Page 66 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

"You dig holes for a living. Getting rid of a small load, barely one-ten, shouldn't be that hard."

Pause.

One-ten. That’s my weight. Unfortunately, my math skills are proving to be spot on and I’m the body part of the equation.

The bathroom tilts and I grip the counter to keep myself upright.

He’s done trying? Like I’ve been a burden all this time? Once a Volkov always a Volkov because right now the father is starting to sound a lot like the son. Or is that the other way around?

Who the fuck cares! My heart stutters so hard the beat skips against my ribs. He's talking about me. He has to be talking about me.

There's another long pause before he says, "The problem is worse than I thought. Rotting from the inside out. I want you to come up here, deal with it and take what's left off my hands. I'll pay whatever you ask."

Rotting from the inside out. Take what's left off my hands. My knees buckle and I grab the towel rack to stop myself from hitting the floor. I’ve been a problem since day one. I gotta say though, I never looked at myself as rot.

Everything clicks into place with a violence that steals my breath. Last night was goodbye. The tenderness, the toweling off, the way he held me like I was precious. It was all a farewell performance before the final act. Give the girl one beautiful night and call the cleaner in the morning. So much for the Red Letter men being heroes. This must be how they get their kicks. Answer wishes and then off the unfortunate souls when they become a problem they need to get rid of.

I press my palm against the cold marble wall. My pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

My boots are in the bedroom. I have maybe ninety seconds before he ends that call and comes looking for me. Or less. I grab a towel and wrap myself in black cotton.

My free hand flies to the locket at my throat. I squeeze it hard enough to feel the chain bite into the back of my neck.

"No. No, no, no." This can not be happening. "Not again, Cora. Not again." Why did you fall for the same kind of guy twice? I must never learn.

Every muscle in my body fires at once and I'm moving before my brain catches up.

I’m out of the bathroom and across the bedroom in a handful of steps. Rowan has left the bedroom—thank you Jesus for small miracles—so I grab my boots by the bed. I shove my feet into them and pause. Clothes are better than a towel.

His shirt from last night hangs over the chair. I pull it on and skip panties. I’m getting used to going commando by now. Without looking down or caring, I work the buttons of the shirt to hold it closed.

I put knees to chest and book it for the nearest exit. I break records getting through the compound's main corridor, up the stairs into the cabin in a blind scramble. Lucky for me he’s left the door leading up unlocked because I have no idea what the code is for the elevator.

Cold morning air hits my face, my bare legs, the strip of stomach exposed between the mis-buttoned shirt. Pine and soil and damp earth and the wide, bright shock of daylight after days underground lay sprawled out before me.

I run.

The ridge stretches ahead of me, pine and oak thickening into dense forest. The ground is soft with years of fallen needles that compress under my boots with each stride. Pine resin and wet bark fill my nose with every gasping inhale. The air out here is nothing like the stone and cedar I have been breathing for days.

Branches snag my hair. A low branch catches my forearm and draws a thin line of blood that I don't stop to examine. The trees close around me and the compound disappears behind a wall of green and brown.

I put major effort into moving forward. Something I should be pretty good at by now given I’m doing a lot of it lately.

Tendrils of a deep voice carry through the branches. It’s hard to hear at first and then it gets closer. Louder.

“Noooo! Jesus put some speed in my feet!” My heart thuds against my chest and my veins burn. My lungs can’t keep up with the need for oxygen. And you know what? I don’t care. I push harder. Faster. Fuck dying and getting dump like mulch in the backwoods of wherever the hell I am. If I make it out of here alive I’m never trusting another living soul for as long as I live.

Heavy footfalls draw nearer. I can feel the vibrations carry along the ground and feed my nervous system jolts of adrenaline.

I push harder, the cold air sharp in my throat. I swore I would never skip cardio again after the alley and look at me, sprinting through the woods with no underwear and a man's shirt for the second time. All because of a fucking Volkov.

I’m so wrapped up in mentally cursing out the Volkov bloodline, I miss the root sticking up in front of me.

The toe of my boot catches and I stumble forward. I see the tree before I feel the pain of the bark biting into my skin. “FUCK!”

“Cora! Stop!”

I don’t dare look back.