Emma
I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Not normal anxiety wrong either. Not the lingering humiliation of seeing my ex-fiancé announce his engagement to another woman three months after we broke up.
This feels heavier. Too similar to the kind of wrong I was trained to recognize in the academy. Like something is closing in around me inch by inch, and I’m the only one who notices.
Uncle Ruslan. That’s what the girl had called him.
Who was she? Who was he?
After returning to the motel, packing all my things, leaving the key card on my dresser, and slipping out the back entrance, I found a shady internet café on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. Crazy that they still exist, but it was the safest way for me to do some research.
Russell Smith is real. Or, as real as a man who appeared about a decade ago in California can be. Lord just popped up on the fashion scene one day, taking everyone by storm. Making a name for its mysterious owner.
Ruslan.
A Russian name. There’s no way in hell I’ve walked back into…?
No. My last brush with the Bratva was in Miami, when Ryder Demsky saved my ass by giving me everything she had on Hinto Moreno in order to put him away. Her own father; I don’t even want to know how that bridge was burned.
How the hell have I stumbled onto something that feels like smoke, mirrors, and billionaires over a thousand miles away?
God.
I should never have gone home with him. The only thing I’m grateful for right now is that I didn’t give him any identifying information; he has no idea who I am.
He just…knows every contour of my body. No big deal.
The Uber I’m in jerks abruptly, and I gasp, eyes snapping up from my phone. The driver curses in another language and swerves into another airport lane, laying on his horn as a small group of travelers dashes across the drop-off area.
I tap quickly through the app, throw out a “Thanks,” and yank my bags out of the car behind me. If I’m lucky, they’ll let me exchange my ticket, the one that was supposed to bring me to New Jersey and my parent’s guest room. Not Colorado, or anywhere that felt like mine.
“You’re being paranoid,” I murmur to myself as I weave through a steady stream of people heading for the check-in counters.
The problem is that somewhere beneath the fear and confusion, my body still remembers him too well. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like he wanted to peel me apart slowly and enjoy every second of it.
It makes me feel stupid.
Reckless.
Weak.
I glance at my bank account as I wait in line, too nervous to see if there’s even a scheduled flight out to the East Coast. At this point, I’m not sure that I wouldn’t jump on a plane to Alaska, if that’s what it took to get me out of here.
Russ. Ruslan. It just doesn’t feel right, and every instinct in me is pushing me to get out.
Five thousand dollars has turned into just over four in half a day. Uber rides, an order of takeout food that turns queasily over in my stomach, and a new phone that I spent an hour setting up before ditching that motel room.
It’s extreme. But instincts kept me alive for years around dangerous people. And every instinct I have is screaming now.
I tap back to the “accounts” homepage out of habit, and freeze when a red banner appears along the top of the screen.
My stomach drops.
Account Alert: Your debit card has been temporarily suspended due to suspicious activity.
“What?”
I stop moving entirely as people shuffle impatiently behind me.
No.
No no no.
My fingers shake as I tap through notifications frantically. Three attempted purchases were flagged in Los Angeles. Card frozen pending identity verification.
I didn’t buy anything in Los Angeles. I haven’t even been back to Los Angeles since flying in!
The Santa Barbara airport is small enough that I scan the area easily, stretching onto my tiptoes to see over the heads of other travelers.
“Hey,” the guy behind me says gruffly, jutting his chin.
The line has moved forward.
Cold panic floods my chest instantly.
I fumble for my wallet.
Nothing. Where the hell could it have gone? I had it…where? At the internet café, last. Then I got the ride here…
My pulse spikes harder.
I check my purse again, more aggressively this time, digging through makeup, receipts, tangled charger cords.
Nothing.
“Oh my God.”
People around me glance over briefly before looking away again.
I try to think logically through the rising panic. Did I leave it in the rideshare? Did it fall out somewhere? I almost never carry cash anymore. My license, cards, everything is in that wallet.
Who comes to an airport without checking for their wallet first? Me, apparently.
By the time I finally reach the ticket counter, my nerves are stretched so tight I feel nauseous.
The airline employee offers a tired customer-service smile. “Hi there. Passport or ID?”
“I—I think I lost my wallet,” I admit breathlessly. “But I already have a return ticket booked to Newark. I just need to switch it to tonight if possible.”
The woman nods slowly. “Okay. What’s your name?”
“Emma Pierce.”
Her fingers move across the keyboard. Then stop.
Something changes in her expression.
“…one moment,” she says carefully.
“What?”
She clears her throat awkwardly. “Your identification appears to have been flagged.”
Every hair on my body stands up.
“Flagged?” I repeat.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t override the restriction from here. You’ll have to—”
Restriction. I stop listening. There’s no way this is a coincidence.
“What restriction?” I ask sharply.
The woman shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t have details available.”
“That’s impossible. I’m just on vacation.”
“I’m sorry.”
People are waiting impatiently behind me now, annoyed sighs building in line. The clerk already looks eager to get rid of me. Like I’m a problem, someone to worry about, watch carefully, in case I throw a fit.
Fear crawls slowly up my spine.
I back away from the counter numbly before she can call security or ask more questions. My breathing turns shallow as I turn in a slow circle, scanning the crowded airport terminal.
People everywhere.
Strangers everywhere.
And somehow I still feel hunted.
Outside the massive terminal windows, twilight begins to settle over the California coastline in deep blue waves. Planes take off into the night one after another while a horrible certainty grows heavier and heavier inside my chest.
Someone found me.
* * *
I leave the airport so fast I almost forget my suitcase.
My pulse pounds violently in my throat as I drag it behind me across the parking garage toward the transit station connected to the terminal. Every instinct I have is screaming now.
This is real.
Someone flagged my ID. Someone froze my bank card. How? Who has that kind of power? And what the hell would they want with me?
My mind flashes back through every case I was involved in. Smaller things before Miami, or at least team activities where I wouldn’t be high up on the list. Is it Moreno? Did he get out somehow, and no one told me?
Or the Bratva. Maybe they’re tying up loose ends, untrusting of me since I got myself into that mess. Stupid to be convinced to look the other way.
The bus terminal is nearly empty compared to the airport. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead while tired travelers sit scattered across rows of molded plastic chairs. A vending machine hums loudly near the entrance.
I clutch the last cash I have in my hand so tightly that the bills crumple. Two hundred and fourteen dollars, tucked away into an inner pocket in my purse. I’d forgotten about it, but it’s still not enough to get me to New Jersey. Especially without an ID.
A bus, though. I can get somewhere with that.
Nevada. Arizona. Somewhere ugly and anonymous where nobody knows my name and no one can find me.
Russ. Ruslan.
The duality of those two names is still echoing in my head. Why? He can’t be involved; there’s no way. I spent one night with him, and he only knew my first name.
Except…
No, he sent a car. To the motel. I gave him the name of my motel.
My breathing shakes as I approach the ticket counter. “Hi,” I say quickly to the bored employee behind the glass. “What’s the next bus leaving tonight?”
The woman clicks around on her computer lazily. “Depends where you’re headed.”
Anywhere.
The word sits right on the tip of my tongue.
Then I hear. “You’re making this difficult, Emma.”
The voice slides down my spine like cold oil. The accent is more obvious now, or maybe I’m finally allowing my ears to hear it.
Every muscle in my body locks instantly. Slowly, I turn around.
Russ Smith, if that’s who he really is, stands a few feet behind me in a dark coat, hands tucked calmly into the pockets like he’s merely picking me up after dinner instead of hunting me through Santa Barbara.
God.
Even here, he looks beautiful, like some kind of avenging angel. The silver at his temples glints under the lights. The woman behind the ticket counter pops gum, staring past me at his carved-in-stone features.
He’s handsome. And terrifying.
The terminal lights catch the sharp edge of his cheekbones. His glasses are gone, leaving those pale eyes completely unobstructed as they move over me slowly.
Not angry. Worse; certain. Behind him, two massive men stand near the entrance, pretending not to watch us.
My stomach drops.
“You froze my card,” I whisper.
One corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
“You ran from me.”