Page 148 of Bound By Revenge

Others knew it, too. Dmitri, in particular, seemed concerned. His worried glances said enough. But I didn’t care. Hurricane Kat was gone, likely forever, and nothing else mattered.

I stopped leaving my room. Most days, I barely got out of bed.Mybed. Not ours. Not anymore.

Instead of wasting my time and energy doing things I don’t care about with people who don’t matter, I spent those long, empty hours replaying every moment of our time together. Over and over again, I remembered the stupidly reckless, heartbreakingly brave woman who risked her life to retrieve my diamond. To protect me—me!—from the dangers of protectingher.

What I wish I could forget—what I’ll never forgive myself for—is how I failed her. How I betrayed her.

I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

But I’m too much of a selfish bastard to care.

So I call her. Repeatedly.

By the time I hit over two-fifty unanswered calls, it finally sinks in—she’s not going to pick up. She’s not calling back. Honestly, she’s probably blocked me. She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me.

So I do what any totally well-adjusted, not-at-all-obsessive guy would do: I track her phone.

Was it stalkerish? Maybe. Psychotic? Sure. Did I care? No.

While I’m at it, I pull up surveillance footage from her neighborhood—because why not?—and check her internet activity. Turns out, she’s been Googling “how to move on from a toxic relationship” and binge-watchingLover, Stalker, Killeron Netflix. Oh, andFatal Attraction. Subtle,kiska. Real subtle. When she starts playingEastern Promiseson repeat, I start to get worried.

My concern rapidly escalates to full-blown alarm when I check her credit card statement and see how much wine and ice cream she’s purchased in the past few days. And designer shoes. So many pairs of designer shoes.

But for the first time in days, I feel something close to hope.

I jump out of bed, shower, dress, and race to her. The traffic is maddening—I should’ve taken the chopper—and I curse it the whole way.

Because I can't wait.

I have to see her.

When I get to her apartment, the door’s wide open.

Someone’s inside, rifling through her belongings.

I step in quietly, careful not to make a sound.

Usually, nothing would have delighted me more than thoroughly examining Kat’s place and all the little things that make it her home. But as I take in the ransacked living room and the blonde woman rifling through her belongings, snooping is the last thing on my mind.

She stands with her back to me, wearing a light sweater and jeans, her blonde hair a chaotic, haphazard mess. When she turns and spots me, she gasps, clutching her chest as ifI’mthe intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demands, her voice sharp and breathless.

“Who the fuck amI? Who the fuck are you? Where’s Kat?”

She narrows her brown eyes at me, huffing like I’m the one in the wrong. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know.” She crosses her arms. “And, unlike you, I happen to be a concerned party with keys to this place and every right to be here. So I’ll ask you one more time, mister: who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?”

Her attitude tempts me to call her bluff, but I hold back. The last thing I need is to antagonize this woman. In fact, getting her on my side could be my best move yet.

“You must be A.J.,” I say under my breath. I hold out a hand. “I’m Nikolai Stefanovich. I’m looking for Kat.”

A.J.’s eyebrows shoot up so high I half expect them to disappear into her hairline. She reluctantly shakes my hand, scowling. “Oh, I bet you are, Nikolai.”

Her tone catches me off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I think you know.” She crosses her arms again, staring me down. “I’ve heardallabout you.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I sure hope not.”

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