Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Even worse is the way Agent Rick Sanders watches me. I saw the way he looked at me at the hospital, and I didn't like it. I was relieved when he didn't stick around after helping get me here, but he showed up again yesterday, saying he was replacing Agent Pierson on my team. I try to avoid him as much as I can, but he's always finding some excuse to touch me or get in my personal space. He stands too close to me, flirts too hard. He reminds me of Ivan Sedov, except he's harder to avoid. I don't like him. I'm not positive, but I think he tried to get into my room last night.
I don't tell Detective Hernandez that, though. I'm sure he'd do something about it if I did, but I already feel like I owe him too much. I don't want to feel like I owe him anything else. I just want to get through this and be on my way to…well, anywhere but here.
"Has there been any word?" I ask, changing the subject before he can ask me anything else about how I'm liking it here. I don't want to have to lie to him any more than necessary. I lied enough by agreeing to help him. There's nothing I can tell him about Nikolai, not like he expects. After the way my mom and stepdad betrayed him, Nikolai made a point to never talk business with me in the room. Even the newest recruits knew to keep their mouths shut around me or face his wrath. What I know about his business dealings is no more than Detective Hernandez could find out from almost anyone else who spends time around his cartel. "Are they still looking for me?"
I've gotten good at reading people, at seeing what they unwittingly reveal. Knowing what kind of mood Nikolai and his people were in or what kind of day they were having kept me alive. Detective Hernandez is a lot harder to read than they were. His expression never changes as the question leaves my lips, but he pauses for a split second in the middle of an inhale.
I expect him to lie to me, but he doesn't.
"There has," he says. Something like sympathy burns in the depths of his gorgeous eyes. Something else burns there too…curiosity or frustration, maybe, but I'm not sure which it is or what it means. "They're still looking for you, Faith."
"Oh," I whisper, though I'm not really surprised. Nikolai doesn't like to lose. In his eyes, I'm his property and he's been deprived of it. He won't stop looking for me. It would make him seem weak, and Nikolai hates anything that makes him seem like anything less than the powerful man he is.
"Tarasova is offering a reward for information on you," Detective Hernandez says gently. "Do you know why he wants you back so badly?"
I sink down onto the edge of the couch, staring at the threadbare carpet as tears of frustration prick at my eyes. "I don't know why he wants me," I mumble. "I haven't known since I was sixteen."
"You've been with him since you were sixteen?"
"Yes," I whisper. I feel his gaze on me, but don't want to see the pity in his eyes, so I refuse to look at him. "He found me after my mom and stepfather left."
"Do you know where your mother and stepfather went?"
I shake my head instead of answering that question.
"They left you behind."
It's not really a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes," I whisper. "She never wanted me to begin with. I lived with my dad when I was little. She didn't have a choice but to take me in after he died."
"How old were you?"
"Six." I stare at the floor hard enough to bore holes into the carpet, refusing to cry. My dad loved me. I was happy and safe with him. But I can't remember what he looks like most of the time. I know he had eyes like mine because I still see them in my dreams sometimes, but the rest of him is hazy. Sometimes, I'm not sure if I actually remember him or if I just think I do. If I'm just so desperate to believe that someone loved me at least once in my life that I made up all the things I think I remember about him. "I hated living with my mom."
"Why?"
I shrug, ashamed to tell him how I grew up. Thanks to the doctor at the hospital, he already knows more about me than I'd like. I don't want to have to admit to this man that most of those broken bones and scars came from the woman who was supposed to love me. My shame is my own.
"Faith, tell me why," he says, the quiet command in his voice hard to ignore.