I aim for his eyes next, but he catches my wrist. I use my other hand, scratching at his neck, his jaw, anywhere I can reach. I may never have been taught to fight with guns and knives, but I do have feet and nails and dammit, I plan to use all of them to my advantage.
He tries to grab both my hands but I’m not done. I’m not leaving this house without a fight. I kick at his shins, his knees, anywhere that might hurt. When he gets too close, I sink my teeth into his forearm hard enough to make him roar in pain.
“DIMITRI!” I scream it with everything I have. “DIMITRI! HELP!”
All of a sudden, there are footsteps and shouts in Russian.
Alexei hears it too. His eyes dart to the door, then back to me. There’s blood running down his cheek and neck. His arm where I bit him is already bruising, my teeth mark evident.
I feel some type of feral satisfaction rise in me seeing him marked up. Maybe now he’ll realize I’m not a wallflower, easy to pluck. This flower hasthornsand she’s not afraid to fight back.
“This isn’t over,” he snarls, shoving me away from him. I stumble but stay on my feet, still ready to fight. “You and that baby are mine, Vera. And Dimitri?” His smile is vicious despite the blood. “He won’t live long enough to stop me.”
The footsteps are getting closer. Voices in the hallway. Just seconds away.
He grabs me one more time—both hands on my shoulders—and shoves me backward. Hard.
I go down, my hip hitting the dresser and pain exploding through my side. I cry out in shock.
When I look up, he’s already at the window. One leg through, then the other.
Our eyes meet for one last moment. His face is a mess of scratches, blood running down in rivulets, and his expression is half rage and half something darker.
Then he’s gone.
22
DIMITRI
“DIMITRI!”
My head snaps up from where it’s bent over my desk, staring at phone records. That sounds like…
Vera.
I’ve never moved faster in my life as I explode out of my office and race down the hall. My gun is already in my hand, but when did I draw it? The cool metal is familiar and comforting in my palm.
“DIMITRI! HELP!”
Her voice is coming from the east wing. I run faster, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts. Behind me, I hear my guards mobilizing, boots thundering on marble, and radios crackling with rapid Russian.
But I’m faster.
I hit the hallway at a dead sprint and crash through the guest room door hard enough to splinter the frame.
The window is open and the curtains billow in the night breeze, bringing in cool air. And Vera?—
Vera is on the floor beside the dresser, one hand braced against the furniture for support. Her face is white and tear-streaked. There are red marks forming on her arms that are already darkening into bruises.
Bruises shaped like fingers.
Someone put their hands on her. Someone grabbed her hard enough to leave marks.
The white-hot rage that floods through me is incandescent. It takes every ounce of control I have not to start roaring.
Mikhail and Viktor burst in behind me, weapons drawn. They move immediately to the window, checking the perimeter, but I barely register them.
All I can see is Vera. Shaking. Hurt. Terrified.
