Prologue
Blair
Something clatters against the front door.
Instinct has me scrambling out of bed, reaching for the knife that’s stashed away in the bedside table before I can figure out if I’ve imagined it or not. Daniil stowed weapons around the house when he helped me move in, but I figured they would be just as redundant as the rest of the precautions he put in place.
There are alarms on all the doors and windows, weapons hidden but easily accessible throughout the house, and he made sure I had his phone number memorized backward and forward. Not just his number, either, but his friend’s, too.
Thinking about Andrei is enough to send a shiver down my spine. If I was ever in a situation and needed his help, I’d be better off praying for divine intervention. That man hates me more than he has any right to, and I’m going to avoid ever seeing him again if I can help it.
I push aside the stack of notes that I tossed in the drawer before I finally crawled into bed and passed out last night. The only light streaming past the lace curtains that I love so much isfrom a streetlight, and it isn’t doing shit to make it any easier to see.
The last thing I need is to slice my own hand open before I even know what’s going on.
Frustrated, I grab my phone for a light, only distantly registering the time. I have to wake up for work in an hour, and with the adrenaline pumping through my veins, there’s no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep any time soon.
Another series of loud bangs echo from the front door, and suddenly all those safety measures don’t feel so ridiculous.
Why did this have to be the one night this week that Daniil had to work?
With my phone in one hand and the knife in the other, I creep toward the door, trying to keep my steps light as I do my best to maneuver around the stacks of unpacked boxes and scraps of bubble wrap, cursing myself for not cleaning up before I went to bed.
Tentatively, I push aside the curtain and peek out at the patio, nearly collapsing with relief when I take in the familiar silhouette leaning against the railing. I put the knife and phone down on the entryway table before I sigh, doing my best to bury the frustration and lingering adrenaline.
“I hate you,” I mutter under my breath as I disengage the alarm and undo all three of the locks. Cracking open the door, I glare at Daniil. “You have a key. Why are you knocking?”
“Hey, Blair,” he drawls. His voice sounds tired, which isn’t unusual considering it’s three in the morning, but I’ve never seen him be anything but energized and alert. Daniil’s always ready for anything, and even after an all-nighter all he needs tokeep going is a cup of coffee and a quick smoke break before he’s good to go.
Most of the time I envy him for that, but right now it makes me narrow my eyes as I try to figure out what’s going on. It’s dark, but his hair looks messier than normal, and when he sways slightly, I can make out sweat beading on his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I reach out to take his hand, but he flinches away. He twists to glance over his shoulder, the movement enough to reveal the dark red stain spreading across his shirt, barely concealed by his jacket. I nearly choke on the wave of panic that hits me. “Are you bleeding?”
Seemingly satisfied that no one’s behind him, he nods and stumbles through the door, slamming it shut behind him. “I might have been shot.” He stumbles over his feet, crashing into me. It takes a moment before I’m able to stabilize us both, my throat tight.
“You don’tmaybeget shot, Daniil. You either were or you weren’t!” My voice is high, and he smiles at me weakly.
I won’t be able to hold him up for long. He’s too heavy, and my legs suddenly feel like rubber under our combined weights.
“Well, then I guess I got shot.”
Oh, shit.
I put his arm around my shoulder, trying to maneuver him to lie down on the floor. He smiles at me weakly, and as soon as his head is cradled against my thighs, his eyes flutter shut. I try to push his jacket back, but I can’t get it off his shoulders with him lying down.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
“Shit!”
I might know how to talk someone through first aid for a gunshot wound, but now that I need it, all that knowledge is gone, never to be seen again. My hands shake as I press down on the spot on his arm where most of the blood seems to be coming from.
Daniil flinches, and I hiss out an apology I’m not sure he can hear.
I can’t call 9-1-1. That’s the only thing Idoknow.
Keeping one hand firmly pressed against his arm, I try to pat him down for his phone. Andrei will know what to do, and I hope like hell he’s awake.
It takes me three tries to get my fingers to cooperate and dial Andrei’s number, and the ringing sounds like both an alarm and a chorus of angels singing.
