Page 16 of Cruel Promise

But going back to my apartment means seeing my mom’s body.

And that’s when it finally hits me.

The tears.

I collapse onto my knees and sob with everything inside me. The pain in my chest hurts so much, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to properly breathe again.

A car pulls up next to me, and a man steps out.

It’s Nikolai.

“You didn’t make it far,” he comments.

I can’t stop crying, and I hate that he can see me like this. He’s a monster. He doesn’t deserve my tears.

With a sigh, he crouches beside me. “The sidewalk is filthy. Get up and into the car. I’ll take you back home.”

“Just so you can hurt me?” I spit out.

“No. So I can marry you. You can’t run from me again, Ava. You are mine. And once we’re married, you’ll understand that. Now, don’t make me drag you back into the car. But I will if you don’t cooperate.”

I stare at the sidewalk ahead of me through my blurry eyes. It goes on and on and on. I would never make it far with Nikolai after me.

“Ava, get in the car,” he adds in a surprisingly gentler tone.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

“None of that matters to me.” Standing up, he opens the passenger door for me. The stare he gives me is intense and patient and says so many things while also saying nothing.

I have nowhere to go.

So, I get up and get into the car because it’s easier. And right now, I want easy. This pain is going to eat me alive, and I can’t bear it much longer.

Nikolai shuts the door behind me, locking me inside. He’s going to make me marry him.

I’m powerless to stop it.

Chapter

Three

NIKOLAI

The table is crowded with men all trying to place bets. Most of them are losing the poker game whereas I’m winning.

I tend to win. And it isn’t because I’m naturally gifted at poker. It’s because no wants me to lose and punish them for it.

I’m a fair loser. But my reputation precedes me. No man or woman wants to get on my bad side.

It’s evident that one man is losing the most. He keeps putting more and more chips into the game and doesn’t get any in return.

“Do you need help?” I ask, leaning over to talk to him.

He’s older—probably in his fifties—with a sour face and greasy gray hair. “I don’t need any fucking help,” he mutters.

“Ok. I just saw you were losing a lot and wanted to offer my services.”

“I don’t need any help.”

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