Page 143 of Sinful Sacrifice

I snatch her wrapper and ball it up. “Don’t ask for answers you won’t like.”

“But I want to know whether I’ll like it or not.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Do you fuck and tell?” She pulls her straw from the cup and licks the shake from the side.

I lean back and stretch my arm along the back of the booth, studying her. “Speaking of fucking, has anyone touched your pussy before? Have you saved yourself for me?”

She looks away from me and focuses on her shake.

“Don’t worry. I’m not one of those weirdos who insists on having virgin wives. In fact, I hope to God you’re not one.”

“I’m a virgin,” she whispers.

“Are you sure about that?” I’m great at reading people and knowing when they’re lying to my face. “Secrets don’t stay secrets long, Riona. They always come to light.”

“Then, you’d better make sure yours don’t come out either.” She raises her head to lock eyes with me. “You’ll be my husband, and we’ll have a baby. Otherwise, your precious Pippa will fuck another man chosen by my father.”

47

I should’ve done this a long time ago.

I’m running.

Call me a coward. I don’t care.

For the past two days, I’ve done nothing but make lists.

Pros and cons.

For my love life.

For my career.

For my family.

I finally decided to do what was best for me after finding out Igor’s last name and googling him. Igor isn’t only a wealthy friend of Cernach’s. He’s a Russian crime lord and the son of an oligarch.

I already got myself wrapped up in the Irish mob and the Mafia. I’m not about to throw in an entirely different organization. I’d be a damn mob slut at that point.

My nerves rattle through my body as I dump all my electronics on my bed before double-checking I haven’t missed anything. I can’t have one item Damien can trace me with. I throw on a jacket and walk to the studio. Damien most likely has eyes on me, so I unlock the front door, as if everything is normal.

I snatch the duffel bag in the back room. Spare clothes and cash are shoved inside. A blue BMW is parked in the back alley with its headlights off.

Pulling a hoodie over my head, I duck into the BMW.

“Hi, Pippa,” Levi says.

Levi is the father of one of my dancer students, who’s asked me out on several occasions. Multiple times, he’s offered to use the company jet to take me on vacation. I’ve always declined the invites, but when he brought in his daughter for class two days ago, an idea hit me.

Levi was my ticket out of New York.

If I book a flight, Damien will know.

If I drive somewhere, Damien will know.

Cernach most likely as well.

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