Page 37

“Come to me, Zaychik.” He extended his gloved hand, keeping the gun pointed at me.

My feet locked in place, and my fingers shook. He’d called me little bunny. The nickname Severin and my family used for me.

How the fuck did he know that?

He’d done his research, which meant he likely knew my strengths and weaknesses. He was the predator and I the unsuspecting prey.

A gust of wind nudged my body toward the edge, and I peered down again, swallowing hard.

“Come here, Zaychik, or I will shoot you, and I really don’t want to shoot you.”

I scoffed. “And what is it that you would like to do?”

“Just have a little chat with you.”

I shook my head, and my feet slid a bit as the gravel beneath me shifted again, pebbles ticking over the edge. “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Regardless, I’d have you by my side. Now!”

My throat worked. My gaze darted back to the lake. Sunlight flashed across the water. Jumping would be a much better option than facing this man. But before I could make up my mind, a sharp, muffled pop split the air, followed by a searing sting along the edge of my ear.

Warm liquid trickled down my earlobe and onto my neck, carrying the faint metallic scent of pennies.

He’d shot me. Kind of…

“Come to me, Zaychek.”

The wind tore a loose strand of hair from my braid. Another drop of blood slid down my neck as I took my first step toward the assassin. I stopped at the treeline, leaving some distance between us.

The assassin holstered his gun and smiled. There was no anger in that smile, only deep, unbridled amusement.

Chills ran down my spine.

He was going to kill me. I couldn’t understand why he insisted on doing it up close. Maybe he enjoyed watching the life leave his victims. Whatever the reason, if I didn't think of something soon, I was going to die.

But there was no question who had sent him.

Aleksandr Volkov.

He had wanted me dead for years.

Then he surged forward, his weight crashing into me as his hand closed around my neck. My back slammed against the tree, the rough bark digging into my shirt. Air rushed from my lungs, and my breasts rose with the strain of trying to breathe.

The assassin’s grip wasn't tight, and a moment later, the pressure vanished. His fingers began stroking the side of my face like I was his cat.

“Always so beautiful.” He caressed my cheek again. “And always his.”

“What?”

My hand braced against the tree. His liquid eyes darkened, and a vein in his jaw twitched before his hand returned to my neck and squeezed. Horrifyingly, my brain did not focus on the right thing in that moment. No. It focused on the smells. Damp earth, crushed leaves, freshwater mist, and dark sap—the smells hit me all at once.

Then the unyielding pressure. The muscles in my neck strained against it, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth threatened to crack, and both of my hands flew up, trying to pry his fingers away.

His lips touched my earlobe. “You should know the name of the man who is going to kill you.”

My fingers clawed at his hands. I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe.

“My name is Damon… sometimes.” His fingers squeezed harder. “Goodbye, Moya Zayka.”