Embarrassing to be tearing up over how I'm addressed, but I know for Rurik, it's a huge concession. "That would be nice, thank you."
The elevator ride down to the car is silent, and when we get to the garage, two more men step out of the shadows, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
"Apologies, Mrs. Morozova. I'm Luka and this is Martyn." The man is blond with an enormous, bushy Slavic-style beard. Both men are wearing dark suits, like Rurik and Matvey. "We're part of your security team now."
"Nice to meet you," I say. "Do you guys shop at the same place? Is there a discount for bodyguard suits? You must run through them pretty fast, what with all the stabbing and explosions."
Luka's gaze turns uncomfortably to Matvey, who subtly shakes his head.
Even though no one can see past my darkly shaded window, I feel like a pretentious asshole, riding in one black armored SUV and followed by another. I used to turn and watch little processions like these, thinking it might be a diplomat or a celebrity.
Now, I wonder if it's other Bratva wives, surrounded by a hedge of bodyguards, to keep us safe, or just… keep us? I don't think Dmitri will let me go. Does his whole married for life mandate count after everything he said to me?
"You're weak," he'd said, staring at me with that horrible indifference. "A coward. A hypocrite."
My heart contracted painfully, remembering his eyes, a blistering shade of polar blue as he looked at me with contempt before dismissing me. I haven't seen - or heard - him since he paused outside of the guest room that night. I don't know where he's sleeping, but it's not at the penthouse. Does he have more fancy places, scattered through the city? Is he staying with a girl, someone more congenial than me? Someone happy to overlook a pile of dead bodies and Dmitri's laugh as he talked about killing a man's family? A bad man, certainly. One who planned on killing us, but…
The joy on Dmitri's face.
The car pulls up to the back entrance of the clinic and I'm grateful to be back in scrubs and paying attention to someone else's problems instead of mine. Rurik helps me out of the car as Matvey parks while Luka and Martyn emerge from theirs. Rurik's hand is on the clinic's door, just about to open it for me when I hear the first shot. Martyn hits the wall beside me, a spray of blood from his head splattering me on the cheek.
Rurik curses, pulling me behind him and firing at that fucking bushy bearded son of a bitch. Luka, that's his name. He shot his partner. Because it took Rurik a second to realize who the threat was, Luka fires on him first. There's movement, seamless and terrifying with a speed that's hard to follow. Another man steps out, pinning Matvey down with gunfire and a third races towards us, shooting Rurik again.
Oh fuck, not again.
I slap my hand over the hole in Rurik’s chest.
Upper right quadrant not his heart not his heart.
A bloody hand grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me back. The third man kicks the gun from Rurik's hand as he struggles to raise it, blood pouring from his chest and the two men pull me away. I'm screaming, reaching for poor Rurik who got shot again, because of me.
They haul me backward, my shoes rip off, my heels dragging along the rough gravel. I'm kicking and fighting as hard as I can, throwing my head back, trying to bash it against the man's nose and that's when I feel it, the sting of a needle in my neck. My legs and arms turn into lead, floppy and uncooperative as they haul me into the back of another car. It reverses out onto the streetand the driver hits the gas before my lids fall shut, like a curtain coming down on the last act.
***
I'm never drinking again.
Opening my eyes, I flinch against the overhead light searing my cornea. This is the worst fucking hangover of my life and that includes my twenty-first birthday when I downed eight shots of tequila. Rubbing my fingers along my sticky face, I remember.
The blood spray from that poor guard getting shot next to me.
My hand covering the hole in Rurik's chest.
Touching my neck. Whoever jammed that needle into me was no expert. It's swollen and bruised already.
"Get up."
Sitting up, swaying, I find that I'm on the carpeted ground of a conference room. There's a long, polished table with several chairs and a monitor on the wall. The room is empty, aside from the man sitting in a chair facing me.
Who isthispasty, undead ghoul?
There is an utter lack of expression on his face. He's tall, but cadaverous-looking, like a strong gust of wind - or a certain desperate short woman - could knock him over. I might not be up for that just yet. When I try to sit up, I have to brace myself against the window.
"Get up, sit in one of the chairs. I won't tell you again." The pasty, undead ghoul's voice is as lifeless and raspy as the rest of him.
They must have shot me up with Rohypnol instead of Ketamine, because I can remember almost everything. Based on how quickly my muscles went lax, it was a big dose. Bracing my arms,I finally manage to crawl gracelessly into a chair like a toddler, trying to pull my ass onto the seat. He watches my pitiful, paddling motions without comment.
"Let's introduce ourselves," I croak. "I'm Ava, the woman you kidnapped. My husband, Dmitri Morozov, is going to set fire to the entire city to find me. Who are you?"
