10. Sasha

CHAPTER 10

SASHA

My heart's doing the tango against my ribs as we dart through the streets, all massive towering billboards and traffic noise outside the window. Logan’s hands are steady on the wheel like he’s born to do this—dodge death in a city that never blinks.

"They're still on our tail," I say, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice while the dark Escalade looms in the side view mirror, relentless.

"Just keep your head down," Logan grunts out, swerving around a corner with the finesse of a bloke who’s dodged more than his fair share of bullets.

It's a right mess, this is. One minute I'm savoring the taste of cilantro and meat from the street tacos, and the next it's the metallic tang of fear that coats my mouth. The piano keys under my fingers now feel like a dream spun from someone else's life. Because my life can't afford such luxuries. Not when being a Solovey means having a target painted on your back, invisible ink only visible to those who mean to do you harm.

"Can't even have a nice day, can I?" I say bitterly, slumping in my seat despite the fact our ride is bulletproof. Vlad doesn’t fuck around when it comes to security. In any case, just when I think I can breathe a little, they remind me I'm suffocating.

Being a Solovey means instead of a bed of roses, you sleep in a bed of nails. Every step is tentative. One wrong move and you’re done. No one tells you when you expire, but you do have an expiration date and the clock's been ticking loud in my ears since the day I was born.

"We’ll be fine," Logan reassures me as we take yet another sharp, unexpected turn. The asphalt blurs beneath us while his foot marries the accelerator. We're a bullet shot from a desperate gun, threading through traffic like life depends on it; because it does.

"Any idea who these people might be?" Logan tosses over his shoulder, voice steady as a surgeon's hand.

"Could be anyone from a long list of sods who wouldn't mind seeing me in bits," I reply, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. "Perhaps the same blokes who fancied blowing me up back in London?"

The side view mirror continues to frame our pursuers when I glance at it again. Persistent arseholes.

Logan swerves into an alley, tires screeching a protest. Boxes and bins become our fleeting allies, creating narrow escapes and tight squeezes. But the Escalade is persistent, matching our every desperate twist and turn.

"Christ." Logan's eyes widen, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. He fuses with the vehicle, becomes part machine, all man, his grey gaze focused. "Are you serious?"

"Very."

"Someone tried to blow you up? Is that the attempt your brother refers to?"

"Didn't Vlad tell you about the bomb in private?" My voice cracks, bitterness seeping through like tea from a cracked pot.

"No."

"Should've asked for more money then, shouldn't you?" Even as the joke leaves my lips, it tastes like ash.

Logan doesn't take his eyes off the road, despite the quip. His jaw clenches—a statue of resolve chiseled from flesh and bone. There's something new there, a fierce something that wasn't present before. A real protectiveness, perhaps? It wraps around my chest, tight, squeezing out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Let's lose these motherfuckers and get you home," he says, the promise sharp as a blade in his voice.

And I want to believe him. God, I want to believe that we'll outrun the darkness that clings to the Solovey name like a curse.