Page 193 of Lethal King

With that, he hangs up.

The silence that follows is suppressed by the roar of my engine. I roll down the windows and burst ahead. Through the rumbling wind, I hear the sound of tires screeching in the distance.

I’m close.

Looking down at my dashboard screen, I set my gaze on that blinking red dot.

“Text Maksim,” I boom, initiating my car’s AI.

What would you like to text to Maksim Smolov? The computerized voice quickly responds, initiating the voice-to-text feature.

When I turn down the next street, my hackles rise. Through an alleyway up ahead, I’m given my first glance of what my blinking red is tracking.

A swerving convoy blares through the night—a flash of danger among the quiet darkness.

I grip down on my steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

“Maksim. Get me the name and number of the man chasing these fuckers,” I growl. “I want to speak to him.”

26

Rozalia

I didn’t expect it to be so quiet.

It’s naïve, I know. But when I look at the place where my village once stood, I can’t help but listen. Part of me still expects to hear the sounds that once made it home.

Fuck.

There’s no bottling up the memories that leak from this cursed place.

When I look across the overgrown grass, I can almost see my family’s shack. I can almost picture my mother standing there; almost hear the dinner bell in her hand as she rings us in for supper.

But no matter how hard I listen, I don’t hear her. I don’t hear anything. No children laugh. No adults talk and drink and complain about how hard life is.

There is only a soft breeze. It brushes over my shoulder, rustling the bushes and the weeds and the buried ashes.

My stomach fills my empty chest. My heart is in my throat.

What the hell am I doing here?

It’s surreal to finally be back in the place savagely ripped from me all those years ago. I didn’t think I’d ever have the guts to return.

Yet here I am, standing alone in the dead place that once gave me life.

It’s horrifically sad.

But that’s no surprise. I’ve avoided this place for years because I knew there’d be no avoiding the trauma that came with it.

At least out there, I can ignore it.

Wiping away a cold tear from my cheek, I trudge forward.

It’s like I’m being controlled by a greater force—or maybe just an irresistible desire. Every step I take through the ruins of my old home sends a chill across my skin.

It’s not a pleasant feeling. So, why do I keep moving forward?

It’s hard to say, but part of me can’t avoid the most blatant explanation.