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“We made a deal, Abby.” He glares at me through the smoke, despite the looming figure with a gun trained on him.

“Mudak!”Dimitry surges forward.

“Please.” I press my hands hard against his face, forcing him to look into my eyes. “Trust me.”And don’t speak Russian,I mouth. Dimitry’s eyes lock onto mine. His arm tightens around me, hard enough to squeeze the breath from my body, his face grim as death.

But at least he doesn’t shoot.

I glance back at Rodrigo. “I will keep my end of our deal,” I say. “You have my word.”

“Contact me at the other hotel.” He stares at me coldly. “I expect to hear from you very soon, Abby. If I do not—Iwillfind you.”

Dimitry gives a snort of incredulous laughter, his gun still locked on the figure dripping blood in the bathroom.

“You won’t need to.” I hold Rodrigo’s eyes just long enough for him to know I mean it.

“Corridor is clear” comes another low voice from somewhere behind me. “Let’s go.”

The corridor is deserted. Dimitry practically carries me along it, into the stairwell. “Three minutes,” he mutters. Then: “I don’t think so, but be ready.” I realize he’s speaking into some kind of comms system.

“Dimitry,” I say as I run down the stairs ahead of him. “No airports, nowhere there might be eyes, okay? It’s important.”

“Paddy.” Dimitry speaks into his comms. “You know anyone with a boat?”

As he continues to murmur to the invisible Paddy, I follow the other man downstairs. As he turns on the landing he looks back at me with a grin and a wink. “Hey, Abs.”

“Luke!” Despite the circumstances, I find myself smiling back. I’ll never forget the way he protected Roman’s daughters last year.

I’m incredibly aware of Dimitry right behind me, still in disbelief that he’s here, but there’s no time to turn around. I half expect to meet Jacey’s men coming up the stairs toward us. By the way Dimitry and Luke are holding their guns, so do they.

We sprint down the stairs fast enough that I’m grateful for my bare feet. Dimitry and Luke pocket their weapons as we come into the foyer, and again, Dimitry almost lifts me across the floor as we head through the sliding doors. We pass fireengines with their lights flashing and cross the road to an innocuous-looking white SUV parked on the curb. The doors open as we near it, and Dimitry bundles me into the back seat, then follows me in. Luke backs around the car, eyeing the street warily, then he’s in the passenger seat, and the car pulls out into the street.

I hear a grunt from the carrier space behind me, but I can’t turn my head, since it’s crushed into Dimitry’s shoulder. He turns and gives a low chuckle.

“Christ, Paddy. You weren’t joking about taping him up.” He reaches over the seat, and I hear the sound of tape being ripped from skin.

“Didn’t have a choice” comes an Irish drawl from the driver’s seat. “Bastard was about to storm the fucking hotel solo.”

“Abby!” The hoarse voice from behind me stops my heart momentarily, then my eyes fill with tears.

I edge out from beneath the protective weight of Dimitry’s arm and turn slowly, my mouth dry. “Dad?”

My father’s unshaven, grim face is barely inches from my own. He reaches over and grips my shoulder roughly, his eyes traveling over me. “Jesus,” he says furiously. “What the hell did they do to you, Abby?”

I shake my head, brushing my tears away, trying to force myself to smile. I pull my robe more tightly around me, horribly aware of the rainbow palette of bruises covering my face and my almost-naked body beneath the robe.

Way to confirm his worst suspicions about you, Abby.

“I’m fine, Dad.” I try to inject as much strength into my voice as possible. “Really.”

My father is here? WithDimitry?

My mind is spinning. I glance at Dimitry, but he’s currently leaning forward between the two front seats,engaged in a terse, low-voiced conversation with Luke and the driver that I’m clearly not meant to hear.

“Abby.” Dad squeezes my shoulder. His eyes are bloodshot, his face as gaunt as I’ve ever seen it. “I’m so sorry, girl.”

I’m shocked into silence. The last time my father called megirl, I was ten years old. It’s one of the memories I’ve clung to over the years, a sweetness I never thought I’d hear from him again. Especially not accompanied by an apology.

“It’s me who’s sorry, Dad.” My voice catches, and I blink fiercely against the tears threatening to fall. Whatever is happening right now, there’s no time for tears. I clutch the hand resting on my shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re here,” I whisper.