40 part I
I need to get out of here. Out of this place. Out of this city. And as far away from him as possible. My hands are shaking and covered in dried blood — Papa’s blood — and my vision is blurred with tears. I press down on the accelerator and the wind blows back my hair, drying my face.
A glance at the speedometer tells me I’m going to run out of gas soon. Somehow, I make a stop at a beat down gas station. I dig out a crumpled note from the pocket of my jeans. It’s a small mercy that I always have cash shoved in pockets.
Inside the convenience store, the dimly lit space is filled with the scent of gasoline and the murmur of distant conversations. The male cashier’s bored gaze meets mine, and I silently exchange the crumpled note for a cheap burner phone. With shaking hands, I dial a number I memorised.
The line connects.
Rune Volkov waits for me to speak.
I swallow. “Hello?”
It’s a short while, and I think he’s going to hang up on me, when he says. “Miss Morozov. How can I help?”
Relief washes over me.
“You said I could get a favor,” I say.
“I did,” he says, deep and assured, “What do you need?”
“A flight,” I murmur, “To Russia. As soon as possible.”
“Ah.” There’s a contemplative pause. “What does your fiancé have to say about this?”
Torren’s exact words ring in my mind.
I swear to fucking God, if I see you again, I’ll put a bullet straight through your fucking head.
“The further away from him I am, the better,” I murmur, swallowing the knot at my throat.
Rune’s voice remains calm as he probes further, “Your father?”
It’s like my heart is a cake, and he’s slicing right through it. I chew down the feeling and murmur, “He’s dead.”
He’s quiet.
“Are you hurt?” Rune asks after a while, “Injured in any way?”
Even though I know he can’t see me, I shake my head. “No.”
Technically, I have a bust lip and a few bruises. But Rune doesn’t need to know that. And it’s unlikely that he cares.
Another silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but sniffle as I realize. I’m alone. I’m seriously alone. I have no one. I blink back the tears. I can’t afford to cry now. I need to survive this, and right now, I have no one else but the Russian.
“Will you come?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
There’s a stilted silence. Then, he says, “Give me a location.”
I rattle off the address of the apartment. It’s not ideal, but I have no idea where I’m going to end up, and I need basic things like cash and a change of clothes.
“Half an hour,” Rune says.
I hang up the phone, my heart racing.
With newfound resolve, I walk out the convenience store and return to the Mustang. The scent of gasoline fills the air as I watch the numbers climb on the pump. Once the tank is full, I climb back into the driver’s seat and head for the apartment.
When I reach the building, I park the Mustang haphazardly, not bothering with finesse or precision. I have to be quick. As I exit the car, my trembling hands reach into my pocket, feeling for the key card that grants me access to the building.
I make my way towards the entrance, half-expecting someone to stop me. But to my surprise, no one gives me a second glance. The world continues to turn, oblivious.
I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor. The ride feels like an eternity. I glance at my reflection in the mirrored walls. I look horrific. I’m covered in blood to my elbows, and the side of my face is purpling, along with the blood crusting on my lip.
Finally, the elevator dings and the doors open, revealing the hallway leading to my apartment. Sighing, I step out, my footsteps quick and purposeful.
Without hesitation, I insert the key card and turn the handle. The door swings open, and that familiar ache returns.
I’ve never had a home. And I never thought I’d think of this place as one. But somewhere along the way, it became one.
But now I have to leave.
I blindly shove as much cash as I can find into a bag along with my wallet, my laptop, some clothes, and a pair of sneakers —with little care for organization or order.
I’m about to leave the apartment, when there’s a sharp sting at my ankle.
I glance down to find Rhaegar, who latches on to my leg by sinking his teeth into me.
“Rhaegar?”
He barks loudly and angrily, and I’m given a temporary reprieve before he locks his jaw on my ankle again.
“C’mon, boy,” I whimper, shaking my leg. “Let go. You have to let go.”
He doesn’t budge.
Wincing, I try again. “Rhaegar, you’re hurting me.”
His bark softens, replaced by a whimper of reluctance. And then, as if he understands, he finally releases his grip, his jaws parting to free me from his hold.
My ankle is stinging, but I ignore it and lean down to scratch the spot under his jaw.
“Bye bye, big boy,” I say. “I’m gonna miss you.”
He whines, but he doesn’t try to stop me this time.
My chest aching, I walk out the apartment, rolling my bag behind me.
Outside the building, I’m nervous that Rune won’t show up, but then a black car pulls up, and the driver gets out, taking my bag. I blink, watching as he loads the bag into the back of the car and then rounds it to open the door for me.
My heart skips a beat as I take in Rune Volkov’s presence.
The interior of the car is dimly lit, casting shadows that dance across the Russian’s face.
He sits in the backseat of the black car, wearing a pristinely pressed slate grey suit, and his light brown hair is styled perfectly.
His posture commanding and his gaze focused, and I hesitate for a moment.
Rune gives me a cursory glance, glancing up from his phone. “Get in.”
Swallowing, I do as he says. The interior of the car is dark, and the leather seats are cool under me.
The weight of his presence fills the vehicle. It stuns me for a moment — he’s really big, and good looking, in a rugged kind of way that oozes masculinity. His grey eyes meet mine and narrow. “I thought you said you weren’t hurt.”
I shift in my seat. “I’m not.”
There’s a hint of concern in his gaze as he asks, “Did Costa lay a hand on you?”
“No,” I murmur. “Courtesy of one of my father’s soldiers.”
“Right,” he hums, not sounding convinced.
“You don’t have to pretend you care,” I say quietly.
His response is a noncommittal grunt.
I sigh, realizing how bitchy I must sound. “I’m sorry. And thank you for… this.”
His gaze is on his phone when he says, “You’re welcome, Miss Morozov.”
Luckily, he doesn’t seem offended.
“Why do you speak like that?” I ask, fidgeting with my fingers.
“Like what?”
“So formally. You can just call me Freya.”
He gives me a brief look. “Your last name. It should be Morozova, no?”
I shrug, fidgeting with the empty spot on my finger where the ring used to be. I’d gotten used to its weight, and now it’s strange to be without it. “Americans like simplifying things.”
Despite his attention not being on me, Rune notices. “No ring?”
“I gave it back,” I say.
His gaze lingers on my hand for a second longer before he glances back to his phone screen.
“Wrong hand,” I say, “I know.”
“It’s not the wrong hand,” he says, after a while.
I frown. “What?”
“It’s not the wrong hand,” he repeats, a flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. “Russian women wear their wedding rings on their right hand, Zova.”
His words catch me off guard, and I pause, contemplating the significance of his observation.
I meet Rune’s gaze. “Did you get me a plane ticket?”
Brief amusement flickers in his features. “Sure.”
I frown, but I don’t question it. I’m not exactly in the position to. If he wanted to kill me, he could’ve done it a long time ago. In seconds, I assume.
“I’ll be coming with you,” he says, his gaze still on his phone.
I frown. “You will?”
“Yes,” he says, sending me a quick glance. “I have some work in Moscow.”
Moscow. I wonder what it’ll be like. Cold, probably. I entertain the idea of finding an ice rink and changing my name. Maybe even dying my hair. Definitely buying more clothes. I focus on all of these things and try to ignore the gaping hole in my chest.
When the car pulls up to the airstrip, I quickly understand why Rune was so amused.
He didn’t get a ticket.
The man owns a jet.
The jet awaits me on the tarmac, a sleek and formidable presence against the night sky. Its metallic body glimmers under the glow of the surrounding runway lights. Rune steps out the car, and as if on cue, door of the jet opens with a soft hiss.
He driver opens my door for me and assures me that he’ll bring my bag. With my heart in my throat, I follow Rune up the steps of the jet, the sound of my footsteps drowned out by the rushing of blood in my ears.
This is it.
I’m really leaving.
I didn’t even get to say bye to Ana. I blink a few times.
“You coming, Miss Morozov?”
I swallow. “Yes— yeah, sorry.”
And then, just as I’m about to step inside, I hear it—the distant rumble of a car.
The noise grows louder, closer, and I turn to look back, searching for the source. The tension in the air is palpable as the black Audi comes into view, its headlights piercing through the darkness.
Torren steps out the car, and it’s the worst I’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a new white shirt, but it’s untucked and ruffled. He’s pale, a thin layer of sweat at his brow, and his breaths come out in staggers. There’s a falter to his step as he walks. A few steps away from me.
“Where are you going, hm?” he says, his ink-black gaze pinning me in place. “Where the fuck are you going?”