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 can’t find the words to respond. The shock is like a million tiny needles stinging my skin, my inner thermostat flipping from hot to cold and back again.
Nikolai and I are in bed.
Together.
He’s holding me on his lap.
The thermostat dials up all the way to scorching, spiking my pulse and sending a dizzying spear of heat straight to my core. We’re all but naked—my pajama tank and shorts are beyond flimsy, and he must be wearing only shorts or briefs as well because I can feel his bare thighs against mine. His skin is rough with hair, his leg muscles so hard they feel like stone.