Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,41

grout. Her left arm is pressed against her side, but there’s blood there too. So much blood…

“Mom!” I press my icy fingers to her neck. I can’t feel a pulse, or maybe I just don’t know where to find it. Because there’s a pulse. There’s got to be. She wouldn’t do this. Not now. Not again. I’m simultaneously frantic and numb, my thoughts hurtling along at lightning speed even as I kneel there, stiff and frozen. Blood. So much blood on the kitchen floor. My head jerks up on autopilot, my eyes searching for a roll of paper towels on the counter. Mom will be so upset about the stains on the grout. I need to clean this up, need to—

Call 911. That’s what I need to do.

I scramble to my feet, frenziedly patting my pockets as my gaze bounces around the kitchen.

My phone. Where is my fucking phone?

Wait, my purse.

Did I leave it in the car?

I spin toward the front door, breathing in shallow gasps. Keys. The car needs keys. Where did I put my fucking keys? My gaze falls on a little table by the entrance, and I race toward it, heart hammering so fast it makes me sick.

Keys. Car. Purse. Phone.

I can do it.

Just one step at a time.

My fingers close around my furry keychain, and I’m about to grab the door handle when I hear it.

The low, deep rumble of male voices in Mom’s bedroom.

I turn to stone, every muscle in my body locking tight.

Men. Here in the apartment. Where Mom is lying in a pool of blood.

“—was supposed to be here,” one of them is saying, his voice growing louder by the second.

Without thinking, I leap into the wall niche in the hallway that serves as our coat closet. My left foot lands on a pile of boots, my ankle twisting agonizingly, but I bite back the cry and yank the winter coats around me like a shield.

“Check the phone again. Maybe there’s traffic.” The other man’s voice sounds closer, as do his heavy footsteps.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I slap both hands over my mouth, the keys I’m clutching digging painfully into my chin as I hold still, not daring to breathe.

The footsteps stop next to my hideout, and through the bulky layers of coats, I see them.

Tall.

Powerfully built.

Black masks.

A gun in one gloved hand.

Prickles of terror race up and down my spine, my vision dappling with dark spots from lack of air.

Don’t pass out, Chloe. Stay still and don’t pass out.

As if hearing my thoughts, the man closest to me pivots to face my hideout and yanks off his mask, revealing a shark’s head. Baring his knife-like teeth in a macabre grin, he points the gun at me.

“No!”

I jerk back violently, only to get tangled in the coats. They’re all over me, smothering me, holding me captive. I flail with increasing desperation, hoarse pleas and panicked sobs tearing from my throat as the black-gloved finger tightens on the trigger and—

“Shhh, it’s okay, zaychik. You’re okay.” The coats constrict around me, only this time their weight is comforting, like being enveloped in a hug. They smell good too, an intriguing mixture of cedar, bergamot, and earthy male sweat. I inhale deeply, my terror easing as the shark’s head and the gun recede into a foggy mist and awareness of other sensations trickles in.

Warmth. Smooth, hard muscle under my palms. A deep, rough-silk voice murmuring soothing nothings into my ear as powerful arms hold me tight, protecting me, keeping me safe from the horrors hovering beyond the mist.

My sobs quiet down, my jerky breaths slowing as the nightmare releases its hold on me. And it was a nightmare. Now that my brain is beginning to function, I know there’s no such thing as a shark’s head on a human body. My sleeping mind conjured that up, embellishing the memory, just as it’s now embellishing—

Wait, this doesn’t feel like a dream.

I stiffen, a spike of adrenaline sweeping away the lingering haze and bringing the realization that a big, warm, bare-chested, very real man is rocking me on his lap. My face is buried in the crook of his neck, my hands gripping the hard muscles of his shoulders as his large, callused palms stroke soothingly over my back. He’s murmuring words of comfort in a mixture of English and Russian, and his soft, deep voice is terribly familiar, as is his beguiling male scent.

It can’t be.

It’s not possible.

And yet…

“Nikolai?” I whisper, feeling like I’m imploding on