Priceless (Ruthless Doms 1)

I ignore the way she tucks her hand in her lap, like she’s been rejected. I hate that. But hell, she can’t risk a damn thing.

The traffic clears after the tunnel, and I look at the GPS. We drive here for half a mile before we exit again, heading deep into the inner city. I glance in the rearview mirror. “Fuck!”

Huge headlights loom right behind me. There’s a goddamn tractor trailer on my heels. I look quickly to the left and right lanes to see if I can switch, but there’s no escape. I hit the gas, getting dangerously close to the car in front of me.

Yakov’s already unbuckled, his gun in hand.

“Jesus, Yakov, put it away,” I mutter, thankful the car in front accelerates, but the truck behind us only draws even closer. He’s trying to run me off the road.

“Fucking douchebag,” Erik growls, pulling his gun out, too. “What the fuck is he doing?”

“Trying to run us off the goddamn road,” I tell him. “Who the fuck is he?”

“No idea. He’s wearing sunglasses and a hood.”

The last time we were in this position, I was running with Marissa to safety, and she recognized the man driving. I want to ask her now, but can’t risk either of the men knowing our history. Thankfully, there’s an exit coming up, but it seems he’s pushing me right off it. He’s on our tail, so close I hear the screeching of metal as his bumper scrapes ours and we lurch forward. I turn the wheel so hard the tires squeal as I exit the highway. The truck veers back on the main highway but doesn’t follow.

“What the fuck was that?” Erik asks. I don’t slow down. We’re in the inner city now, huge high-rises on every side. I’m driving way too fucking fast for an area like this, but I want to be sure no one’s followed us. I take a swift right turn and then a left.

“Fuck!” Erik screams from the back. A car swerves into our lane, and is heading straight for us. I yank the wheel, trying to get out of the way, but it’s coming at us head on. I hit the gas again, swerving hard, my pulse racing. This is no accident. Someone knows who we fucking are.

There’s nowhere to go. This car is going to hit us, and I can’t stop it. There’s a fucking suicidal driver heading straight for us.

I brace right before we slam into the car coming after us. Metal crunches, glass shatters, Marissa and I slam into air bags that instantly deploy as we spin out and finally screech to a stop.

I push myself out of my seat and take immediate inventory. First, Marissa. I turn to her, thankful that she’s conscious, though bloodied.

“Are you okay?” I demand. She nods.

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice tight. She’s bleeding from a gash on her cheek, but her eyes meet mine. “Get them.”

I immediately look to find the driver of the other vehicle. My gun is in my hand. Fuck recognition. Anyone that drives me off the road and threatens Marissa, I’ll kill him no matter who gets in my way. I tear open the door. Someone hits the ground running, the driver’s side door to the vehicle that struck us swinging crazily. I pull out my gun and shoot, hitting his knee cap. I want him fucking conscious. He screams and hits the ground, his face contorted in pain as he writhes on the sidewalk, clutching his knee. Pedestrians scream and scatter. I hide my gun and run after him.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, holding him by the hair.

“Fuck you,” he growls. I don’t recognize him at all and he has no ink that I can see. I drag the fucker back to his car that’s in better condition than ours and hold him in my grip before I do inventory of the rest of the passengers. Yakov stands outside the car, the blonde woman next to him, and Erik’s girl with the dark hair is climbing out. Marissa watches me with wide eyes, and the sight of blood dripping down her face infuriates me. I slam the man in my grip against the car, enjoying the way he howls when his head crashes into metal.

Goddamn motherfucker.

“Where’s Erik?”

“He’s fucking jammed in there,” Yakov says. “We’ll have to get him out.” Flames leap from the hood of the car. Our time is limited. Fucking Erik.

I look at the man in my grip and back to Yakov. Yakov releases the blonde and trots over to me. Yakov reaches in his pocket and pulls out a fistful of zip ties.

“Secure him first,” Yakov says, glaring at the man with the promise of vengeance. In seconds, we secure him with the ties and toss him in the back of the car, before racing to the wrecked rental.