Page 60 of Terror at the Gates

“Maybe I was stupid to think I could escape my name,” I said after a long, miserable pause.

“Someone always has to be first,” said Zahariev.

“Being first won’t matter if I’m dead,” I said.

“No one’s going to touch you,” said Zahariev.

He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking—and if you had listened to me, no one would have done so tonight.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I want you to find those men. I want justice.”

“For you or for Tori?” he asked.

“Why not for both of us?” I asked.

He studied me in the quiet that followed and then lifted his hand, looping a stray piece of my hair around his finger as he brushed it from my face.

“They won’t survive the week,” he said.

I shivered despite the warmth of his touch. Those were hands that had killed countless times. I rarely thought about it, but tonight I couldn’t escape it, because I’d just ordered the murders of four men.

But what disturbed me most was that I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse about it.

“Lisk has to know you will come for his men,” I said.

“I imagine he does,” said Zahariev. “You are assuming he cares.”

“You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

He chuckled.

“I guess that was a silly question,” I said as heat rushed to my face. “You are the definition of trouble.”

His smile widened. “You aren’t wrong,” he said. “But I appreciate the concern.”

There was a knock at the door.

I froze for an instant and hated my reaction. I’d never been afraid to answer my door, but that was before I’d had my gun taken away.

“It’s just the carpenter,” Zahariev said.

I let my breath escape slowly between my lips before I met his gaze. “I’m going to shower. I need…”

I needed to wash away the feel of those men, but something about saying it out loud felt like admitting that I’d failed, and though it wasn’t true, I couldn’t stop blaming myself.

“Don’t leave,” I whispered.

“Wasn’t thinking about it,” he said.

As I retreated to my bedroom, I slipped out of my jacket and left it on my bed before grabbing a set of clothes to change into. I glanced toward the living room as I returned to the bathroom. Zahariev had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his button-down. He was on the phone, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger like he had a headache.

Or likeIwas his headache.

It was probably the latter.

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