Page 19 of Dark Promise

“Yeah. Keep driving. Don’t let them get too close.”

“Chicago?” I ask. “Is that supposed to mean something—”

The first jolt comes out of nowhere, slamming me forward as something rams the back of the limo. My scream rips through the air, shrill and involuntary, as I clutch the seat for balance. The tires screech against the icy road, and the entire car fishtails violently, my stomach lurching with each wild swing.

I twist to look at Nikolai, who remains eerily calm, his body braced against the leather seat like he’s done this a thousand times. His sharp gaze flicks to the rear window, then back to me.

He reaches over and yanks my seatbelt tighter.

“Hold on,” he orders, his voice as cold and steady as the snow swirling outside.

A second jolt slams me forward so hard the seatbelt bites into my chest. My heart pounds like a war drum, my breath shallow and fast. The sleek interior of the limo feels impossibly small and fragile as the sound of screeching metal and roaring engines fills the air.

Nikolai pulls out a sleek, black semi-automatic. His window hums as it lowers. Icy wind rushes in, stealing my breath. He leans out, his profile harsh and unyielding against the dark night.

The muzzle of his gun flashes against the snow-blurred darkness. He squeezes off three shots.

I twist to see the headlights of the pursuing car swerve wildly, the beams cutting erratic arcs through the swirling snow. For a moment, it looks like the car is lunging sideways, the beams of light slashing across the trees in a dizzying, disjointed rhythm. Then, the vehicle skids sharply, the headlights dipping and tilting as the car loses control, the beams sweeping across the road and into the dark forest beyond. A spray of snow erupts in the air like a wave, illuminated briefly in the twin cones of light. Then the car’s headlights jerk violently to one side and vanish, swallowed by the dense shadows of the trees.

The absence of those lights leaves the world darker than before, the snowstorm devouring everything in sight. For a heartbeat, all I can hear is the pounding of my own pulse.

Nikolai settles on the seat and closes the window. I have a second to feel hopeful, to believe we are safe.

And then the world tilts, and my fingers scrabble for anything solid as the limo skids on a patch of ice.

“Piotr!” Nikolai’s voice is sharper now, edged with urgency.

The limo spins helplessly, careening off the road. My scream catches in my throat as we slam into something solid—a tree?—the deafening crunch of metal ringing in my ears.

The force of the crash flips the limo onto its side. I’m thrown against the window, my head smashing into the cold glass with a sickening thud. Pain explodes in my skull, white-hot and blinding, and the world blurs.

For a moment, everything is still. Silent. My limbs feel heavy, unresponsive. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, threatening to swallow me whole.

Then I notice is the smell—sharp, acrid, unmistakable. Gasoline. Panic surges through me, cutting through the haze in my mind like a blade. My breathing is ragged, shallow, and my chest aches with every inhale.

I try to move, but the world tilts dangerously, and nausea churns in my stomach. The glass is cold against my cheek. I force my eyes open, wincing at the brightness of the snow-covered ground outside the shattered window.

“Sabina,” a voice cuts through the fog, sharp and commanding.

I turn my head, my movements sluggish, to see Nikolai already pushing the door open above him. His black coat is streaked with snow, his expression a mix of urgency and control.

“Sabina,” Nikolai says. “Get up, or we’ll both burn.”

6

Nikolai

The scentof gasoline cuts through the icy air, biting and pungent, with a hint of something chemical and sinister beneath it. The limo lies on its side. I force the door above me open with my shoulder. The metal groans in protest, the frame bent and jagged, bits of glass cascading around me. The wind bites hard as it rushes in, stinging every exposed inch of skin.

My attention focuses on the woman slumped below me, her pale, beautiful face streaked with blood. She looks like something carved out of marble—perfect, untouchable. But sheistouchable. Bruised. Bleeding. Mortal. And I feel every inch of her fragility like acid in my chest.

“Sabina,” I bark.

She stirs, blinking sluggishly, her lashes dusted with flakes of snow that have swirled inside along with the wind. Her lips move, but no words come. A streak of crimson marks her from temple to jaw.

“We need to go,” I say, reaching down and catching hold of her upper arms.

“What—?” Sabina’s voice is faint, hoarse, like the word dragged itself free.

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