I don’t have any reason to believe I’m being followed—no one has pointed a gun at me in a few hours, which is refreshing change of pace after the last few days. But I’d rather have a solid door with a bolt between me and the outside world when I go unconscious.
A hotel it is, then.
I’m climbing into the front to set out on my search for a lowkey hotel room—when I notice a patch of bright blue in the back seat, illuminated by the streetlight.
At once, I feel as if there’s a fishhook in my chest and someone is yanking at it like a motherfucker. The weirdest feeling I’ve had in a long, long time.
“Malyshka,” I murmur under my breath in the empty car. My baby boy.
I grind my teeth against this onslaught of unnamable emotion. It’s f*****g ridiculous. I have a war to fight. Enemies to slaug
