Page 37 of Sexting the Pakhan

The anger drains out of her slowly. Fear replaces it.

“This is your fault,” she says.

“Yes.”

She blinks. She expected me to argue.

“I was shelving books,” she says, almost to herself. “I was just shelving books.”

“I know.”

“I came over because…” She stops, and I see embarrassment cut through the shock. “It doesn’t matter.”

It does matter. It matters because she came over for me. It matters because five minutes ago she was blushing at me in the history aisle, and now she’s sitting in my car with gunfire still ringing in her ears.

I look away before that becomes something I have to think about.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Somewhere safe.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means you’ll be alive when we get there.”

She stares at me, horrified. “Who are you?”

I could still lie. Not well. Not after this. But I could give her enough to keep her quiet.

Instead, I say, “My name is Ruslan Karelin.”

“I know your name.”

“No,” I say. “You know what I let the library have.”

Her lips part.

I lean forward. “Change cars. Call Stepan. Tell him the leak knew I was there.”

My driver nods.

Zoya hears all of it. When I sit back, she looks at me like she’s finally seeing the man who has been standing in front of her for months.

Not the quiet patron. Not the Thursday crush. Something else.

Something much worse.

“Ruslan,” she whispers. “Who are you?”

I hold her gaze. “I run the Karelin organization.”

She doesn’t understand the words at first.

Then she does. Her face goes pale.

“The mafia?” she asks.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.