A few blocks over, a familiar awareness touched the nape of my neck. With an uncomfortable chill seeping through my skin, I halted and turned around. Pedestrians split off to walk around me on the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to pay me any attention, so I tried to push my discomfort away.
I didn’t make it far before feeling it again. Another glance behind me, and through the crowd on the street, I saw a tattooed hand bringing a cigarette to a masculine set of lips. The image reminded me of the man sitting in his car across from my hotel yesterday.
My lungs went cold. Could someone actually be watching me like Ivan said?
Why?
Horrid things like sex trafficking consumed my thoughts as I slipped my hands into my pockets and picked up the pace. I glanced behind me again to see the man in a black coat smoking and following at a comfortable distance. My chest tightened with each quick, shallow breath. Just as I made it to the hotel doors, I looked back to find he was gone.
Then, I ran into something hard and yelped.
“Whoa.”
I knew that voice. I put a hand on my heart as Ronan steadied me.
“You all right?”
“I thought I . . .” I was out of breath.
Maybe that man worked close by, and it was just a coincidence. If he wanted to hurt me, surely he would have done so while I was peering into an empty building on a deserted street like a sitting duck. Right?
I was becoming paranoid. And for that, I blamed Ivan.
“I’m sorry,” I said and stepped back, my unease fading in the heat of his presence.
“What did I tell you about apologizing?”
I frowned. “I ran into you. I was taught better manners than that.”
“Twice,” he said thoughtfully.
I blinked. “What?”
“You’ve run into me twice now.”
How could I forget? It knocked the breath from me. An unfamiliar awareness sparked inside. Madame Richie’s laugh ping-ponged through my head, and a shudder ran across my skin. Confused and slightly disturbed, I opened my mouth to apologize for that again but closed it when his eyes narrowed.
“This city is going to eat you alive.”
I took that literally, and my imagination cast a gruesome scene of zombies tearing into flesh inside my mind.
“You’re not superstitious, are you?” I asked suddenly.
A half-smile pulled on his lips. “Of course I’m superstitious. I’m Russian.”
I rolled my eyes playfully. “Great. Don’t tell me you believe all that D’yavol nonsense too? I’m unwilling to suspend my disbelief regarding red skin and forked tails.”
He eyed me seriously, running a thumb across his bott
om lip. “Oh, he’s real, kotyonok.”
I raised a brow.
“Causing havoc and stealing away virgins at night.”
He said it so sincerely, a soft laugh escaped me. Something heavy and warm settled with each frozen breath between us.
His eyes were cautious as they took me in. “I see you got the coat.”