Skullduggery Book Two {sapphic thriller}

CHAPTER THREE

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck.

I sprung out of the bed.

"CHAYA?!"

Instinctively, I wiped my hand on the sheets. Then regretted it. Now my bloody handprint was streaked down Georgiy's bed next to his very dead, very headless body.

"Chaya?" I tried to yell again, but it came out more like a squeak.

This could not be happening.

My pulse pounded in my ears. I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest refused to expand. I tried again. More weird groany squeaks escaped my throat.

You cannot afford to lose your shit right now.

Turn the light on.

I stumbled backwards, tripping over Georgiy's stupid ugly rug in my stupid Prada heels that apparently were still strapped to my stupid clumsy feet. My fingers trembled as I fumbled against the wall and flicked the switch. The chandelier over the bed lit the scene.

Oh. This was bad.

Really fucking bad.

Blood sprayed and splattered across the wooden headboard. What should have been white sheets were now black with blood. His bare hairy chest gaped open in gore. At least five stab wounds. No. Definitely more. No sign of his head.

What the fuck happened last night?

I stood there naked and shaking in the doorway, trying to remember something. Anything. But all I could picture was Chaya stitching me up at the tub. And something told me she was long gone.

I needed to find her.

I needed to find clothes.

I needed to puke.

I needed to be smart.

I needed Desirae.

The honest thing to do would be to call it in and explain everything. That's what she'd tell me. But the only thing worse than the polizia finding me and my DNA anywhere near Georgiy's body would be his own men. Who were currently MIA.

Which meant if I left now, I would have a head start.

My mind raced with a plan. I'd been on the run the last several months, I could keep the pace, especially with a head start.

A head start to get nowhere without my—Artemisia's—money. Which was tied up in Georgiy's projects.

I whined and groaned and stomped my feet like a petulant child. But I was starting to think clearer. My lungs expanded with a real breath this time. Oxygen finally made it to my brain. And my brain told me again I couldn't do anything without clothes. That was my priority for the moment.

Carefully, I crept into the master bath where I last remembered sitting with Chaya, still half-dressed. She had to have drugged me with whatever she injected me with. And then put me into the bed to frame me? But why? Had Georgiy been dead and headless in there the whole time? My blood loss from the bullet wound had made me vulnerable. And naive. His fucking granddaughter my ass.

Focus.

My dress from last night wasn't in the bathroom. In fact, there was no sign we had even been in the bath. My blood had been wiped clean from the floor.

This felt like some sinister prank.

My heels clicked across the travertine tile, annoying me every step towards the walk-in closet. Chaya had intentionally left them on my feet, like another little twisted jab it seemed. Or maybe more of a challenge. But I could deal with the heels later. I just hoped Georgiy's current wife or mistress had clothes that would fit my body.