Page 8 of For a Price

“The ransom for Roman Volkova. The dude you kidnapped is nottheRoman Volkova.”

“He sure as hell introduced himself that way.”

“I’m waiting to hear back from my contact. It’s up in the air if they’ll be willing to pay to get the guy you got back. You’ll just have to wait.”

Click.

The line goes dead on me. I release a frustrated scream that rips straight from my throat, then I almost toss my phone across the room. Instead, I aim my ire at the rickety table and chairs in the kitchen area, stubbing my toe.

But the throbbing pain is worth it if just to expel some anger. Some of the frustration boiling up inside me.

How the hell could they stickmewith the guy? What am I supposed to do with him? What if he does really break out of his binds? Then what?

My belly roils at the possibility.

I slide my phone into the back pocket of my pants and then scan the kitchen. Violence might not be my favorite thing in the world—mostly because I grew up experiencing plenty of it as a stray on the streets—but it’s probably smart to at least put up an act of self-defense.

Wrapping my fingers around the handle of a kitchen knife, I pluck it from the wooden block it’s slotted into. I’m turning away from the counter when my eyes lock with the other blinking pair in the room.

TheRussian man’seyes.

Dark and blue. Fuzzy and unfocused.

SHIT!

Shit, shit, shit!

He’s awake!

I spin away all over again, trying to hide my face from his view. But it might already be too late because who knows how long he’s been awake.

I was so preoccupied with my phone conversation with Finch that he could’ve been quietly watching me the entire time. I rush over to the backpack I brought with me for the job and wrap a scarf I’m carrying around the bottom half of my face.

Only my eyes and brow remain in view. With the kitchen knife still in hand, I brave another look at the man.

Sure enough, he’s outright staring from where he lays on the sunken-in sofa. His gaze meets mine to another flip of my belly as I come up short on words and realize I haven’t formed a plan.

Seconds pass where we’re locked into our prolonged stare and neither of us makes a sound.

If he can bust out of his zip ties, he hasn’t tried. He hasn’t moved at all.

“Uh…” I trail off, then I try again. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

The duct tape has peeled off his mouth and fallen to the sofa cushions. He goes so long without replying, I’m sure he won’t bother… until he does.

“You were after my father, devochka?*?”

“Sorry? Dev… what?”

“Wrong Volkova,” he says, his dark sapphire eyes lighting up. “That must be very disappointing.”

“No one’s disappointed,” I lie, tightening my grip on the knife. My insides feel shaky, like they might spill onto the outside. The knife I’m holding might slip out of my hand. “It’s just unplanned. But clearly you were listening to my conversation.”

“Who do you work for, devochka? Tell me.”

“I work for nobody. For myself.”

The humor that’s sparked in his gaze spreads to the rest of his rugged face—the hard lines fill out, his lips stretching into a slight grin that feels more ominous and threatening than humorous.

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