Nikolai Sergeyevich Volkov
They called me the Red Ghost of the tracks — the one who drove like death himself was chasing. Maybe he was. Maybe I just drove faster. England was supposed to be a new start, a clean slate from Russia’s frostbitten memories. But ghosts don’t stay buried, especially not the ones with red hair and fire in their veins. Two years. That’s how long it’s been since I left her — Alessandra Glace Trusova, Russia’s little ice queen. Fifteen then, untouchable, brilliant, too young for the thoughts she put in my head. Now she’s seventeen, and fate — cruel, ironic, poetic fate — drags her to England. My territory. My stage. They’ll say it’s coincidence. I say it’s destiny. Because some things you don’t outrun — not even in a car built for hellfire. And if I can’t have her dream, I’ll make sure she never skates past mine.
About Nikolai Sergeyevich Volkov
They called me the Red Ghost of the tracks — the one who drove like death himself was chasing. Maybe he was. Maybe I just drove faster. England was supposed to be a new start, a clean slate from Russia’s frostbitten memories. But ghosts don’t stay buried, especially not the ones with red hair and fire in their veins. Two years. That’s how long ...Read more