“Let go,” I say or, more accurately, order. I’m nice and pleasant until someone oversteps, which Nikolai has been doing with flying colors since he surprised the shit out of me. “In a hurry to go somewhere?” “More like, I don’t appreciate being touched, especially if the hands are filthy.” He stares at his free palm under the slowly setting sun that casts an orange glow on his haphazard jet-black hair. He glances at the dried blood as if he forgot it was there and lifts a casual shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.” Get used to what? Is this freak high or something?
