Page 36 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Car,” I tell her.

She looks at the gun in my driver’s hand and freezes again.

I curse under my breath and take her by the hand. “Zoya, move.”

This time she does.

I open the rear door and put her in first. She scrambles across the seat, and I get in after her. The door shuts, and the car pulls away hard.

For a few seconds, there’s only breathing. Hers, ragged and loud. Mine, controlled because it has to be.

I check the rear window. No car directly behind us. No bike. No second vehicle cutting through traffic yet.

Beside me, Zoya stares at the driver, then at me, then down at her own hands. They’re shaking in her lap. Her cardigan is torn near one button. There’s dust on her cheek. Her hair has come loose around her face.

“What the hell was that?” she asks.

“A hit.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “A what?”

“An attempt to kill me.”

“In my library?”

“Yes.”

She lets out a laugh that sounds close to breaking. “You’re saying that like it’s normal.”

“It is normal for me.”

She goes very still.

That answer does what the bullets didn’t. It puts the truth in the car with us.

She pulls her hand away from my sleeve when she realizes she’s still holding it.

“Take me home,” she says.

“No.”

Her face changes. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t go home.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“I know.”

“Then tell him to take me home.”

“No.”

Her voice rises. “You don’t get to say no to me.”

I lean closer, not to intimidate her, but because I need her to hear this.

“The men who came after me saw your face. They saw me take you with me. If they know who you are, your apartment is the first place they’ll check. If they don’t know yet, they will soon.”