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He was the one who trembled when she touched him. His eyes dilated and his lips pressed tightly together, as if he was holding in pain.
She wondered if he was injured, but now that she’d taken his hand, she couldn’t seem to let go. Her fingers clung to him, the nails digging into his glove, not skin at least.
He didn’t grip her back. His hand hung loose and limp within both of her own.
He no longer looked at her. Instead, he faced the open doorway and tugged her forward.
She’d been unconscious when she’d first been brought there. The house he led her through had been elegant at one point, probably just a short time before, with sconces at regular intervals along the hallway and laced-metal table legs and deep pile carpets plush beneath her bare feet. Blood stained the carpet on the stairs as they descended.
There was a smell swamping her senses. Not coppery or acrid, and it wasn’t wholly unpleasant. No, the smell filling her was almost sweet, though with a vague underlay of something rotting.
Maybe that was from the bodies that were strewn around the house, but they were too fresh to have begun to rot. Gaping necks and other wounds still seeped blood.
Bullet holes decorated the walls and the furniture and even the doors. Whoever had been shooting had missed. Which made sense. The man who led her toward escape had no visible injuries.
What didn’t make sense was the way there were too many bodies for one man to have created. Especially to have come out of the ordeal unscathed. He no longer trembled or flinched under her punishing grip; he simply walked her forward into the winter evening.
She nearly pulled away as the fear of who else could be out there overwhelmed her, but the dark night was silent. They were alone.
The temperature had dropped again, but the sky above was clear. Alina knew stars twinkled down even if she couldn’t see many against the backdrop of city lights.
It took the man two tries to tug free of her; she was too dazed to give in to the first one. When she realized how tightly she was holding on to him, her hands fell away. She regretted letting go. He’d felt strong under her grip and having that link had made her feel less alone.
He climbed onto the porch again and crouched down to retrieve something, a bottle with a rag shoved inside and hanging over the lip. The rag was soon burning.
The flame was yellow with a hint of orange. It arced beautifully as he threw the bottle inside the open doorway. The sound of breaking glass cast a spell on Alina that wouldn’t let her look away. The rushing fire consumed the floor she’d just passed over, as if it were in a race with itself to erase everything.
The gloved man still showed no expression as he passed her and began to walk away.
Alina wondered if his expression would have been the same if she had chosen not to take his hand. Would he have left her to burn and felt nothing?
Smoke rose from the house. The fire would draw attention. Emergency vehicles would come soon and surround the place.
To someone else, that might have meant a return to safety. Authorities were supposed to protect, but Alina belonged to the Bratva, and their tentacles were ever reaching.
Before she realized she’d made the decision, she turned and followed the shadow that hadn’t yet blended into the night.
Chapter 3
The woman continued to follow him. Luka could have lost her, but instead he found himself slowing his pace, avoiding the shadows. He was confused as to why he did it.
Ivankov wouldn’t welcome her. He had known she was there; of that, Luka was certain. It had been another test. Despite how often he killed for the pakhan, the fact that he wouldn’t kill women was a struggle between them.
It was one he knew Ivankov would win again eventually. His will was much stronger.
Had Luka not burst into the room, he likely wouldn’t have stumbled over her. He doubted the woman would have made a noise among the dead and dying. Perhaps that was what Ivankov had wanted all along. Unknowingly burning a woman alive wouldn’t eliminate his culpability.
And then it was a slippery slope, as every step had been since the night a lunatic burst into his family’s house.
It was too late to run from it. He wouldn’t have another chance until Ivankov was dead, and caring for a broken woman would do little to speed his progress on that front.
Luka clenched his jaw and slipped into the shadows within the next alleyway.
The woman missed the maneuver, just as he’d intended. She paused before the next building, her bright emerald eyes wide as she began to turn. Blood and dirt caked her feet, reminding him she was barefoot. Besides his shirt, she had absolutely nothing.
He had no reason to care about her vulnerability. His gloved hands squeezed at his sides, remembering the arcing pain he’d felt when he’d allowed her to latch on, even through the material. Skin-on-skin contact would have been even worse.
Trying to protect his sister had only delayed her death. Trying to shelter someone else from reality would lead to the same inevitable outcome.
