4. Luna
Luna
The steel floor of the cargo ship is cold under my boots, the faint echo of my steps trailing behind me—my heart races, but not from fear.
Adrenaline is an old friend, pulsing through my veins like fire.
Fuck! I’ve read about primal play, but this feels like the real deal, and I can’t say I hate it.
Two months of dodging Vladimir Petrov, yet here I am—face-to-face (well, I’m running the other way) with the infamous Bratva king.
A smirk tugs at my lips beneath my mask as I weave through the narrow corridor, every step deliberate. He’s good—persistent, calculating, and deadly.
But I’m better.
His footsteps follow, steady and unrelenting. I glance at the knife in my hand, the blade still slick with blood from the men on the dock.
Monsters, all of them. And tonight, they’ve paid for their sins in full.
I slip into the cargo hold and melt into the shadows, positioning myself between two towering crates. The dim light from the overhead bulb casts long, jagged shapes across the room, but it’s enough to spot his broad silhouette as he enters.
If he wasn’t hunting me, I might actually admire the view.
And it’s one hell of a view.
He moves forward, gun raised, each step measured. Calculated. “You can’t run forever,” he says, voice deep, commanding.
I stay silent, letting his words hang in the thick, stale air. Men like him love the sound of their own voice.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he muses, his tone laced with curiosity. “What’s the matter? Running out of clever quips? No more ramblings of an insane person?”
I suppress a laugh because I do ramble, and I might actually be insane.
I finally step out of the shadows, closing the distance between us. “Why waste my breath when you’re so good at talking to yourself?”
His jaw tightens, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. “Quit running and finally face me, Nephthys,” he says, stepping closer.
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Ten points for Gryffindor! Wow, you found out what they call me in the underground. Do you want me to demonstrate why?” I shoot back, my grip tightening on the knife.
His eyes lock onto mine—sharp, assessing. “Who are you really?” he demands, voice low, firm. “Why are you doing this?”
I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”
For a moment, neither of us moves, the tension crackling like a live wire between us. He’s studying me, peeling back layers, trying to see what makes me tick. But I know better than to let him in.
“You’ve been following me for two months,” I say, keeping my voice cool. “Why? What do you want from me?”
“I want answers,” he says simply, dark eyes narrowing. “I want to know why you’re interfering with my business.”
“Your business?” I scoff, stepping in closer, heat rising in my chest. “Trafficking women and kids isn’t business—it’s barbaric. And if you think I’ll stop before every last one of you is rotting six feet under, you’re dead wrong.”
Ha, get it?
“I don’t traffic women or children,” he says, voice like a blade, cold and sharp.
I pause, thrown for half a second by the conviction in his tone.
“Cute story,” I snap, masking a brief flicker of doubt. “However, your employee track records suggest otherwise.”
He steps in, closer than before. The air thickens. “You don’t have to trust me,” he says, low and lethal. “But know this—the people you’re hunting? They’re my enemies, too. Keep crossing me, and you’ll be in a shallow grave.”
A low laugh escapes me—cold, sharp, unforgiving. “You think you scare me, Dracula? I’ve danced with devils that make you look like a bedtime story.”
His eyes don’t waver, burning straight through me. “Is that so?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Careful, Lisichka. Pride gets people killed.”
I tilt my blade ever so slightly, eyes locked on his. “Good thing I’m not like most people.”
His lips twitch—almost a smirk, but not quite. The tension between us hums like a live wire, too taut to ignore.
Footsteps echo in the distance—his reinforcements. Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, right on cue.
I glance toward the sound, already fading into shadow. “This will be the last time we meet. Stay out of my way, or I’ll kill you next time,” I warn, my voice soft but sharp.
“This isn’t over,” he replies, that deadly calm wrapping around every syllable.
As his men crash into the cargo hold behind him, I vanish into the night.
Well… mostly.
A smirk curves my lips as I flick my wrist.
The blade whistles through the air?—
And sinks deep into his leg.
His curse rips through the dark, sharp and venomous.
Whoops.
It slipped.