Page 12 of Her Darkest Possession
When I glance over, my heart nearly stops.
Ryan fucking Bennet.
The man who helped destroy my life. The man who got me that internship, and who told me that he loved me for the two years that we dated at Columbia.
Who practically gift-wrapped me up for his monster of a father that awful summer.
His chestnut hair is styled differently than I remember, and he's wearing an expensive suit that's a far cry from the casual clothes I knew him in.
Our eyes meet, and I watch recognition bloom across his face—first confusion, then surprise, and then something dark and hungry.
His gaze flicks to the hospital door, taking in my name, before they return to me.
I quickly turn away, angling my body toward the window and away from both Marcus and the doorway. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as I pray that Ryan will keep walking.
But then, as if calling me from the depth of my nightmares, a single word comes out of his lips.
"Amelia?"
4
ANATOLY
The last twelvehours have been hell. I've torn through the Bronx with my men, searching every corner where Indigo might have run after escaping that train.
But her trail has gone completely cold.
I rub my eyes and feel the exhaustion settling into my bones as I drive through the streets for what feels like the hundredth time.
My phone rings every once in a while with updates now that I've sent out feelers to every hospital in the area. But so far, nothing.
No woman matching Indigo's description.
If there was at least one piece of good news, it was that Svetlana wasn't dead by the time Roma found her bleeding by the side of the road.
She's still hanging on in the ICU at Weill Cornell in the Upper East Side. And the doctors say the next twenty-four hours are critical. But she's still alive. And more importantly, she's still accounted for.
Which is the opposite of what I can say for Amara.
In spite of my best efforts, there's no sign of her. I have no idea if she's either still with Lola or if she's been handed off to someone else.
My fist hits the steering wheel. "Fuck!"
How could I have let this happen? How could I not have seen this coming?
I take small comfort in the knowledge that Grisha is still in NYPD custody with a gunshot wound to his leg. No firearm was found on him, but a few witnesses willing to testify identified him as the shooter. I know Taras will have him out before morning. But for now, he's off the streets.
And he's fucking hurting.
Serves him right for trying to hurt my wife.
The thought of Grisha fuming in a holding cell while nursing his wounded leg brings a small smile to my lips.
Indigo shot him. She escaped him, wounded him, and disappeared.
Mybritvochkaindeed.
I just wish I can find her.
