The room seems to close in around me. My ears ring. “You murdered them.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t deny it. “For you.”
I shake my head, backing away until my shoulders hit the wall. “You’re sick.”
“You’re alive,” he counters. “Because of me.”
“No,” I choke. “I’m terrified because of you.”
Something flashes across his face then—anger, sharp and sudden. He reaches into his jacket pocket.
“No,” I whisper as I see the syringe glint in his hand, already filled with clear liquid. “Please don’t.”
“Just something to calm you down,” he says, stepping toward me. “You’re hysterical.”
I look around desperately, my body still sluggish, my mind screaming at me to move faster, think faster. There’s nowhere to run.
“Stay back!” I scream, my voice breaking as he closes the distance, the needle catching the light.
He doesn’t stop.
I scream again, the sound tearing out of me, raw and desperate, filling the apartment as he reaches for me.
The door explodes inward with a deafening crack.
For half a second, I think I’m hallucinating—my drugged, panicked mind conjuring salvation out of sheer desperation. Wood splinters fly across the apartment, the sound sharp and violent, and then the room is suddenly full of men, motion, noise.
“Anya!”
Vladimir’s voice cuts through everything else. My knees nearly buckle at the sound of my name on his lips.
Igor spins toward the door, the syringe still clutched in his hand. He doesn’t even have time to react before Alexi slams into him from the side. Dominic is right behind him, a wall of muscle and fury. Igor grunts as they drive him backward, the syringe skidding across the floor.
“Get off me!” Igor snarls, fighting like a cornered animal.
Alexi’s face is unrecognizable—no hesitation, no doubt, just pure, focused rage. “You don’t get to touch her,” he growls.
Dominic scoops up the fallen syringe in one smooth motion. “Hold him.”
Igor struggles, but Alexi locks him down, forearm across his throat, pinning him hard. Dominic plunges the needle into Igor’s arm without ceremony. Igor’s protests turn sluggish almost instantly, his strength draining as the sedative takes hold. Within seconds, he goes limp, crumpling to the floor in a heap of dark clothes and broken plans.
I barely register it.
Vladimir is all I see.
His hands are on my face, warm, grounding, his eyes searching mine with naked fear. “Anya,” he says urgently. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”
I shake my head, my breath coming in shallow gasps. “No. He—he tried. He had another syringe.”
Vladimir exhales, a shaky sound I’ve never heard from him before, and pulls me into his chest. For just a moment, I letmyself sink into him, my forehead pressed against his shoulder, my fingers curling into his coat as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs fiercely. “I’ve got you.”
I pull back, reality crashing in all at once. The clock on the wall catches my eye.
My heart lurches. “The theater.”
All three of them stare at me.
