Page 92 of Alik

I know he thinks I’m weak, too pathetic to fight back. Too scared to take a chance. I get it. Once upon a time, maybe I was weak. Maybe I still am.

But I’m no one’s whore.

I bite.Hard.

Teeth clenching.

Mouth filling with blood.

Ears piercing with the train whistle that comes from Creeper’s mouth.

I stay latched onto him to a count of two before letting go and shooting to my feet, flinging the gravel in his eyes, which was completely unnecessary because he falls to the ground in agony, cupping his privates. I hurry to my Explorer then speed away, gravel flying up and clouding Creeper’s image in my rearview.

After today, hopefully I'll never see him again.

If I do… I am so fucked.

22

ALIK

It’s been a long day.

Too long.

Too much time has been spent speaking to people not worth my breath just to get answers on Nikita that nobody has. His lawyer says he’s being charged with murder of an informant—Agent Cullin—and that his DNA was found at the scene. But that’s impossible. I killed Agent Cullin, and Nikita wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t even in the warehouse.

It doesn’t make sense.

He’s the Pakhan. A mob boss. Perhaps we’ve crossed lines other organizations wouldn’t have, but the police planting flimsy evidence just to take Nikita out when they know we’ll find a way to fix it is dangerous. He’s unhinged. I can picture him now, pacing his cage like a tiger, hungry for the opportunity to strike.

He’s the Pakhan. We must defend him. We must takeaction,despite our reservations regarding his leadership. It seems obvious to me, and yet my brothers…

I curl my lip and shake my head to clear my thoughts as the lake house comes into view up ahead. The roses in the passenger seat pull my attention, and I stare at them a moment, suddenlywondering if I should’ve gotten something else. Daisies. Tulips… That ends my knowledge of flowers.

Sunflowers. Maybe Olive likes sunflowers. I wish I’d asked. We seem to know the big things about each other, but I’m missing too much of the little stuff.

Where did she learn to draw?

Who did she get her cinnamon hair from?

What does she do on the first spring day after a harsh winter?

These things have never mattered, but suddenly … they do.

I look forward as I turn into the drive and pull behind her SUV. This morning, it was fine, but now the bumper hangs inches from the ground, and the green paint is struck with silver streaks of metal that’s been dented in.

What the fuck?

After parking, I slowly stalk past the SUV, my eyebrows pinching as I inspect the damage. The sun has begun to set, but no lights come through the windows of the house when I get to the unlocked back door.

“Olive?” I call, stepping into the dim kitchen. My heart beats faster in the silence, trepidation working its way into my chest.

“Olive?” I call out again, louder this time.

No answer.

I do a short sweep of the house, my throat closing more with each empty room I come to. By the time I head back outside, I have to swallow the lump of coal in my throat just to be able to breathe.

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