Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,26
you’re just going to deliver me and then what? Get paid?”
He stands abruptly, passing a hand over his head. I presume this is an involuntary habit of his because if not for the ski mask, he’d be able to run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t get paid how you think I do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means”—he interlaces his hands behind his nape—“that I don’t get paid with money.”
I cock my head to the side, utterly confused.
No matter which way I look at this, there is no doubt that once I arrive at my destination, the chance to escape will no longer be an option. Which means I need to escape now.
“Is Boss”—a sob gets trapped in my throat, but I pull it together—“a nice man?” I’m not stupid. From the small snippets he’s fed me and the conversations I’ve heard in passing, I will soon have to obey Boss. I don’t know who he is, or why he wants me, but he’s the reason this happened, and he’s the reason I will fight with my life to flee.
Sighing, Saint takes his time once again, grappling with how much he should disclose. But when he looks into my dogged eyes, he knows I won’t settle for anything but the truth. “No, he is not.”
I nod, biting my bottom lip as tears trickle down my cheeks. “Thank you for being ho-honest.”
Saint nods once, but he’s clearly not happy with what’s headed my way. So the question is, why is he doing it? If not for money, then what else? What else can one be paid with that they would risk their lives for?
The Russians emerge, and I quickly wipe away my tears, refusing to show weakness. “I’d like to go back downstairs, please.”
My request throws Saint for a loop, but he doesn’t ask me why. He leads the way, and I follow like the good captive that I am because even though Saint has shown me a lick of kindness, I won’t mistake him for anything other than what he is—and that’s a monster.
He’s leading a lamb to the slaughter, but the one thing he doesn’t realize…is that I’m not a lamb. And I never will be.
Love what you’ve just read? Want more? Download the full-length version.
Looking out the tinted window of my black SUV, I thumb over the corner of the tattered postcard. “I wish it was…дорогая.”
Speaking that name almost feels blasphemous as I haven’t allowed myself to think of her often. But beneath this expensive suit, this cold-blooded stare, lies a broken man, something I never considered myself capable of.
I’ve endured the consequences of the many choices I’ve made throughout my life. But when she made a choice, when she chose the better man and ripped out my heart, those consequences weren’t so easily accepted.
Someone who was meant to be my prisoner, in turn, made me hers.
As I focus on the postcard’s picturesque landscape, it seems Willow and Saint are lost in paradise. The postmark says it was sent from somewhere off the coast of Italy, but I know Saint—he doesn’t leave tracks.
That bastard was a thorn in my side, but now that he’s gone, I realize what he was, and that was a friend. In light of our circumstances, I understand how ridiculous that sounds, but I respected him, and in his own way, I think he respected me.
But none of that matters because they’re in the past.
Eighteen months have passed, and although it feels like only yesterday when I laid my eyes on a woman who set my entire world on fire, it’s not.
Things have changed.
I have changed.
I carefully fold the postcard in half as the worn crease threatens to tear if I don’t handle it with care. This is the only thing I have left of Willow, and unlike when she was with me, I will keep it safe.
A tap on my window reminds me that I am obsessing over a postcard like a lovestruck идиот. Quickly placing it into my inner jacket pocket, I open the door and greet Pavel. He’s the closest thing I have to a friend even though I know when he looks at me, he is reminded of everything I’ve done.
“Ready?” Pavel asks, scoping out our surroundings.
This deserted neighborhood is no stranger to illegal dealings, which is why I chose this location. A tortured scream and a gunshot ringing out in the dead of