“Zakroy svoy shlyukhovyy rot,shut your whore mouth,” he snarls, grabbing a fistful of my hair with his other hand and yanking it until I can feel some strands tearing loose. “Did you really think we would let you prance off? If you don’t want to be the Pakhan’s wife, you can be his whore.”
He tries pulling me along and I dig in my heels. “I would rather have you shoot me than go back with you. So just do it.” The hall is eerily quiet for such a busy night and I wonder if he’s got men blocking the entrance. There’s no help coming.
“Fine,” he rasps, “then I’ll shoot your useless bodyguard bitch. She didn’t even see us coming.”
One of the other men cocks his gun.
“Wait!” My voice is shaking and I despise myself for being so stupid. “Wait. I’ll go with you. Just leave her here. Don’t hurt her.”
Nearly yanking my arm out of the socket, Artim drags me down the hallway to another flight of stairs, they’re narrow and scuffed, this must be a service entrance. The stairs feel loose and slippery and I stumble once, hauled up again by my cursing cousin.
He’s not shoving the gun as hard into my side, trying to keep his balance, too. As we get to the bottom, Cameron and Dougal step out and Cameron slams his Glock into Artim’s head, sending him to his knees as he kicks the gun away from him. There’s a grunt and a thud behind me, and Cameron’s arm loops around my waist, swinging me out of the way as one of the Ivanov men falls down the stairs, dead. The other now has Natalia’s gun pressed under his chin, forcing his head back.
“Welcome to Scotland, ya’ finger-licking shit monkey,” Dougal says pleasantly, kicking Artim in the ribs.
Chapter Seventeen
In which Cameron admits this might have been a mistake.
Cameron…
Morana’s staring at me, pale-faced and her lips pressed together. If I had been expecting a tearful display of gratitude for saving her, I’d be mighty disappointed. But my wife is a smart girl, she’s already figured it out.
“You used me as bait.”
I nod to my men and they haul her cousin and his minions off, struggling and cursing the entire way. She doesn’t take her gaze off me.
We’re standing in the hallway that’s just off the kitchen, and there’s the faint sounds of pots clanging and chatter from the chef and his crew. My remaining men and Natalia stand silently, waiting for an order. Sparing them a glance, I say, “Excuse us.”
They leave us alone.
My bride is slight and delicate with her high cheekbones, lean arms and legs. Her heels raise her up several inches, but I prefer her barefoot when she comes just to my shoulder and I can pick her up easily and…
Fecking focus, mate.
She’s slight, but she’s strong. While she may not be crying, her eyes have a slight glossiness and her chin is up, like a Tsarina, fists clenched.
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
“He could have killed Natalia. He was going to.”
I notice she doesn’t mention the threat to herself. “You were never in any danger, we had him surrounded from the second he-”
She slaps me.
It’s a solid, respectable blow. Walking away, she pauses, turning in a disoriented circle. “I don’t know where to go.”
My wife’s voice is flat, emotionless and her blank, Bratva princess demeanor takes over. I’d seen her about a year ago, when we were doing some surveillance on the Ivanov Bratva. She was back in Moscow for a short break from school, and in the forty-eight hours we watched the house and the comings and goings, she never deviated from this expression.
I hold out my hand. “This way.”
She steps away from me, walking in the right direction, a frigid wall between us that feels as real as a block of ice. Hamish and two bodyguards fall in behind her, heading for the SUV waiting in the VIP parking lot.
“I’m not sure how you’re going to sweet-talk your way out of this,” Dougal says. “She looks dead inside, that one.”
“It had to be this way.” I’m still watching my wife walk away, her back straight, never looking back. “We couldn’t risk her raising any suspicion. You’ll note that she also never told me about his call.”
