“We took a secret passage through the kitchen,” he tells me.
We?
I look past him at the massive group of men filling up the space in front of the closed doors.
My heart sinks all over again.
How many now?
There looks to be at least another thirty or so men. Whatever chance we might’ve had of survival has gone up in a puff of smoke.
“Kill me,” I say, looking back at the dark stranger.
He raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” he asks, almost politely.
“I’m serious,” I say. “If you’re here to take me back to Tristan, I’d rather be dead.”
He smiles.
Sick fucking bastard. He’s enjoying this shit.
“If you don’t, I’ll find a way to do it myself,” I threaten him. As though he even cares how I die.
“I don’t want you dead, Saoirse,” he laughs.
I frown. “Wait—ow do you know my name?”
“Cillian talks about you a lot.”
“I… What?”
He smiles, twists the gun around butt-first, and hands it back to me.
“I’m Artem Kovalyov,” he says by way of introduction. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”