Page 133 of Inked Adonis

I hesitate, waiting for some kind of receipt—a voucher that says “Evil Deed Completed”that I can hand to my father as proof.

“Is that all?” I finally ask.

She exhales impatiently. “Unless you have something else to hand over…?”

“No, nothing.”

When she doesn’t say anything, I take that as my cue and turn tail towards the revolving doors.

My tongue has gone back to sandpaper roughness and the pain in my limbs is incapacitating. All I want to do right now is go back to the penthouse, pop a fistful of ibuprofen, and tunnel under my duvet for eighteen hours of dreamless sleep.

I’ll need the rest if I’m going to explain this to Sam in any coherent way.

And I’ll have to explain it to him somehow. Because once the Andropovs realize the server I handed to them was a dud, my father will follow through with his threats. He’ll rip Grams out of her home and stop paying for her care, and I’ll need Sam on my side if I’m going to save her.

He’ll understand, I tell myself as I limp to the curb.He’ll take care of you and Grams. Sam is a good man.

Just as I raise my arm to hail a cab, someone grabs my bandaged arm.

Instantly, I howl in pain, but whoever is holding onto me doesn’t care. They squeeze tighter until I’m sure they’re going to snap my arm clean in two.

“Get off!” The words come out in a plea. I’m too desperate for the pain to stop to be angry.

I double over, looking to the side just long enough to catch a flash of icy-blue eyes and a bloodthirsty smile.

Ilya squeezes my arm, grinning as I cry out in pain. “Looks like you could use a lift.”

He shoves me into the back of a black SUV. I’m unfortunately familiar with that concept, but the agony that ripples down my arm and through my leg is new. I’m sure whatever stitches I have are ripped. Blood is leaching through the bandage on my arm, and I don’t even want to think what that means for my fracture.

I roll onto my good side, groaning softly, just as Ilya slams the door closed.

“Let me go.”

I know it’s no use, but I have to at least ask.

He clicks his tongue. “No can do.”

He raps once on the ceiling. The tires screech, and I flop against the backseat with another whimper of pain.

“Up you go.” Ilya hauls me out of the well between the seats and slumps me against the car door. I’m in so much pain, I can’t even argue with him as he drags a black pillow case over my head.

“Wh-where are you taking me?”

“Worried you’ll miss an appointment?” He snorts. “You’ve already visited your father, popped into the penthouse to steal from my brother, and then hand-delivered the goods to his enemies. Busy, busy day you’ve had.”

So it was Ilya in the SUV all along. I’d say I’m surprised, but the pain lancing through me is too intense to even register an emotion. It’s just a soft, mentalOh, of course.

And then right back to the regularly scheduled programming of trying not to vomit from the agony.

“You can try to argue, but I’ve got it all on tape,” he informs me smugly. “And as of two minutes ago, I sent that video to Samuil. He’s gonna be so disappointed in his little lover. He was so sure he could trust you.”

“He can,” I pant, the air inside this pillowcase mask already growing stale and humid. “He can trust me. It’s not— I was doing itforSamuil. To help.”

But even as I say it, the thought of Sam opening his phone to see clips of me prancing into the fortress of his enemies to pass over sensitive intel makes me even more nauseous than the pain.

Because I know what’s going to happen.

That glimmer of gold I saw in him will disappear. It’ll get clouded behind black rage, black betrayal. His eyes will go cold and he won’t look at me with love or tenderness or hope.

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