Blood, bone, and gray matter splatter across the wall behind him in a gruesome artistic display. I scream, the sound tearing from my throat as my knees give out. I hit the floor, and I vomit. Outside, Tessa screams. "What the fuck?! What the—" Ilay is beside me in a heartbeat, catching my hair with one hand while his other reaches behind his back.
A weak, garbled "...thank you..." slips from my mouth, directed at no one. "Face down. Now," he orders.
Still shaking, I obey, pressing myself flat against the grimy wooden floor. Ilay pulls the gun from his waistband in one clean motion—Bang!He fires a single, sharp shot in the direction the bullet came from, his body doing the math before his brain even needs to.
Then he hauls me up with one arm under my knees, the other around my back and storms toward the exit. Outside, Tessa is sprinting in zigzags across the field like she is being chased by a ghost.
"GET DOWN!" Ilay roars.
"I'M TRYING!" she screams back, diving behind a hay bale.
We are not far from the house when Ilay's head turns slightly, catching a flicker of movement I can't even see. His pupils contract. The moment he feels the shift in the air, Ilay twists his body, turning his back to shield me as another bullet tears through the air.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
He drops low into a split-second crouch, dragging me behind a rusted tractor for cover.
It is the movement of a man who has danced with death too many times to be surprised by its rhythm. I don’t even know how we got here but I am grateful I am with him. I know for a fact I would be dead otherwise.
We keep moving toward the direction of the car, taking cover where we can. His grip on me never falters. His breathing remains calm, not even labored. Ilay isn't just dodging bullets; he is reading them, feeling them before they even kiss the breeze.
We’re moving as fast as possible through the grass until we finally get proper shielding, behind an iron fence. He pulls me tightly into his chest, making himself a shield of flesh and bone. Wrapped in his arms, trembling and breathless, I feel strangely safe.
Then I smell it. That harsh, metallic scent ofBlood.Panic flares within me was I shot? But I feel no pain. I blink hard, trying to breathe, and then I see it. His shoulder. I pull back, ignoring the way his arms tense around me, and tug his jacket open, blood oozes out, soaking the lining. A clean shot, straight through the shoulder.
It probably happened when he yanked me aside. If he had moved on his own, he would have been fine. But he didn't. He chose to take the hit so I wouldn't. The lump in my throat burns. My fingers tremble as I touch his face. "You're hurt," I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, his expression softening. He scoffs. "this is nothing baby girl, don't worry, I'm okay I promise." I blink, remembering who this is. The man who shot himself twice just to prove a point. "No, for real this time. You can't keep doing this. Getting hurt like this..."
His gaze locks with mine, intense and unyielding. "I'd rather get shot a thousand more times," he says, hoarsely, "than watch you take a single hit."
The way he says it tells me everything. He means every word. This man would take a bullet for me and die if it meant seeing me safe. From behind the hay bale, Tessa yells, "Are we good?! Can I come out now?!"
"Stay down!" Ilay barks. "I'M NOT EVEN THE TARGET!" she screams back. "WHY AM I RUNNING?!"
Chapter 19
ROMAN
"Fuck," I mutter, my eye narrowing as I track him through the scope. The rifle is braced against my shoulder, the stock steady against the rough bark of the tree I’ve taken cover behind. Pine and damp earth cling to the air as I lie concealed within the forest overlooking the clearing ahead. "This motherfucker is good."
He moves like he possesses a sixth sense for violence. I rub my temples, the familiar headache of frustration setting in. "How the fuck do you kill a mad dog?" I whisper to the wind.
Because that is what Ilay Ivanovich is. The rumours in the underworld weren't exaggerated; he is harder to kill than a cockroach. My father threw an entire arsenal at him, poison, fire, kidnapping squads, and yet the man simply refused to die.
My orders were to kill the informant and grab the girl. Taking out Ilay wasn't on the docket, mostly because he knows it's a waste of bullets. But I have always enjoyed a challenge.
This isn't the first time our paths have crossed. I've seen him twice before, always from a distance, like two apex predators who know better than to strike until the odds are absolute. He probably doesn't even remember my face.
But I remember his. How could I forget the boy who was abandoned in a forest at ten years old and emerged three days later, dragging the carcass of a wolf he had strangled with his bare hands? That story is a bedtime prayer in the underworld. The boy they couldn't kill. The beast no one could break.
I was raised to compete with that legend. Trained to be the better stronger, smarter, and crueler version. And yet, here I am, watching him cradle a lawyer against his chest like she is the last flicker of light in his godforsaken world. Is this how he dies? It's kind of anticlimactic, he's Samson and she's Delilah. What a tragedy.
I feel a dark, twisting urge to rip that light away. I can vividly imagine the look of absolute defeat on his face if I were to put a bullet through her heart, watching the life drain from her while he stands there, helpless for the first time in his miserable life.
Ah, the satisfaction.When I met them at the inn, playing house, I almost laughed in their faces. I knew he liked her, his hovering was practically suffocating and in our world, compassion is a death sentence. She is a lovely little dove, truly. I bear her no ill will. But the man she chose to stand beside has painted a neon target on her back.
I sigh, shifting my weight. What a shame. Such a beautiful soul, destined to be tainted by his darkness. But another thought gnaws at me. Who the hell is she to him? She looks familiar, ringing a bell in the back of my mind that I can't quite silence. That pisses me off. I hate blanks. I hate not knowing. But I'll figure it out. I always do.
