Page 75 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva
Thick. Wrong. Heavy, and pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe or even think.
I sat on the edge of the couch, a secondhand blanket draped over my shoulders.
The safe house air had cooled, the old heater barely taking the edge off the chill in the air. It wasn’t the cold, however, that had my skin crawling.
It was something else.
Something I couldn’t wrap my head around.
The lamp next to me buzzed once and dimmed. Again. As if it were warning me. Or counting down to something ominous. The shadows in the room were longer and darker than necessary, sending that foreboding chill down my spine.
I brushed a hand down my arm, trying to shake off goosebumps. Maybe it was the isolation. Maybe I was losing my mind. But I couldn’t ignore the sensation nibbling at the back of my neck.
I’d been cautious. Changed places twice. Moved only at night. Bought groceries in new places. Never used the same location twice. I didn’t use cards. I didn’t use my name.
And yet…the air tonight felt as if it knew me.
I forced myself up, stretched the stiffness out of my legs, and walked across the room to the kitchen.
The quiet clinking of the drawer opening sounded loud in the stillness as I removed the small knife I kept there, the blade already dulled from use but sufficient for close work.
My heart sank to my stomach when a sudden knock on the door vibrated in the apartment.
It was loud and solid. Three beats, like whoever was at the other side of the door was running out of patience.
My blood curdled, my mind fogging with confusion.
I inhaled deeply, reminding myself to remain calm. No one knew I was here, no one that mattered anyway. It had to be the landlord or someone who didn’t know who I actually was.
Regardless of what I told myself, fear still clawed itself around me like a cloak of death.
I didn’t move.
The knife trembled slightly in my hand.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, attempting to keep the sharpness from my tone.
There was no answer.
I tiptoed cautiously to the front door, my bare feet barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. I held my breath as I put one eye to the peephole.
The porch was empty. Not a soul in sight.
I stepped back, adrenaline combining with confusion. A wave of nausea crashed into me as my stomach twisted.
It was possibly a mistake.
Maybe someone knocked on the wrong door, or the wind rattled the door, and I mistook it for a knock.
Letting out a breath, I let the tension fall off my shoulders.
And that was when my nightmare came to pass.
Glass exploded in a thunderclap, shattering across the floor like diamonds. I shrieked—more of a gasp than a scream—just as a black-clad, masked figure rolled through the gap with an inhuman quickness.
I noticed just two things: the flash of a gun…and the lack of any uncertainty in the way he moved.
Panic tightened around my chest like a vise.
