Page 14 of Dark Promise

When I exit the museum, it’s started to snow. Big white flakes are falling. I take a deep breath of the cold air and let it out slowly, watching the frozen puff. It’s freezing. I’m wearing a long cashmere coat, warm enough to hurry from the door of the museum to the car, but definitely not warm enough for a longwalk. I wasn’t expecting the temperature to drop this quickly. When I left the hotel earlier, the sun was still up and it was several degrees warmer.

I feel…free. Freer than I have in a very long time. I gather that pleasant feeling around me like a fur-lined cloak.

The limo pulls up to the curb. The driver rounds the car and opens the door, and I slide in, phone in hand as I text Nadia.

"Roberto is officially history. Onward!"

Her reply is almost immediate:a shocked emoji followed by clinking champagne glasses. God, I love her.

I close my eyes as I settle back against the seat, finally letting out a long, relieved sigh. But something feels… off. The air carries a strange heaviness, the faint, unpleasant tang of leather and sweat. A prickle of unease crawls up my spine.

My eyelids pop open. The driver blocks the door and a glance reveals an unfamiliar face. This is not the man who brought me to the museum.

I start to slide across the seat, intent on reaching the other door, but there is a second man sitting at the far end of the opposite bench. He is hulking, his shaved head gleaming under the dim interior light. His face is rough, a jagged scar running along his jawline, and he’s smiling—but there’s no humor in it.

My heart lurches into my throat, and my fingers tighten around my phone.

“Evening, Miss Russo,” the bigger one says, his voice a low, gravelly growl. “You’re coming with us.”

“Excuse me?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but my pulse is thundering in my ears. Speed and surprise are my best weapons. I don’t squander them.

The driver’s bulk blocks my escape, his eyes gleaming with malice. Every instinct screams for me to move, to act, to do something before it’s too late. He bends slightly, about to close the door and trap me with the second man. Instinct takes over.

I shift in my seat, planting one hand against the center console for leverage, bracing myself with the other. My heart thunders as I lift my leg, the glossy black heel of my Louboutin catching the dim light for the briefest moment before I drive it down with every ounce of strength I have.

The sharp point slams into the driver’s knee, right at the joint. He lets out a guttural yell, his leg buckling as he staggers back, his imposing frame suddenly unsteady.

I shove past him, using his imbalance to slip free. The icy wind and swirling snow outside bite at my face. My pulse pounds, adrenaline flooding my veins. But just as I stumble forward, a hand clamps down on my wrist, jerking me back so hard I nearly lose my footing.

“Let go of me!” I snap, twisting violently. I slam the point of my heel down on the man’s instep, and he curses—but he doesn’t release me.

“Feisty,” he sneers, yanking me closer until I can smell his sour breath.

The bigger one is out of the car now. He steps forward, his massive bulk filling the narrow space between me and freedom. His gaze is flat, dead, like he’s already decided I’m not walking away tonight.

“Shut her up,” he growls, his voice like gravel.

Panic burns hot in my chest. Every instinct screams for me to fight. My pulse is a chaotic roar, drowning out reason. I thrash, kicking and clawing, my breaths coming in shallow bursts as Iswing my purse at his face, the strap tangling around my wrist like a lifeline.

I sink my nails into the lean one’s hand, drawing blood, and he yelps, releasing me.

I spin, slamming into another man. I hadn’t realized there was a third person with them.

My head jerks back and I see his face.

“Nikolai,” I breathe, the name slipping out like a curse. My voice trembles, and I hate that it does.

He looks like something out of a nightmare—a beautiful, dangerous nightmare. His black coat whips in the icy wind, snowflakes clinging to the dark waves of his hair, and his piercing blue eyes glow with a deadly intensity that makes my heart lurch. For a brief moment, those eyes lock onto mine, and something in me steadies, though I don’t trust it.

Then his gaze shifts, landing on the men, and his expression hardens.

“Sabina,” he says, his voice low and smooth, yet brimming with menace. “Get behind me.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command, and everything in me bristles against it. Nikolai Ivanov is no one’s savior, least of all mine.

When I don’t move quickly enough to suit him, he gives me a little shove.

“Behind me. Now.”

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