Page 23 of His Hold

But I already know it’s too late. Her skin’s turning pale and her breathing is shallow. Poison. Delivered right here, under Kirill’s watch. An insult he’ll never let stand.

I kneel beside her, checking her pulse even though I can see the truth in her lifeless eyes.

“Who the fuck did this?” he demands, though he directs his question to the crowd, to nobody in particular.

I look up at him with my hands still pressed to Alina’s throat.

“She’s been poisoned,” I stand then wipe my hands on a handkerchief someone shoves at me.

The atmosphere is now charged with a different kind of energy—fear and suspicion. Kirill’s face turns a dangerous shade of red.

“Find out who did this,” he snarls at me. “No one leaves until we know.”

I scan the crowd, looking through faces that shift between pale and guilty. Too many suspects, too many possibilities. As people chatter, I’m already forming theories. This smacks of Eganov's style, a gutless rat who has had it in for Kirill. Or perhaps it’s the same player who trashed Katya’s apartment. The timelines are too close to be random.

Kirill’s security locks the exits, and I start my hunt. Alina’s body is moved. The guests try to act nonchalant, but the air sizzles with panic.

I pull Ivan aside, my man with a knack for eavesdropping. “See anything out of the ordinary?” I ask.

“Nothing on Alina. But Old Ivanov’s been too chummy with certain faces lately. Could be him.”

“Ivanov is always the suspect until he’s not. But let’s make sure he isn’t this time,” I grunt. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll deal with the rest.”

I move towards the back, through the kitchen and out into the alley. I light a cigarette, taking a long drag, forcing my racing thoughts into submission. If the poisoner is still inside, flushing them out will take skill and patience, both of which I have in spades. If it’s connected to Katya, then I might have to take a look at the whole thing about her sister’s disappearance. I can’t let her continue to think I’m the villain in her story. I’ve had enough of that role in my own life.

But a part of me—an unwelcome part—worries for Katya. If these events are linked, she might be in danger. I’ve told her I’m not interested in her case, yet here I am, thinking of her safety. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. And that’s what gnaws at me, makes me want to punch something until my knuckles bleed.

Back inside, Kirill corners me. “Nikolai, any leads?”

“Working on it,” I say, then I elaborate. “Eganov’s my prime suspect. But I’m not sure, he wasn’t even here today. But I’ll find out.”

He nods, his face a twisted mask of rage. “Do it. And make them pay.”

My mind’s already running through the possibilities. Someone wanted to send a message. And I’ve got no idea who might be behind it.

Katya’s apartment was trashed only days ago. These two events happening around me, about the same time, aren’t a coincidence. Someone’s trying to get my attention. And now, they’ve dragged Kirill into it.

I glance at Alina’s lifeless body one last time. This isn’t an accident. Two hits, two attempts to fuck with my life. And if it’s not connected, then I’m losing my edge.

But I know better. This was planned. And if they’re coming for me, then I’ll be ready.

Chapter 7

Katya

The memory of Nikolai in my apartment hasn’t left my mind since it happened.

I can still feel the cold steel of the gun pressed to my throat, the way his fingers tightened around my wrists and throat when he pinned me against the wall. I still feel his hardness when I close my eyes. And the worst part? I keep reliving it. Not just the terror, but the way his eyes burned into me. His lips on my pussy, his mouth delivering the best orgasm of my entire life.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Nikolai Ramensky, tearing through my life like a hurricane.

I thought I’d feel relieved when he left my apartment that night, but I didn’t. I felt exposed. Furious. And something else—something I hate admitting out loud. I felt hooked. Addicted to the danger I feel around him. That insatiable hunger that makes you want to rip your own skin off just to feel something real.

My obsession with him is becoming an illness. And I hate myself for it.

When I should be focusing on the second break-in that happened more recently, I’m thinking constantly about a man who has told me explicitly to stay off his back.

I came home two nights ago to find my apartment trashed. My drawers flung open, some of my clothes shredded, and my furniture overturned like someone had been searching for something. Or maybe just trying to send a message.

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