Page 49

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt safe. Not because he was gentle. He wasn’t always. But because for once, a man’s absolute focus was on protecting me, not breaking me. Nobody has ever chosen me like that.

Across the kitchen, Troy makes a choked sound behind his gag. He wrenches himself back and forth, trying to loosen the venetian blind cord that’s holding him in the chair. All he succeeds in doing is toppling his chair sideways. He lands heavily on his wounded shoulder and groans in pain.

He’s lying there in his own blood, looking up at me from the linoleum.

And even like this, bleeding and bound, he glares at me with cold, hateful eyes. I can feel the venom radiating from him. I can hear the word echoing in his disgusting head as clearly as if he’d spat it in my face.

Slut.

Something inside me snaps.

Every ounce of compliance I’ve forced on myself for years suddenly vanishes.

Zevran’s arm around my waist has loosened slightly, and I don’t hesitate. I plant my good hand in Zevran’s lap, and shove myself off with everything I have.

Zevran lets out a strangled, breathless curse in Russian that I’m fairly certain translates to, Ouch, my fucking balls.

I can’t stop to think about Zevran’s pain. I launch forward.

And I kick Troy. Hard.

I drive my bare feet into his ribs. I kick his stomach, his thighs, his bleeding shoulder, over and over and over until I’m breathing hard. I kick him for every time he hit me. For every time he called me worthless. For every night I laid awake praying I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. For my stolen escape money. For the way he made me feel so pathetic and worthless and stupid.

“You piece of shit!” I scream, my voice tearing raw out of my throat. “You fucking piece of shit!”

Troy groans, thrashing helplessly under my feet, his eyes wide with sudden, pathetic terror. He looks past me as though seeking help from Zevran. I sense the huge Russian behind me, but he doesn’t move an inch.

I raise my leg to stomp down on his face, and my bare foot slips on something slick.

I stumble back and catch myself on the edge of the counter.

Blood.

I’ve slipped in Troy’s blood, which is painted across the top of my foot and spattered up my bare shins.

My breath hitches in a terrified gasp. Horror floods through my veins.

Oh, God.

What did I just do? Who am I? What am I becoming?

I back away blindly, my feet slipping on the floor. I’m shaking so violently I can barely keep my balance.

“Printsessa, you—” But I can barely hear Zevran over the deafening roar of my own blood.

I turn and run.

I wrench the front door open and hurtle down the stairs, my bare feet slapping against cold concrete—one flight, two—and then I hit the street, bursting into the daylight in pure, unadulterated shock.

I keep running, putting as much space as I can between me and what I’ve just done before I run out of breath, which is sooner than I like. I’m so out of shape.

I dart into an alcove, my chest heaving, and try to think what the hell to do next. I just shot my husband, kicked him until he bled, and punched a Russian mobster in the balls, so I’m pretty sure I’m screwed. I’m either going to prison or becoming a prisoner of the Bratva. It just depends on who finds me first.

My feet are bare on the pavement, stained with Troy’s blood. I have no bag. No phone. No money. Nothing except the sundress I’m standing in, the cast on my wrist, and the rapidly escalating certainty that I have made every wrong decision a person could ever make in their life.

Should I go back for Troy? Should I at least call emergency services?

An ambulance means paramedics, and paramedics mean questions, and questions mean police. Apart from the fact that I just shot my husband, somewhere out there is a state trooper who’s filed a report about the madwoman who attacked him and her accomplice who beat him unconscious, crushed his phone, and ripped out his radio.