Page 40 of Savage Boss
My brain can't interpret what's happening fast enough as the car lurches forward, straight toward me. It happens so fast. I hear someone scream a warning as my brain catches up but hasn't yet given the order to my feet and legs to move.
My life doesn't flash before my eyes, but time slows down at the same time it speeds up. I see everything going on around me: the people on the other side of the street just beginning to notice and point; a driver in another car with eyes as wide as dinner plates, his mouth open in a silent shout; steam coming out of the subway grate.
The signal to move finally reaches my feet, but I know it's too late, and the only other thing my brain can do is squeeze my eyes shut, as though that will block out what's about to happen.
The engine roars, someone screams, horns blare, and suddenly I'm moving, my breath knocked out of me from the impact.
Except, it’s not the impact from the car. My brain, caught up in myimpendingdeath, doesn’t compute what’s happening until I realize I’m still standing—kind of—someone’s arms wrapped tightly around me, moving me, shielding me, saving me.
Screeching tires mix with screams, horns, and startled exclamations. An enginerevs,then grows quieter as it disappears.
I don't know how long I stand there—it could be a second, could be forever—when I realize that I'm not dead. The arms around me aren't a figment of my imagination.
“Are you okay?” The voice is deep, gruff, accented, familiar. Fingers dig into my shoulders, giving me a tiny shake. “Are you hurt?”
I open my eyes to seePavel’sface creased with anger and concern.
“Say something,” he insists, an odd edge of panic to his voice that I wouldn't expect from this man, whom I have only seen as cold, distant, and entirely calm, even in the midst of the sting operation.
“I'm fine,” I manage, trying to gain my breath back. “I'm okay. I think I'm okay. Am I okay?”
Pavel looks me over, patting my shoulders and arms. I’m suddenly aware that we're in a ring of onlookers, their expressions ranging from horror to shock to relief.
“You're fine,” Pavel says curtly, his tone furious.
“Did someone just—” I can't even say the words out loud. I don't want to. I don't want to even think about what just nearly happened.
“Come on, we need to get out of here, off the street.” Pavel takes my hand and starts pulling me away, his eyes darting everywhere as we pass through the crowd of onlookers. He takes out his phone from his pocket, snaps a few orders in Russian, then stows it away again. I follow him, my mind on autopilot, until he leads me into the depths of a random, smoky bar, where it's too dark to see much.
“Did someone just—” I say again, my mind still caught up on what nearly happened, still back on that street corner. “Someone almost?—”
“Yes,” Pavel grits out.
“Was it an accident? Did they think it was a green light?” But even as I ask the question, I already know the answer. And from the grim look on Pavel’s face, I know I'm right. Someone just tried to run me over with their car. On purpose.
My heart is hammering in my chest, even harder than when the car was coming toward me, the residual fear and realization of how close I came to death hitting me, and I slump down on a barstool.
“Clara?” Pavel grabs my shoulders again. “Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” I shake my head, but my chest is too tight to get enough air out to speak. Pavel calls the bartender over for a glass of water and shoves it into my hand, bringing it up to my lips so I have to drink. It helps steady my nerves, and I spend the next few minutes taking full, deep breaths.
I finally look up at Pavel. In jeans, sneakers, and a black jacket, he looks like any other New Yorker, especially with the ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. It is then I know my recent suspicions are correct.
“You weren't there by chance.”
“No, I'm here to keep you safe.”
At least he’s honest. I know exactly who gave that order.
Anger and frustration well up. Dmitri didn't askmy opinion on the subject, much less ask my permission to have Pavel followme around the city. But then again, obviously, there was a good reason for it. Things would have turned out a lot worse if Pavel hadn't been there.
Something else occurs to me.
“You've been following me everywhere?” I ask. Pavel nods. “Did you follow me into the hospital? Up to my appointment?” The man nods again, this time more slowly, and I know that he's aware of exactly what's going on. I don't even know how long he's been following me. Did he see me go out and buy prenatal vitamins? Crackers?
Has he told Dmitri? Fear grips me.
“You can't tell him.” I grab his arm. “You can't. You can't tell him any of this. He's going to go nuts. You know him better than I do. If he finds out I'm pregnant and that someone just tried to run me over?—”
I know I don't have to finish that sentence.
