Page 25
Without signaling, and at the absolute last second, he jerks the wheel, veering off the highway to take the Coldlake off-ramp.
I glance over my shoulder, my heart pounding. “Where are we going?”
“To get that fucking wrist looked at.”
Hope hits me so fast I barely feel the throbbing in my arm. He’s taking me to a hospital. I don’t even care about getting my bones set, because a hospital means security guards. Nurse stations with panic buttons. An X-ray technician who’s alone with me behind a lead-lined door. All I need is two seconds to blurt out that I’ve been kidnapped. I don’t want to get Zevran into any trouble, but he’s left me no choice.
I keep my face completely blank, staring out the window, trying not to look like a woman whose entire body has just flooded with sweet relief.
Coldlake is a mid-sized city with a sprawling suspension bridge passing over the dark water that gives the place its name. I expect us to head downtown, but Zevran takes a sharp right, heading deeper into the outskirts.
Okay. Maybe he prefers a quieter urgent care? I can work with that. I scan the road ahead for red emergency arrows.
The neighborhood quickly turns residential, single-family homes giving way to secluded estates, and a cold trickle of unease settles in my stomach. Hospitals aren’t hidden behind private residential hedges. Where the hell are we going?
We turn down a narrow, tree-lined street and pull up to a gate—black iron, towering, and lethal. Through the bars, I can see a massive, severe gray house. There is no sign. No waiting room.
My hope evaporates instantly.
Zevran leans out his window and punches a button on the intercom.
A sharp, irritable voice barks through the speaker. “What?”
“It’s Zevran Komarov.”
A long, heavy pause.
“Ever heard of a phone, Komarov? This had better be urgent.”
A buzzer hums, and the iron gates swing slowly inward. Zevran accelerates along the driveway.
Hard-looking men with tactical holsters watch us with cold eyes as we step out of the car. Before we even reach the porch, the heavy front door swings open, revealing a tall man around thirty with unruly blond hair, tattoos on his throat and arms, and a scowl that could curdle milk. He scours us both from head to toe, then snaps in accusation, “Neither of you are dying.”
“Viktoriya’s wrist is broken,” Zevran says.
The man glares down at me, taking in the way I’m cradling my swollen arm. Disbelief flashes across his face. “A broken wrist? Take her to a goddamn hospital.”
“Not an option.”
The stranger’s eyes narrow into slits. “I thought you pulled innocent little girlies out of whorehouses. What’d she do, kill her pimp?”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” I burst out, my face burning.
Neither man even looks at me.
“Simeon’s gang had her,” Zevran tells him.
“Those idiots? I thought you put them in the ground eighteen months ago.”
“Pyotr Simeon scraped a few byki together and resumed trading live merchandise.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why the hell did you bring her to me?”
Zevran hesitates, his jaw tightening. “It’s complicated.”
“Lucky fucking me,” the man mutters.
He turns on his heel, leaving the heavy front door wide open. Zevran waves me inside. The interior is surprisingly high-end—minimalist, dark wood, and immaculate. The blond man leads us through a broad lounge, down a narrow hallway, and pulls open a plain wooden door, immediately disappearing down a set of steep basement stairs.
