28. Aj
Wolff’s eyes are locked on the road. He hasn’t said a word since we left the café.
I don’t know what that woman said to him or who she was. But whatever it was, he’s pissed and not normal pissed. He left so fast, he nearly yanked my arm out of its socket.
The snow starts coming down harder, thick enough to hide the road again. Cars move slow, tires slipping, headlights cutting through it.
I’m caught off guard when the truck pulls into a parking spot near a massive shopping complex. Reaching under the seat, he slides out a heavy gun. He checks it fast, clips it to his side, then starts shoving knives into places—one in his boot and another into the inside of his jacket.
He looks at me. “Put your hood up.”
I want to ask him who that woman was. But the way his hands keep flexing—like he’s trying not to break something—keeps my mouth shut.
The cold hits hard, biting at my face as I hurry to keep up with him when we get out, boots crunching through fresh snow. I pull my coat tighter, staying close.
As soon as we step inside, warmth washes over me. The store is packed—people with carts, kids running around. Wolff doesn’t slow, his hand closing around my arm, pulling me through the crowd. We stop near the clothing and food.
“Start grabbing shit.”
“What?”
His eyes flick around the store, not landing on anything for long. “Grab clothes. Food. Whatever the fuck you need.”
I open my mouth to ask, How long exactly? What kind of weather? How cold? But I stop myself. What’s the point?
He never tells me anything anyway.
I frown and move toward the nearest rack, grabbing a jacket and shoving it into the cart. Then I grab jeans, sweaters, underwear, socks—anything that seems useful. Wolff grabs things from a display case.
Moving to the food aisles, I stare at rows of cans and packaging I can’t read.
Behind me, the cart jerks as Wolff starts throwing things into it without a word.
The longer the silence continues, the more it grates my nerves.
I’m so fucking tired of this. Tired of being dragged around like luggage.
Tired of him shutting down every single time I try to understand what the hell is happening.
“Wolff, can you just tell me—”
“Stop fucking talking.”
He steps beside me, grabbing more cans, dropping them into the cart hard enough to make it rattle.
I stare at him, irritation flaring hot in my chest.
“Why are you so pissed? What happened back there? Who was that woman?”
Nothing. Of course nothing.
The silence only makes me angrier.
“Why did she call you Dylan?”
His hand tightens on the cart handle.
“Stop.”
But I’m done stopping. I’m exhausted and pissed. I’m tired of being left in the dark.
“Was that, like, another one of your names? Like K9, or—”
He shoves the cart forward.
“Are you mad because I touched you? I didn’t even realize—”
He turns on me so fast, I don’t have time to move, stumbling back.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Or I’ll shut you up.”
His green eyes go ice cold, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. But then the fear transforms into something else.
“Maybe I don’t want to shut up. Maybe I’m tired of you treating me like I’m some helpless fucking kid. You act like I can’t handle anything, Wolff. I survived everything they did to me, and you—”
He steps closer, crowding me hard against the cart.
“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve been through. Right now, we’re in a public place, surrounded by people who could be a threat, and you’re too busy fucking bitching to pay attention.”
I glare up at him, pulse racing.
“If you can’t follow one simple fucking direction, I’ll leave you here. And you can find your own way back.”
He pulls away just as fast, shoving the cart forward and walking off without looking back.
Asshole.
I clench my jaw and follow him, hating how stupid I feel.
The worst part is, I know he’s right. There could be threats everywhere, and I’m here arguing like an idiot, like my feelings matter more than staying alive.
I’ve always been so stupid. Always pushing when I should shut up.
Always needing something from him, even when he clearly doesn’t want to give it.
We move through a few more aisles in silence, reaching one with a sign for the restrooms.
“I need to use the bathroom.” I don’t wait for permission.
I push the door open harder than I need to and step inside, the noise of the store muffling behind me. Leaning against the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror.
Why do I let him get to me?
I exhale sharply, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on my face. He’s such a fucking prick. Drying my face with a paper towel, I reach for the door, but it bursts open, forcing me to stumble back.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing wandering off without me?!”
The door swings shut behind him, and suddenly the bathroom feels too small. Too much of him everywhere.
“I had to piss. I didn’t think that required a fucking bodyguard.”
His nostrils flare. “You don’t go anywhere without me. You don’t do anything unless I say so. Understood?”
My back hits the sink, and his hands land on either side of me, caging me in. His face is inches from mine, gaze darkening with anger.
He leans in, his breath hot on my lips. “Say it.”
“What?” I whisper.
“Say you understand.”
I want to punch him.
I want him to kiss me.
His gaze drops to my mouth, jaw tightening like he’s fighting something—himself, me, this whole fucked-up moment. A twisted thought starts to form…if I push him…he’ll touch me…
“No. I won’t say—”
With a growl, he lifts his hand and fists my hair, spinning me and shoving me over the counter. My palms slam into cold marble. His hips press against my ass, pinning me in place.
“Is my patience a fucking joke to you?”
I tilt my head to the side. “You’re a fucking—”
His other hand slaps over my mouth, cutting me off.
“Every time you open your goddamn mouth, all I want to do is fuck it shut.”
Shoving his knee between my legs, he spreads me open. He grinds his thigh hard against me, and I whimper behind his hand. His free hand unbuttons my jeans and yanks them down with my panties, exposing me.
I look up, core pulsing when I see both of us in the mirror. Him towering over me.
“Look at you. Fucking desperate.” His mouth curls into something mean.
Keeping a fistful of my hair, he yanks hard, forcing my back to bow painfully as he frees his cock with the other hand. I brace my hands on the counter.
Yes. Please. I need this.
I hate the thought as it forms. Seeing myself in the mirror, wanting him to fuck me like this. In a filthy bathroom, with my pants around my thighs. Needing the only thing I’m good at getting.
He presses his hard cock against my entrance, but doesn’t push in. He starts to stroke himself, just the tip pressing inside me. I push back, needing more. He makes an annoyed sound and slaps my ass hard enough that I whimper.
“You think I’m going to fuck you now? I’m going to jerk off in you. You’re not worth the effort.” He tightens his grip on my hair.
Tears sting my eyes as he keeps stroking himself, his tip barely filling me. No. This can’t be it. I need more. I feel it so little, it makes me want to scream.
I try to move again, but his hand on my hip shoves me back against the counter, holding me still. He leans down, mouth close to my ear.
“I don’t want to fuck your cunt. I just need a hole to get off in.”
The words cut deep.
This isn’t what I want. I want him to fuck me. I want him to hold me. I want him to want me.
Jackal burns on my tongue, begging to be spoken. But if I say it, he’ll stop. He’ll pull away. He’ll look at me like I’m broken again—like last time.
So I stay silent, letting him use me, hating myself for how badly I need his attention, even if it’s like this.
Memories flood in as his tip nudges shallowly inside me—hands holding me down, bodies using me while I went numb, the feeling of being nothing but a warm place for men to empty themselves.
I’m so broken.
I’m so disgusting for not stopping this. For choosing this. For needing him so much that I’ll let him treat me like trash just so he won’t leave me alone with my own thoughts.
His thrusts get faster, staying shallow and cruel. I struggle to breathe through the tears. My clit throbs, my pussy aches, and I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me in the mirror—like I’m nothing.
“You keep pushing me. Keep running your mouth like you think I won’t fucking ruin you.”
Heavy spurts of cum shoot inside my pussy—the head of his cock barely notched inside me as he milks himself, filling my entrance with pulse after pulse.
When he’s done, he steps back. I stay bent over the counter, his cum slowly leaking from me, face burning with humiliation.
Pulling his pants up, he walks out of the bathroom. I press off the counter, fighting back more tears, shimmying my pants up with shaking hands.
I bite down on my lip until it hurts, until it gives me something else to focus on, and force myself out of the bathroom. Wolff is waiting by the exit, with the cart. He doesn’t look at me when I approach.
I wipe my eyes and follow him, every step feeling like lead.
He loads the bags into the trunk without saying a word. Gets in. Starts the truck. Silence stretches thick between us as we pull back onto the road. I sit as far from him as I can, arms wrapped tight around my middle, staring out the window as the snow comes down heavier.
After a minute, he pulls an envelope from his jacket and holds it out.
“Look at this.”
Inside, there’s a passport. The girl in the photo…kinda looks like me? Same dark hair, hazel eyes.
“Why does she look like me?”
“It’s you.”
“What?”
He doesn’t look away from the road. “That’s your new identity.”
I flip through it slowly, trying to make it make sense. Lauren Johnson… I open the second passport, and a man stares back. Dark hair, green eyes, a strong jaw. He looks like… “Wolff?”
I flip between the two again. “Wait, this says we’re married. Cody and Lauren Johnson. I don’t—”
“We’ll be boarding a ship in a few days. To Finland. We need to blend in.”
It’s so absurd, I almost laugh.
But nothing about this is funny.
“No one is going to believe we’re married,” I mutter, staring out the window again. “Married people talk to each other. They don’t—” I cut myself off. Don’t what? Don’t do what we just did?
“Doesn’t matter. No one can know who we are.”
I look back down at the passports, running my fingers over my fake name.
“Put this on.”
He holds out a small box and inside is a thin gold ring. My chest tightens as I stare at it, slipping it on my finger. He puts on his own without hesitation, the gold band looking almost wrong against his scarred hands.
“This is ridiculous. What if people ask questions? How we met? What we do…” I let the words die. What’s the point?
Sighing, I lean my head back against the seat, staring down at the ring on my finger.
Married…to him. We’re getting out of Russia.
I should feel something—relief or hope…anything.
But all I feel is this hollow, broken gnawing ache inside my chest that won’t go away.
Like something in me didn’t make it out.
I close my eyes, swallowing hard, trying not to think about how badly I want things to be different.
I already know the truth… They won’t be.