"Kazimir is coming," he says flatly. "We've made sure of that. And when he gets here, I'm going to make him watch while I break you until there's nothing left of the woman he loves. Then I’m going to take you back to the compound, and enjoy you for as long as you can until your body gives out. I’ll have a doctor there take care of the problem of the baby, if you manage to hang onto it through everything I’m going to do to you here."
He steps out, and the door closes behind him, the locks clicking. I lie there in the darkness, my face aching and my heart racing, my hand still pressed protectively over my stomach.
Kazimir is coming. That should fill me with hope. But all I can think is that Iosef is ready for him. That this is a trap. That Kazimir might die trying to save me. And I realize, with terrible clarity, that I would rather die myself than let that happen.
I have to find a way out. Not just for me. Not just for the baby. But for Kazimir.
Before he walks into whatever hell Iosef has planned for him.
27
KAZIMIR
The bandage on my right hand is soaked through by the time we reach the industrial district. Blood has seeped past the gauze, past the tape, staining my sleeve dark and wet. Every heartbeat sends a fresh pulse of agony through the ruined flesh where my finger used to be. I can feel the shock trying to creep in at the edges, making my thoughts fuzzy and my hands shake. It’s an injury that should have me in a hospital, not heading into a firefight.
I press my left hand over the wound, applying pressure, and stare out the window at the passing streetlights. Each one that flickers past is another second Svetlana is in their hands. Another second they could be hurting her. Touching her. Breaking her.
The image of her face—the way she'd looked at me before I left, soft and open and trusting—keeps flashing through my mind. I should have felt it, should have known that leaving her alone was a mistake.
What are they doing to her right now?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I've seen what Iosef and his men are capable of. I've seen the scars on Svetlana'sbody. I've held her through the nightmare where she wakes up screaming, convinced she's back in that cell.
And now she is. Back with them. Back in their hands.
My right hand throbs, and I welcome it. The pain distracts me, keeps me from spiraling into the thousand terrible scenarios playing out in my head.
Ilya sits beside me in the back of the SUV, silent and focused. Three more vehicles follow behind us, carrying more of his best men, armed and ready.
It won't be enough if we're too late.
"You're bleeding through," Ilya says quietly, his eyes on my hand.
"I know."
"You need to?—"
"I need to get to her." I don't look at him. "That's all I need."
Ilya is quiet for a moment. "You'll be useless if you bleed out before we get inside," he says finally. "Viktor."
The man in the front passenger seat turns around. "Boss?"
"Give him a stimulant. And re-wrap that hand. Tighter."
Viktor pulls out a small case, flipping it open to reveal two syringes filled with clear liquid. Military-grade stimulants, most likely—the kind that will keep you on your feet through anything, at least for a few hours. The crash afterward will be brutal, but I'll worry about that later.
He jabs the first needle into my thigh, right through my pants. The drug hits my system like ice water, sharp and clarifying. My vision sharpens. The fog at the edges of my consciousness recedes. The pain in my hand doesn't disappear, but it becomes distant and manageable. "Better?" Viktor asks.
I nod. I can already feel the difference. My hands have stopped shaking. My thoughts are clear, cold, and focused.
Viktor motions to my hand. "Let me see it."
I hold it out. He unwraps the blood-soaked bandage with efficient movements, revealing the mangled flesh beneath. The stump where my finger was is still seeping blood.
Viktor works quickly, packing the wound with fresh gauze soaked in clotting agent, then wrapping it tight enough that I feel the bones in my hand grind together. I don't make a sound. "That'll hold," he says. "For a few hours, at least. After that, you’ll need a better doctor."
He returns to the front seat. Ilya is watching me with an unreadable expression. "Try not to get yourself killed. She'll need you alive."
