Page 126 of Inked Adonis

Though, what he would want with me back under his roof, I have no idea.

I wrench my attention back to the task at hand: forward motion. One step at a time; that’s all I can do.

Until I get to the bottom and wonder if I was better off jumping from the roof instead.

It’s the first time I’ve heard my father speak in over a year. Goosebumps break out across my arms and legs like a rash.

“Yeah… It’s a stroke of fuckin’ luck, really. She’ll be laid up for a while.”

I can’t stop myself from leaning forward, from peeking around the door into the kitchen to see who he’s talking to and why he’s talking about me.

He’s at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, video-chatting with someone I can’t see. The screen casts a sickly blue glow across his face, emphasizing the new creases around his eyes, the grey threading through his hair.

“She could choose to be laid up anywhere.” The voice coming through the speakers of his ancient laptop is muffled, but feminine.

I grip the wall next to me for support. What little strength I have is wearing thin and the room is starting to wobble.

“Don’t you worry about that.” His tone carries the same arrogant certainty it always has, like the world should bend to his will simply because he demands it. “I’ll keep her here.”

Keep me here?

Hell no. Absolutely not.

Even if this is my dad’s attempt to make amends for being the actual, literal worst for my entire life, I’m not staying here so he can play Dr. Dad.

Before I can hightail it out the front door and wave down the first car I see to get me as far from this house as geographically possible, the woman speaks again.

“Keeping her there is one thing. We need to convince her to help us.”

Why does that voice sound so familiar? My body must know what my mind can’t grasp, because I shiver.

“Leave it to me,” Dad replies. “I’ll convince her that helping us nail Litvinov is in her best interest.”

My heart thumps against my ribcage. I swallow, but all I can taste is the dry roughness of my own tongue.

Unable to help myself, I creep forward… just as my father sits back in his chair, revealing the person on the screen.

I choke back a gasp.

No.

But there’s no denying it.

Katerina Alekseeva isn’t a person you forget.

44

NOVA

He didn’t see me.

If he had, he’d be right here in this bathroom right now, fist raised, mouth sneering, violence seeping out of every pore. And I’d be cowering against the tile with cold sweat drenching my body and my throat closing up around all the screams I couldn’t let loose.

It wouldn’t be the first time, either.

I lean my crutch in the corner and grip the edge of the pedestal sink, trying to ground myself in this nightmare. My hands leave sweaty prints on the porcelain.

Tom Pierce and Katerina Alekseeva.

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