Page 13 of Darkest Deeds

Shit.

It’s not what I am that he’s worried about. It’s who I am. I may be “one of the girls,” but I’m still a Chernov. It doesn’t matter if I’m on that stage willingly or not. None of my father’s men would risk paying with their life if something happened to me.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence before he steps back, opening me up to the crowd. “Yeah, well, what’s got you so antsy?”

I stare off to the side. “There’s a guy—”

He quirks a bushy eyebrow. “Another one?”

“This is different.” I guess he hears the crack in my voice because his face hardens. “He looked at me weird, okay? I can’t explain it, but his eyes aren’t right.”

“What do you mean, not right?”

I want to say that they’re hauntingly familiar. They’re a waking nightmare. They’re a cruel hallucination. I don’t say any of that. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek. “They’re empty. Like he’s here to do something evil.”

“You got all that in a dark club with a spotlight in your eyes?”

“Just go check.”

“Fine,” he mutters. “But you’re goin’ with me. I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight.”

Reluctantly, I nod, and we both weave our way through the crowd of testosterone until we reach an empty table. The table. I stare at it as my stomach roils.

“Nobody here, Ava. Guess he left.”

“Right. Thanks.” Flustered, I steer myself toward the shit hole of a dressing room, refusing to stop until I’m facing the greasy vanity mirror.

Cold, amber-flecked eyes stare back at me. It’s the same reflection I see at the end of every night, and tonight’s version is no more appealing. Bracing my arms on the chipped vanity, I scrunch my face, distorting the heavy eye makeup and fuck-me red lipstick Dmitry insists we wear. Holding my breath, I trace a finger down the inside of my right arm, each jagged indention confines me in a trance-like stillness. I stand there until my chest burns so bad, the air bursts out of my mouth in a hot rush, my hands dropping to the table as if they touched fire.

“It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him.” I repeat the chant over and over until I force myself to believe it.

For God’s sake, Ava, get a grip.

Not only am I paranoid, I’m seeing things and acting crazy.

That’s because what I’m doing is exactly that. Crazy. However, when backed into a corner, losing my mind as opposed to my freedom seemed like the lesser of the two evils. Now, I’m not so sure.

I ignored the number one rule.

Keep your mouth shut.

Such a simple thing, but so hard to do when trapped by your own sins. I’d give anything if I could undo what I’ve set in motion, or at least refuse the carrot dangled in front of my face and take the punishment instead. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.

But I can’t. What’s done is done, and all I can do now is pray Agent Schaeffer lives up to his end of the bargain. He releases me. I steal evidence. He ruins my father. I betray everyone. He gets promoted. I disappear forever.

Again, it sounds simple, but the price I’ll pay for spilling my darkest secrets will end up costing me my life. I’ve created a beautifully perfect storm, and it’s headed straight for me.

Snatching a handful of makeup remover wipes, I knock over bottles of hairspray and body glitter, sending them flying across the wooden vanity and crashing to the floor.

“Fuck, shit, fuck!” I’m still grinding the wipe across my eye when the heavy metal door opens to my right. Squinting, I see two figures squeeze in before it slams shut behind them. I pause mid-swipe and glance up, waiting for Dmitry to speak.

He stands in the middle of the room, one of his large hands wrapped tightly around his companion’s upper arm, the other by his side. His stubby fingers rhythmically rub together as if he’s mindlessly counting invisible money.

The sight of him makes me nauseous. I can’t stand the asshole and he knows it. But, as Seven’s manager, he’s technically my boss, and he takes every opportunity he can to remind me.

I concentrate on taking off the rest of my makeup. “Dmitry.”

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