Her pupils keep expanding the higher we go, adrenaline flickering through her like a match about to catch fire—and fuck if it isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Focus. Tonight is about Sergei. Not the way she looks like a vengeful goddess carved from obsidian and crowned in fire. But even telling myself that feels useless when she’s glowing with that feral, eager energy.
The elevator dings, snapping me out of it. Adrenaline hits us both the second the doors open on the top floor.
“Showtime,” she whispers with a wink.
Two guards stand right outside the elevator, confusion flashing across their faces before they have time to react. I shut that window fast. I surge forward, snatching the closest guard by the throat from behind, twisting sharply, like I’ve done numerous times before. On cue, his spine cracks like dry wood, and he drops at my feet.
While I’m to the point with my kill, Stella performs. She springs forward, pushes off the wall in a clean, controlled twist, rotates with gymnast precision, and drops to her knees in a slide so smooth it looks rehearsed. Her daggers flash silver as she slices through the arteries in the second guard’s thighs, causing him to collapse and gurgle in pure agony.
“You do know there won’t be any gold medals given after we’re done?”
“You have fun your way, I’ll have mine.” She laughs.
She actually fucking laughs. Damn, that’s hot.
Still, I don’t have time to dwell on the soft timber of her laugh since two more guards burst from the hall toward us. Before I even have time to deal with them, Stella is already springing to her feet, spinning around, and throwing shurikens so fast they become a blur. Both of Sergei’s bodyguards look like pincushions before Stella takes them out of their misery and slashes their throats in the same breath, twin ribbons of red spraying across the wall.
I stand corrected. This is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
“Kill!” She claps to grab my attention. “Don’t just stand there with that look on your face. Come on!”
I manage to get my shit together only when Stella starts racing down the hall by herself. At this rate, she will end up killing Sergei herself if I’m not careful. I sprint after her toward the living room area and find five more of Sergei’s men waiting for us. These idiots actually start shooting, uncaring that gunfire in a luxury hotel is basically ringing a dinner bell for every cop in Chicago.
Fine. Let them be sloppy. This will be over before they know it.
Before they have time to reload, I charge into the one closest to me, duck a wild swing of his gun, and drive my fist into his face hard enough to shatter his nose. I rip the gun from his grip, push it under his jaw, and pull the trigger, his dead body slumping to the floor.
A quick glance over my shoulder, I watch Stella kick the weapons out of two guards’ hands and immediately goes to work, boxing with them as if they were worth her time. They’re not.
Still, I don’t get to watch because the remaining two rush at me, foaming at the mouth. I meet the first with a forearm to thethroat, slamming him into the wall. He swings in a desperate attempt to catch me off guard, so I grab his wrist easily enough, snapping it against my knee, and drive the broken bone straight into his own neck. Blood fountains all over my face as I watch his corpse fall.
The second curses loudly before coming at me from behind. Amateur mistake. I pivot, grab him by the collar, and headbutt him so hard, his skull cracks against the marble wall. Before his knees can buckle, I hook my arm around his and twist, dislocating his shoulder. His screams of agony are louder than his curse, so I shut him up with a palm strike to the nose, cartilage driving into his brain. He drops, twitching once, then stills.
Breathing hard, I scan the room to see how Stella is doing and begin to panic when she’s nowhere to be found. The only remnants of her are the two fresh corpses on the floor. One is slit neatly from chin to navel, guts spilling like ripe, open fruit, while the other still holds one of Stella’s daggers buried to the hilt in his chest. I yank it free and tuck it behind my belt, the warm, slick blood running down my arm as I follow the sound of commotion coming from upstairs. I dart in a mad sprint, jumping two, three steps at a time. At the landing, I find more bodies with Stella’s handprint all over them. I keep running toward the sound of loud Chechen curses and wails, to find three men circling her, prohibiting her entrance to what looks to be the main bedroom. And undoubtedly, where Sergei is currently cowardly hiding.
“Milaya,” I call out so she knows I’m here. “Are these men being poor hosts to you?”
“The worst.” She smiles ear to ear, never leaving her sight from either one of them.
“Do you want me to teach them some manners?”
“Nah. I’m good doing it on my own.” Stella stands in the middle, daggers in hand, her chest rising and falling with exhilaration. “Don’t be shy, ladies. This will be quicker than you think,” she taunts.
Stella’s insult is all the provocation they need to attack. She ducks a punch, slams an elbow into one man’s throat, and kicks another square in the knee until it snaps sideways. The third lunges, and she spins, her blade kissing his cheek, opening him up like a Christmas present.
She is chaos. She is art. She is death incarnate. And I’ve never wanted her more.
I cross my arms and lean against the wall just watching her work, taking it all in. I must look like a goddamn idiot, smiling like some lovesick fool as she dismantles three grown men with ease.
When I hear one of them call hersuka—before driving his fist into her stomach, and slapping her across the cheek hard enough to knock the air right out of her—I stand alert. And just like that, I see red.
Okay, motherfucker. Now you have my attention.
I don’t wait for Stella to give me her consent and launch myself at him. I tackle him to the ground and start punching—once, twice, then again and again—until his skull gives under the force and there’s nothing left but a wet, pulpy stain soaking into the white plush carpet.
I don’t know how long I keep hitting him. I only stop when a gentle hand presses on my shoulder.
