Page 116 of Twisted Little Game

“Go talk. We’ve got nothing but time,” Lucian says.

The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, all the way down the back of my spine.

I want to do it right now.

I want to wrap my hands around his pin-straight, skinny little neck, crushing his windpipe before he gets the chance to protest.

I need him gone from the face of the Earth.

This subhuman, this filthy excuse for a human being.

My gaze lingers on Lucian for too long and I feel Maks give me a gentle tap on the arm to bring me back to reality.

I turn, following Yegor out of the thin cloud of smoke, toward the wall of windows leading out to the backyard. He slides open a glass door and we step out into the cool, humid air, and I watch Yegor slide the door shut behind us.

Blood is rushing in my ears and I have tunnel vision on Yegor.

Every fucking move he makes.

Patience.

Patience… until I utterly destroy you.

“Over there,” I say, nodding toward the glittering blue of the pool further to the side of the yard.

There’s a space there behind a column where we won’t be visible to the men inside.

“Talk,” Maks barks at Yegor.

“Okay, boys, what would you like me to talk about?”

“Who are the fucking guys inside, Yegor?” Maks asks him.

I notice that Maks steps to one side of Yegor, while I block the other.

From where Maks is, he has a line of sight at an angle through the tall windows. If any of the men inside move, Maks will see it instantly.

I face directly toward Yegor.

“They are some friends,” Yegor says, looking between the both of us. “New friends.”

Time slows for a moment.

I can see every micro movement of Yegor’s eyes. The way he glances down toward my palm, quickly, to see if I’m reaching for a weapon. The way he looks at Maks, shifting his gaze.

But I’m faster than him.

So much fucking faster.

I always have been.

By the time I’m reaching in my back pocket for my Makarov, Yegor is holding up his hands, backing away.

My gun feels like an extension of my own arms.

It feels scary how natural it is to level it at him, the moment I know he’s untrustworthy.

“Speak or regret it,” I tell him, the heavy weight of the metal unshaking under my palms.