Page 25 of The Wrong Monster

“Love you too!”

Taking a deep breath, I stand with the phone in my hand, looking out at the view. There is half of another apartment building and a glimpse of some treetops in Central Park, but nothing to be too proud about.

The kitchen and living room are uncharacteristically dark thanks to a storm rolling in over the city.

“See?” I mutter to the empty apartment, hand on the kitchen light switch. “You’re losing your⁠—”

I stop.

Someone is standing by the stove, leaning against the corner where the counters meet. A tall, lean figure, arms crossed in the shadows, and all the breath rushes out of my lungs.

Before I can turn and run, he strides forward and into the light.

It’s the stranger from that night.

Only now, as he glares down at me with those angular eyes, he’s dressed like a blue-collar worker. A baseball cap hides his salt-and-pepper temples, and the shadow of a beard darkens his high cheekbones.

“Miss Pierce. Good evening.”

Now I turn to run, spinning on my bare feet, but an arm catches around my waist and hauls me back.

Against his chest. It feels like a brick wall, all hard ridges and heat. The silk blouse I’m wearing does nothing to dampen the power of those muscles.

“Don’t fight,” he hisses, an accent sneaking into the demand. “It’ll be easier that way.”

“Screw you⁠—”

His arm tightens, and my breath leaves me once more, involuntarily this time.

“No,” I gasp, struggling against him, heart pounding as I think about how stupid this is.

I told Isla it was nothing.

I told myself it was nothing.

But I knew.

His other hand comes around and caresses my hip before skirting down my thigh, then back up, his palm cupping my ass.

“Ah ha, Miss Pierce. I came a long way to find you. I need you, so you can come willingly, or I can show you exactly who I am.”

The threat is quiet, dark, and so casual that I know without a doubt he’s not just the kind of man who has ordered people to die, but one who has ended lives.

Before I can decide how to react, there’s a sharp sting at my throat.

Everything goes black.

Chapter 8

Vasily

The office attached to my personal suite at the lake house is practical, comfortable, and high-tech. Six screens cast a cold glow across the otherwise darkened room.

Five show empty hallways, exterior gates, and the perimeter surrounding the estate.

The sixth shows Matilda.

She’s asleep on the bed exactly where the doctor left her, one arm draped over the blanket, dark curls scattered across the pillow. The sedative has done its job, kept her knocked out for the helicopter ride back north. Her breathing is slow and even, her face almost unrecognizable without the sharp look of disdain she seems to wear.