Page 125 of Inked Athena

He nods, already moving to escort me. We hustle down the aisle, dodging condolences and curious stares. When we reach the bathroom, Myles does a quick sweep of the inside before positioning himself outside like a sentinel.

“All clear,” he says. “I’ll keep watch.”

I duck inside, grateful for a moment alone. The black-marbled bathroom is freezing cold, but right now, all I care about is blessed relief.

I pee, finish up, and head to the sink. My mind is already wandering to what fresh hell might await us at the reception. The counter is ice-cold under my palms as I lean forward to check my makeup in the mirror.

That’s when I hear it—a dull thump outside the door, like a sack of meat hitting tile.

My throat closes. “Myles?”

Silence is the only thing that answers. Not even the shuffle of feet or murmur of voices from the hallway.

I grip the edge of the counter, willing my racing heart to slow.It’s nothing. Just paranoia. Pregnancy hormones making me jumpy.

But Myles would answer. He always answers.

I edge toward the door, my heels clicking against marble in a staccato rhythm that matches my pulse. Three steps away, I freeze.

Dark red seeps under the door, spreading across the black tile like spilled wine.

Blood.

The metallic scent hits my nose at the same time as the recognition. My stomach heaves. I clamp a hand over my mouth, stumbling backward until I hit the wall. My other hand curves protectively over my belly.

The door handle starts to turn.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Think, Nova. Think. What would Samuil do?

My phone is in my purse—which Myles was holding for me.

I scan the bathroom desperately. No windows. No other exits. Just me, my unborn child, and whatever horror waits on the other side of that door.

The handle keeps turning with excruciating precision, like whoever’s out there wants me to feel every microsecond of terror.

I kick off my heels. If I’m about to die, it won’t be tripping over four-inch Louboutins.

The door creaks open.

And a familiar head of platinum blonde hair sneaks in.

“Your watchdog is taking a little nap.” Katerina’s whisper slithers down my spine. She shuts the door behind her, then looks down in distaste when she realizes she’s stepped in Myles’s blood. Her nose wrinkles.

I try to speak and fail, so I swallow, lick my lips, and try again. “Did you kill him?”

Kat laughs. “I’d worry more about yourself, sweetheart.” She saunters toward me. “I must say, you’ve been a delightful pest. Leading us on such a merry chase across Europe. Or was it me who was leading you? Impossible to tell, really.”

My back presses against cold stone. I force myself to meet her ice-blue stare, channeling every ounce of Samuil’s steel into my voice. “If you’re going to kill me, spare me the fucking lecture and get on with it.”

She laughs—a tinkling sound like broken crystal. “Oh, darling. I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.” She raises her hand to reveal a snub-nosed pistol. “This is just to ensure your cooperation.”

“Cooperation in what?” I ask.

“Excellent question. First, you’re going to help me ruin Samuil. If you play nice, maybe I’ll let you live long enough to see your bastard born.”

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