. After I came so close to having it taken from me, nothing has ever smelled sweeter.

And a thrill races through me as it sinks in that we’re on our way home to see Gabby.

I know it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I tucked her in to sleep. But I miss her so much it’s painful.

Glancing over at Gleb, I open my mouth to ask about her.

And my voice dies in my throat.

He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles are white. And while his face looks calm, a muscle in his forearm tics with silent fury. It’s only then that I realize he hasn’t said a word since we left Pearl’s.

My stomach drops, my relief vanishing. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own emotions, that I haven’t taken a second to check in on him. And from the looks of it, he’s still fighting a very intense battle.

How did I miss the strain building between us?

Worry settles in as I recognize that Gleb is probably furious with me. Furious for what I put in that letter at the very least. I wrote the same thing I did when I ran to Boston the first time. I did it intentionally to hurt him. I wanted to hurt him badly enough that he might stay away. Stay alive. I did it to protect him. And I hope that counts for something.

“Thank you,” I say tentatively. “For coming to get me—again.”

“You’re welcome.”

That’s all he says. And his voice is so measured, he could have just agreed about the day of the week. But his hands continue to strangle the steering wheel, and his eyes never leave the road.

The silence is painful as it yawns between us, informing me that I’m far from forgiven.

“Where’s Gabby?” I ask, trying a different topic in the hopes of getting him to open up.

And to my relief, his shoulders drop slightly, his angular face softening. But it’s almost as if the anger is replaced with a hollow sadness.

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