Page 52 of Sexting His Assistant

No. I distracted someone so Luka could shoot him. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck.

Luka looks at me.

Even in the dark, even bleeding, even with gunfire still echoing somewhere across the garage, I can read the disbelief in his face.

“What?” I snap, voice shaking. “It was the only thing I had.”

Then, absurdly, he almost smiles.

Before he can say anything, two of his security men appear from the far side, moving low and fast between the cars. One is Pavel, I think. The other is broader, older, his gun raised, his face stone.

“Sir,” I hear Pavel’s voice, “east exit is blocked.”

Luka answers in Russian, too quick for me to catch completely. His voice is steady, but I feel the tremor in the arm braced beside me now. It’s controlled. Hidden from everyone but me.

The older guard looks at Luka’s shoulder. His face changes.

“Car,” Luka orders.

The guard says something back.

Luka’s voice cuts through him like a blade.

The guard obeys.

He shifts his weight, and I see the pain hit him then, brief and terrible. His mouth tightens. His breath catches once through his nose.

I reach for him again.

This time he lets me. Only because there is no time to argue.

My hand presses over the wound, and blood immediately seeps between my fingers.

I go dizzy. Not from the blood itself. From the knowledge that it is his.

“It’s too much,” I whisper.

“It’s a shoulder wound.”

“Oh, thank God, then. For a second I thought you had been shot.”

His eyes flick to mine. “Still talking,” he says.

I can’t stop myself from blurting out the words. “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

The older guard gets the rear door of the armored car open.

Luka grabs my wrist with his good hand. “Move when I tell you.”

“Can you run?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes.”