Page 68 of I’m The Worst

“What happened? Did the storm pass?” I ask, pulling on my leggings.

He doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he expects someone to burst through the walls.

I tug my shirt over my head, then reach for my boots. That’s when I notice—my clothes are clean.

“Did you wash my clothes?”

He walks to the door without looking at me. “Hurry up.”

“Jesus, what’s the rush?”

The hallway is freezing and silent. Not a single person in sight. Wolff moves ahead of me. My fingers fumble with my jacket zipper.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, hurrying to keep up. “Is Savva meeting us?”

As we reach the front desk, Wolff slows and matches my pace. His huge frame suddenly crowds me. His hand snaps out, clamping around my upper arm, and yanks me hard against his side.

“Ow! What the hell!” I yelp quietly, trying to pull away.

It’s only when we’re almost at the front door that I catch a glimpse past his body.

A large, dark pool of blood spreads across the floor behind the counter. The front desk woman lies there, head lolled back at an unnatural angle, eyes wide and glassy.

Dead.

I gasp, my body freezing. “What the fuck, Wolff? What the⁠—”

“Keep your goddamn voice down,” he grits out, his arm banding around my waist with iron strength as he drags me outside.

The snow is still piled high, but the sky is clear. Savva is waiting by the truck, a cigarette dangling from his lips, while his men load bags into the truck.

“Move. Now,” Wolff orders.

Savva glances over, smirking. “Not a good morning, my friend?”

Wolff opens the back door and shoves me inside. I stumble onto the seat. He climbs in right after me and slams the door shut.

My heart is still hammering. I keep my voice low.

“Wolff…why was that woman dead? What happened?”

“Savva!” Wolff barks the rest in Russian.

Savva laughs as the rest of the men pile in and the truck lurches forward.

Wolff leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, you’ll end up just like her.”

I flinch back against the seat, ice sliding down my spine.

“Now. Sit. Silent.”

Asshole.

The sun is sinking behind the mountains, painting the sky in bruised purples and pinks as the truck slows. We’ve stopped in front of a weathered brick building that looks like it’s been abandoned for decades—windows boarded up, the roof sagging under the weight of snow.

Savva cuts the engine and hops out. “Another shithole,” he scoffs, looking at Wolff. “When you said you changed all the stops, I was hoping for better. Not worse.” He whistles sharply, and his men pile out, bags slung over their shoulders.

Wolff grabs his gear from the floor, opens my door, and jerks his chin. “Out.”