“That’s enough of that,” he mutters. The way he looks at me isn’t with fury. It’s possession, sharp and unsettling, like he’s already decided what I’m going to mean to him.
A drop of crimson drips from his nose onto the top of my button-down as he speaks, followed by another. It’s fucking disgusting, a kind of violation I’ve never even considered before, having someone bleed all over you. What kind of sick asshole does that?
I try to squirm away, but the tight space makes it impossible to escape him or his leaking nose. When I feel a tug on the bottom of my shirt, untucking it from my pants, my entire bodyfreezes. This…this is the type of violation I’ve unfortunately imagined. But with my hands behind my back, all I can do is hold my breath and watch as the man takes the material between his hands and rips off a swath, leaving my stomach exposed to the air. He lifts the torn scrap and drags it across his bloody face, smearing red into the purple fabric like he’s claiming it—and me.
He doesn’t say a word; he just straightens with cold satisfaction, as if thinking the stain from his bodily fluids on my torn shirt are the least I deserve for busting his nose. Then, he shoves the fabric into his pants pocket and speaks in that same tense, guttural language. All the men around him move into action. Car doors open and close again, and I don’t know what’s happening until my feet are roughly tugged.
I’m yanked out of the vehicle and into his arms, cradled against his chest. His hand wraps around my face to slap over my mouth as he carries me around to the back of the SUV. The bald man whose balls I busted glares at me as he opens up the trunk and I’m lowered inside.
As soon as his hand moves away from my mouth, I scream and roll toward the only possible exit.
The hatch slams, sealing me in darkness. I scream until my throat burns, until my voice scrapes raw, until it’s the only thing I have left.
Calling for help may be pointless now, but I have to do something to keep from curling up in a ball and crying because I refuse to shed a tear in front of these bastards.
2
Dominik Morozov
“She got you good, boss,”Petrov says in Russian from the backseat just as Renat pulls away from the curb. His voice is raspy from the throat punch, and I can barely hear him over the ear-splitting screams coming from the very back.
Glancing over my shoulder at him and Viktor from the front passenger seat, I tell the men still nursing their injuries in the same language, “You two underestimated her. And if I hadn’t stepped in, she’d be long gone. My busted nose is on you both.”
“Sorry, boss,” Viktor replies, his eyes lowered and hand still protectively over his crotch.
“Won’t let it happen again,” Petrov assures me with a bowed head.
These men, along with dozens of others in the city, answer only to me and ourPakhan.They’re lethal and loyal. Soldiers who do what they’re told. Sometimes, they just forget to expect the unexpected. I’m not as ruthless as our leader, so I decide to let them off easy this time.
“Better my nose than my balls,” I remark.
“Amen, boss,” Renat agrees.
Under the passing streetlights, I examine the bleeding scratches on my wrists and hands. I probably have a few bruises on my shins as well. All of which could’ve been avoided if she had just stopped and talked to me rather than run and fight like a feral fucking cat being cornered.
There are lines I’ve never crossed, not even for the Bratva. I don’t hurt women unless they’re trying to kill me.
I pray that she doesn’t test that rule tonight.
While we’re all busy pretending we don’t hear her shouts from the trunk, I turn back to Viktor. “Open your mouth. Let me see the damage.”
The bald man peels back his bottom lip to show me the bleeding wound. “Didn’t lose any teeth, just took a chunk out of my goddamn lip when she kicked me.”
It’s hard to believe that the petite woman managed to injure me and two of my best men tonight. All our training goes to hell when we’re faced with a defenseless hellcat instead of armed men.
Petrov leans up between the seats, offering me a canvas bag he must have picked up from the sidewalk while I was getting her to the car. “Her phone’s inside,” he says.
“Nice work,” I tell him. “It could be useful.”
Digging around inside the canvas bag, I find the device. It’s on and so old that it doesn’t even require a passcode or face ID to unlock it, allowing me to scroll through her call log and text messages.
There’s no mention of the stolen money, no voicemails from Archer Kent telling his sister that he’s leaving town either.
For some reason, I’m relieved that Alina may not have any involvement in his theft since she hasn’t spoken to her brother in nine days. Even that communication was nothing more than alaughing emoji in response to the GIF of a flying cat she sent that says, “Me rushing home to do absolutely nothing.”
I lay the phone on the console between the front seats and tell Renat, “Keep it active and on you at all times. If he reaches out to her, I want the call traced.”
“Yes, sir,” my IT expert easily replies while keeping his eyes on the road.
