Page 97 of Monstrous Urges

For a second I almost wake her: not for dark needs, for answers. My mind goes over everything Milos has just told me. Shown me.

Two hours ago, one of my men was across the bridge on Elba, in a little coastal bar in a town two miles away. It was his night off, and he’s freely admitted he’d had four or five beers. But that doesn’t change what he saw, and snapped a grainy, blurry picture of with his phone.

Annika.

She was keeping to the shadows, down by the shore near the local fisherman’s pier, apparently.

“I swear on my mother’s grave, Mr. Krylov,” my man told me not ten minutes ago downstairs, his hands fidgeting nervously as I glared at him. “It was her.”

The picture he took is…pretty bad. But it’s damning. Red hair. A furtive but determined look on her face. Same height, same build.

Same Annika.

My eyes drag from the wet spots on the rug to the woman asleep in the bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done this. Sleepwalked, that is. I’ve seen the bewildering footage of her behind the wheel of a stolen Lamborghini at two o’clock in the morning, before Dimitri nuked the police’s server. I’ve also listened in on her virtual sessions with Dr. Jesnick, also courtesy of Dimitri , who sent them with proof of him never having opened the files at all.

Because he’s detail-oriented like that.

Annika—Taylor—has spoken to her therapist at length about her unexplained nighttime activities. Going through her taxes, messing around in her kitchen, even going to work, all without a single memory of it when she wakes up.

But this one is more than slightly baffling. Getting off my island without being seen is hard enough. Getting back on—while technically asleep—is insane.

My eyes sweep over her sleeping form—at the soft, serene expression on her face. Like she didn’t just somehow escape and return, leaving no trace.

Who the fuck are you, Annika Brancovich.

For the first time since she got here, I have her door locked when I leave.

Two of my men fall into step behind me as I walk out the front door of the house. But I wave them off as I head out into the dark, toward the bridge. I’m carrying a sidearm, and besides, I’m confident that I am the most dangerous thing on this island.

At the bridge, my men snap to attention. My enemies—most people, for that matter—think of me as ruthless and fearsome and cruel. Because, to them, that’s what I am. But I treat my own people with respect and loyalty. A lot of these men have worked for me my entire adult life. Several of them worked for my father, or their fathers did.

Milos approaches, a cigarette between his lips. He lights it deftly with a Zippo, inhaling deeply.

“Anything useful?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, boss. The men on duty tonight are sharp, too. No one slipped up or missed anything. Cameras, infrared sensors, night-vision…nothing. My guess is, she came and went via the shoreline.”

“And getting across the strait?”

Milos tilts his head meditatively, inhaling smoke. “It would have been low tide a few hours ago. But that still involves a swim. Current is stronger when the tide is going in or out, too. So, not an easy swim, either.”

I nod pensively, walking to the bridge and looking down at the black water below. Milos joins me, his face stoic.

“Thanks for checking so thoroughly,” I growl quietly.

He nods.

“I know you don’t…you know.”

Milos’ father was the mortally wounded guard who blew up the bridge the night of the attack fifteen years ago. Needless to say, I know my friend doesn’t enjoy spending any time on this bridge.

“It’s fine,” he grunts, peering out at the darkness.

I eye him curiously for a moment. “Speak.”

“Nothing to speak about, boss.”

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