Page 29 of Lethal Alliance

As I approach my apartment, tension begins to steal back into my body, the ever-present fear of discovery. I walk cautiously, pausing in the shadows and watching carefully before proceeding, but I can’t see anything amiss. My windows are dark, and although I watch for a time, I can’t see or hear any sign of a visitor.

Still.

I take my time climbing the stairs, careful to make no sound.

I turn the key in the lock and step into the darkened room. A quick scan of the shadows shows nothing out of place. I walk out onto the terrace, inhaling deeply. I might sleep out here tonight. Something in me is reluctant to relinquish the breath of fresh air on my face.

Or maybe it’s just that I like being near the outside steps and an escape route.

I lean over the terrace and listen to the sounds of flamenco as the Granada night comes alive, trying to recapture the calm I felt on the mountain earlier.

“Darya.”

Roman’s voice comes from the shadows behind me.

I don’t have to wonder who the voice belongs to. It’s haunted my every moment, sleeping or awake, since the ball.

He must have been waiting out here, on the terrace.

Behind the door?

I think through the options with clinical detachment, automatically wondering where I went wrong, what mistake I made that led him to me.

But the truth is, I don’t actually care. There’s only one thing I care about, only one question that has tortured me from the moment I ran from that ballroom.

“The children.” I grip the terrace wall, staring out over the valley, unable to face him. “Tell me what happened to the children.”

“Mickey is here with me.” I almost collapse with relief, sagging against the wall. “Alive and well,” Roman continues, “and currently testing the limits of the Wi-Fi in a restaurant just up the road. He insisted on coming to bring you home.”

I bury my head in my arms, breathing deeply to brace myself for what he isn’t saying. “The girls.” My voice seems to come from very far away. “Tell me, Roman. Tell me they’re unharmed.”

His pause is too long. Far too long.

My heart seizes, then sinks. The dark nightmares that have tortured my every moment burst into terrifying technicolor. “No,” I whisper, the word barely audible. “Oh please, God, no.”

“They’re alive.” Roman’s voice is rough. “But they’re gone, Darya. Ofelia and Masha are gone. The Orlovs took them.”

“No.” I grip the terracotta tiles hard enough to hurt my palms, my head shaking from side to side. I squeeze my eyes closed, as if I can block out the truth, as if when I open them the girls will be safely at home in their penthouse, instead of prisoners at the hands of the most sadistic bastard I’ve ever known. The merest thought of Vilnus Orlov touching Ofelia and Masha hits me with such horror that nausea threatens to engulf me entirely.

“It was Inger.” I can hear the deadly fury beneath Roman’s exhaustion. “She’s been working with the Orlovs, for some time now, it seems.”

“Inger!” I’m so surprised I turn around, which is a mistake. Roman in the flesh is more than I’m ready for. More than even my nighttime visions recalled.

He’s even taller and more imposing than my memories, his bulk more daunting given his two-day stubble and a dark suit that does nothing to lighten the deep shadows beneath his eyes or soften the hard line of his mouth. Going by his gaunt appearance, he’s slept even less than I have. His eyes are hard to read, but even in the dim light, I see them narrow when he notices my face.

“What the hell happened to you?” he snaps. “Who did that to your eye?”

My hand drifts up to touch the swelling I’d all but forgotten about. “I did it to myself. Battered wives tend to gain people’s trust easier than runaway girls.”

“No wonder your landlady looked at me as if I were the devil incarnate.” Despite his levity, there’s no humor in his voice, and he doesn’t move toward me. I want more than anything to throw myself into his arms. But despite my passionate relief at knowing the girls are actually alive, followed by my utter horror at the knowledge of who has them, I can’t quite lower my instinctive caution.

“How did you find me?” I wish I sounded more defiant. Instead, my voice has a quiet, defeated quality that makes me feel rather ashamed.

“You didn’t make it easy.” Roman folds his arms, leaning against the low wall, watching me. “Mickey found footage from the airport of you changing clothes with a Moroccan woman. It still took twenty-four hours and a hell of a lot of man power to track your movements.” The reluctant admiration in his voice does nothing to make me feel any better.

“If you found me, then the Orlovs can, too.” I’m astonished my voice still works.

“They won’t if you come home with me.”

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