Page 32 of Sexting the Silverfox

“That’s the adrenaline. It’ll wear off,” he says. “You do know you’re coming back home with me tonight, right?”

I can’t fight him on this. The Chicago Russians know where I live. They’re not going to leave me alone; that much is painfully clear. But I can’t live like this. I’m not quite sure what I’ll do next, but Jason is right—I can’t stay at my place anymore. Knowing that hurts my heart on a deeper level. This was my home, my safe haven, my little niche in a crazy, chaotic world.

“Whatever happens next, we’re going to figure it out, Audrey. I promise you that.”

“I know,” I reply, half-smiling as he presses his lips against my temple. His kiss is soft and warm, filling my core with liquid sunlight. The effect that this man has on me is almost immediate, and it pains me deeply because I know I’m at fault here.

One thing is certain, however. With everything that has happened and with everything that is bound to happen next, I have to overcome this hurdle. I have to set my fears and pride aside and grab the bull by the horns. I need to reach out to my brothers and find out who ordered the hit on me. They may be New York-based, but Bratva folks know one other across the United States.

If there’s anybody who’s able to find out this information, it’s Anton and Vitaly.

Chapter 14

Audrey

As crazy as it sounds, the following days are worse than the actual kidnapping attempt.

There is a heavy silence between Jason and me, the kind of silence that seeps into every aspect of our relationship. Even our lovemaking feels cloaked in a shadow of secrets and lies—all of my own doing. I feel awful, yet I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth, not about the Bratva or the baby.

I can’t live like this for much longer, however. Guilt is like a sickness, quietly eating away at me from the inside. Combined with what I’m guessing are pregnancy hormones, it’s giving me major mood swings and making me highly volatile, which means I have trouble regulating my own emotions.

“What are you thinking?” Jason asks, his voice dragging me out of my self-sabotaging thoughts.

I’m not sure how to answer that, but I am in his office, sulking in his guest chair while browsing through real estate ads, looking at comps in the area, and trying to figure out a reasonable selling price for my apartment. I need to sell it, there’s no doubt about that. I’ll need money to leave at a moment’s notice, if necessary.

My brothers have yet to respond to my messages. I have no idea if they will give me the information I seek or if they will assist me in disappearing. And the thought of leaving altogether … that just breaks me over and over again every time it enters my mind. It’s not fair to this child I’m carrying, Jason’s child. It’s not fair to Jason, and it’s not fair to me. None of this is fair.

“Sorry,” I mutter and close the laptop, stuffing it back in my bag. “Just going over some emails, nothing special.”

“I just heard from Officer McKinley,” Jason says.

Sitting behind his desk, he truly resembles a king overlooking his domain. Sometimes, I feel like I’m dealing with a whole different side of him as soon as he takes that seat. It’s as if he transforms into a titan of sorts, a person who doesn’t take no for an answer, who doesn’t tolerate any form of rejection or disrespect. I feel small whenever I’m in here. It’s a strange sentiment, but I know it’s exacerbated by the guilt that I carry on a daily basis.

“What did he say?” I ask, nervously picking at my thumbnail. It’s a habit I’d thought I’d gotten over. One brush with the wrong side of the Bratva, and all of my compulsions have returned as if they were never cured. “Did he find the Russians?”

“No, but he thinks they were with the Abramovic family,” Jason replies.

Oh, shit. I know that name. That’s an ugly name in my world. A terrible name. My father and brothers taught me to stay as far away as possible from anyone bearing that name.

“Abramovic,” I say it out loud. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

I hate myself.

“That’s odd because your body language tells me otherwise,” Jason bluntly replies.

For a moment, I’m frozen in place, sitting stiffly as I look at him, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. There’s an angle here, and he has tried it before. Each time, I’ve managed to dash along that thin red line, avoiding tense conversations and arguments about my honesty.

I fear I’ve run out of free passes, though. Jason almost died that night. One bullet would’ve been enough to kill him, and I would’ve had only myself to blame for it.

“I don’t understand,” I say, already eyeing the door and looking for an excuse to leave.

“Audrey, how many more times are we going to do this ridiculous dance where I pretend to be ignorant and ask you to tell me the truth, and you continue to lie to my face?” His tone is low but still warm. He’s trying so hard to be patient, and I’m not helping.

“You’re calling me a liar?”

“I’m calling you a bad liar, but I know it’s coming from a good place,” he says. “I know you well enough to understand when you’re being truthful and when you’re trying to sell me some Grade-A BS. Here’s the thing, Audrey. Whatever it is, you’re not telling me; I know you’re not doing it to hurt me. You’re doing it because you’re scared.”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m scared, yes, but everything else is … Jason, please, let’s not have this conversation again.”

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