Todos os capítulos de A Prey For My Enemy: Capítulo 91 - Capítulo 100

The three SUVs move through the twisting mountain roads like a pack of ghosts cutting through the early morning fog.Kain’s got his most cold-blooded, trusted guys spread across the convoy, enough heavy artillery and medical crates in the trunks to take down a small police station. I’m shoved into the passenger seat of the lead truck, my boots kicking an empty shell casing on the floorboards, while Kain’s massive, scarred hand just stays flat and heavy on my thigh as he maneuvers the wheel. The silence vibrating between us isn't that awkward, twitchy kind—it’s just pure, lethal focus. We both know exactly what kind of blood is going to get spilled before this week is over.I watch the blurred grey pine trees whip past the glass, my head just looping back to those four days in the cabin. The raw, messy whispering in the dark. The way his face looked when he told me he loved me. The smell of the plastic melting into the embers when we burned that damn ledger. It all feels like a movie I

Kain doesn’t wait for me to answer. He hooks his fingers into the collar of my sweater and drags me backward into the master bedroom just as another volley of automatic fire punches a neat line of holes through the drywall we were leaning against. White plaster dust blasts into the air, thick as winter fog, clogging my throat and making my eyes sting.The back window of the bedroom is already smashed. One of Kain’s scouts must have kicked it out from the outside before the shooting started. Cold, wet mountain air drags through the room, lifting the curtains like ghosts.“Go,” Kain grunts, slamming his back against the bedroom doorframe to give me cover. He fires three blind shots down the hallway. Boom. Boom. Boom. The percussion hits my teeth. “Don’t look down, Tatiana. Just drop.”I scramble over the sill, the broken glass biting into the palms of my hands, but I don't feel the pain. Adrenaline is a chemical engine screaming in my ears. I slide over the wet siding of the roof, hit t

Chapter 7: NostalgiaI reached out and touched the sleeve. The fabric was incredibly soft, smelling faintly of fresh detergent and absolutely nothing else. No perfume. No trace of home. No trace of my mother. No trace of anyone.That hurt most of all.My fingers clenched around the wool. Mama's hands flashed across my mind—not that she had ever done our laundry, but she used to fold my messy heaps of clothes left around my bedroom just in defiance of the maids. My knees completely buckled under the weight of the memory. I sank to the floor right there, hiding my face in the hanging cardigan.They were gone. Mama and Papa. The whole dining table. The blood on the white cloth. The heavy fork still in my hand when the door opened. I breathed in the clean detergent, tasting nothing that belonged to my old life, and let the tears come. It was a quiet, steady leaking that soaked straight into the wool. I hated how warm it felt. I hated how much I wanted to keep holding it even though it cam

Across from me, Aunt Sofia made a quiet sound. She reached over and adjusted Uncle Mikhail’s tie without asking. He gently moved her hand away. She adjusted it again anyway.He gave up with a small huff.Their marriage fascinated me in a morbid sort of way. It had survived twenty-three years despite neither of them appearing to enjoy the other very much. “You’re breathing on my collar,” Aunt Sofia murmured, not looking up from her peas.“I’m sitting beside you,” Uncle Mikhail replied. “Where would you like me to put my breath?”“Anywhere but on my shoulder.” She turned to glare at her husband.Mother cleared her throat. “The lamb is lovely tonight, don’t you think? The rosemary—”“The rosemary is fine,” Aunt Sofia said. “It’s the company that’s overcooked.” Yes, my books usually skip straight to the passion or the tragedy. They never lingered on the quiet endurance or the way two people could coexist in the same space without truly touching.Father continued cutting his lamb with sh

The cherry pastries were still warm in the greaseproof paper bag on my passenger seat.I’d stopped at the bakery on the corner of 4th, the one with the loud neon sign Tatiana always complained was too bright. The baker had given me a small discount because I was smiling too much. I couldn’t help it. I was driving toward the Solakov estate because Viktor had invited me for an early morning strategy meeting.More importantly, it meant I’d get to see her.I kept replaying our goodbye from three nights ago under her balcony. Her hair had been a wild, static mess from the wind, her nose pink from the chill.“Don't miss me too much, Julian,” she’d teased, clutching her book against her chest.“Impossible,” I’d told her, kissing the top of her head.I rolled the window down, letting the crisp morning air fill the car. I couldn't wait to hand her the pastries and watch her complain about the calories while eating three of them.Then, the first siren wailed in the distance.I frowned, slowing