I can’t. I made it this far, and she’d want me to live. She wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to me.
My natural instinct is to do whatever I have to, to protect myself and survive. I have to keep that reminder no matter how much I blame myself when I remember the bullet that killed her should have been for me.
With that in mind, I can’t be the fool and not seize whatever protection I can get from Eric for as long as I can. But whenever the shit hits the fan, I have to find a way out.
I can’t die because I played the bait.
I learned from a very young age that the only person I can trust is myself. So, my life needs to be in my hands when it comes to the point where it’s every man for themselves. When that happens, I need to make sure I’m safe and not the pawn or the bait or whatever the fuck Eric wants to make me.
I feel like I’ve been tossed into the Hunger Games, right in the arena where I have to fight to survive, but I don’t know what to expect.
Everything about what I do next is going to be hard, so I need to know what I’m up against.
Pulling in a breath, I slide off the bed and leave the room.
Even though the door was open last night, I didn’t leave the room. The last time I went through those doors was when I tried to escape.
The concrete floor feels cool against my feet as I put one foot in front of the other.
I don’t know what to expect from today. Or Eric.
Men like him make me nervous, but if I’m honest, I have to admit that at least you know to never expect anything good from them. Not like Ted, who wore a mask for the world to see but was something else behind closed doors.
The place is quiet, and no one seems to be around. Last night it sounded like there were several men here.
I walk in the opposite direction to where I’d gone last night, and that takes me into the living room.
That’s where I find Eric Markov sitting shirtless on the leather sofa with a cup of coffee in his hands.
His chest is covered in tattoos. The most prominent is the face of a wolf with red eyes on his left pec. Most of the others, like the inky black stars on his shoulder, look like a few of the Russian tattoos I’ve seen before. I know they have some meaning, but I can’t remember. Marquees clued me in on most of the types of criminals you could find in Monaco.
Now that I’m looking at Eric, I’m wondering what type he is. He’d said last night that the group he belonged to contacted Dad. From the look of him, I can’t pinpoint what group that could be.
This look, though, gives him more of a dangerous edge, so does his ruffled hair.
I’m about to say something to him when the door opens, and a dark-haired Russian-looking man comes in.
He looks to be about the same age as Eric, or maybe older. He has the same wide, muscular build too.
His gaze lands on me—at my bare legs—and I remember that I’m just wearing Eric’s shirt that stops at the tops of my thighs.
“Get out,” Eric orders the man, the authoritative tone of his voice making me jump.
“Sorry, Boss,” the man replies, turning around to go back through the door.
When Eric looks back at me and sets his cup on the coffee table, I straighten up and move closer, acting like I’m not afraid of him.
I am, and I think he can see through the shitty façade I’m trying to portray.
“Good morning,” I say, bringing my hands together.
“Hello.” He gazes at me like he can see straight through me. I hope he can’t. I don’t want anyone to see the pitiful mess I am inside.
“I want to clarify a few things.” I steel my spine as he studies me.
“What do you want to clarify, Babydoll?”
I really wish he wouldn’t call me that. Hearing it again today makes me realize why I don’t like the term.