have to stay there. She wasn’t that girl. Not anymore. Not ever again.
She pulled off onto the little narrow dirt road she’d scouted earlier, just in case she was recognized. She knew they’d come after her; after all, she was the daughter of their mortal enemy. She drove the truck as far down as the narrow road allowed, right into a thick grove of trees. The track had long since been abandoned and it was overgrown with shrubbery, vines and trees. She parked, hastily got out and covered the pickup with the branches and vines she’d cut earlier in preparation.
When she was positive the truck couldn’t be seen from any angle, Breezy crawled through the driver’s window, reached into the back and pulled a blanket around her. She couldn’t stop shivering. Even her teeth chattered. She let herself cry, but she did so silently, and she told herself she wasn’t crying for lost dreams or heartache. She had so little chance of being successful and yet, she had to be. There was no room for failure. None.
She closed her burning eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, trying not to think about Steele. She didn’t know any other name for him. She’d only known him as Steele. She should have realized that if you’d been with a man for a year and he hadn’t told you his given name, he wasn’t into you. But she’d been young and desperate, and he’d been the white knight. She’d been so stupid. She hit her head on the back of the seat multiple times wishing she’d been smarter. Wishing she’d been born into another family. Another life. Wishing time hadn’t run out on her.
It took only a few minutes and she heard the roar of pipes as motorcycles moved in force down the highway. It sounded like an army was coming after her. Out of stark fear, she slid down farther on the seat. It was going to be a long wait until night. She’d had no choice. She knew clubs. She knew on a Sunday morning, after partying all night, they would be sleepy, and she’d have her best chance at getting away if she was recognized. She also knew she didn’t dare go out on the highway until nightfall. She hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours, and this would be her only chance for a long while. She closed her eyes and willed herself to stop thinking about anything she couldn’t control and go to sleep. It didn’t work, but she tried.
Lyov Russak—Steele, the vice president of Torpedo Ink—whistled loud and long, raising his hand high, pushing his way through the soft flesh of women to spin his finger in a circle, indicating to Absinthe, who manned the monitors, to close the gates fast. He shoved his way to the surface, cursing in his native language as he got to his feet.
Her voice. He’d never forget that voice. Breezy Simmons. His Breezy Simmons. The girl that had forever made him a sick fuck who still, to this day, thought of her, dreamt of her, and pretended every woman he tried to be with was with was her. That was how truly fucked up he was.
He had never confessed to his brothers that he had somehow, inadvertently or not, become the very thing they despised. The thing they hunted. He was ashamed of that. Ashamed, not because of the terrible mistake, but because he couldn’t get the way she felt wrapped around him—and his cock—out of his mind. It was nearly all he thought about and that made him the sickest fuck out there.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She’d matured. Her figure had matured. He’d just caught a glimpse of her, one small glimpse, but his body had recognized her almost before his brain had. All that thick, tawny hair, those large green eyes. So green it was like looking into an emerald sea. His entire body clenched, and he pushed aside the women lying sprawled over top of him.
The Demons had come for the weekend, bringing their women with them, and the two clubs had partied hard. He’d drunk too much, the way he usually did at these events. He’d indulged far too much in his attempt to be with women, the way he also did at the events. The endless cycle that got him nowhere because he fucking lived in hell. The woman who could have changed all that was leaving. Walking away from him—again.