So no, I don’t particularly trust Cyrus, but I trust his friendship with Yulian.
Even with the access he gave us and the cameras looping, we still have to take out any threat without drawing security’s attention.
I glance at Dad moving ahead, his gun raised, while Uncle Viktor and the others cover our backs. I signal toward the stairs, and Dad takes the lead.
Cyrus is positive Yaroslav would keep Yulian underground. My jaw tightens at the thought of what he might have done.
But I force myself to breathe, to focus. First, I get Yulian out. Then I’ll think about Yaroslav.
A man shows up at the bottom of the stairs. He jumps back, his gun half drawn, but I shoot him in the head before he can blink.
My dad gives me a look of pride as we continue down the dimly lit hallway.
I tend to concentrate better when under stress or duress, which is why I’m hyperaware of the slightest movements.
Several men appear in the hallway, blocking the way to the room at the end of it—the one where Cyrus said Yulian would most likely be.
At first, the men don’t notice us as they smoke and talk in Russian.
“Go.” Dad shoves me. “I’ll have your back.”
I give a curt nod and then shoot my way through, injuring or killing anyone who blocks my way. I don’t give a fuck about anyone other than Yulian right now.
Dad and Viktor cover for me as I shoot the metal lock off the cell and shove the door ajar, my gun raised. If I see Yaroslav doing anything to Yulian, I’ll kill him right here and now.
The door groans open on rusted hinges as my senses go on high alert.
The scent of blood hits me first—a thick, metallic punch to the throat that coats my tongue and makes my hair stand on end.
My lips part when I see him.
Yulian.
He’s crumpled on the stone floor, little more than a shadow slumped against the far wall. A chair lies toppled nearby, restraints scattered. His shirt hangs in tatters—ripped down the back, shredded across the front, dark with blood dried in patches and still wet in streaks.
Angry bruises mar the pale stretch of his ribs, one so dark and bloated, it’s probably broken. Maybe more than one.
His face is so swollen and bloodied, one eye sealed shut, his lips split and crusted in red.
I almost don’t recognize him.
It’snothim.
My Yulian is chaos wrapped in flesh, a force of nature with thunder in his voice, fire in his veins, and an untamed surge of energy.
He can’t possibly be like…likethis.
I blink twice, but the scene doesn’t disappear. I rush toward him with my heart in my throat.
The gun slips from my hand as my knees hit the floor, hard. I don’t feel the impact. Ican’tfeel anything but him.
“Yulian,” I rasp, my voice choked. “Fuck. Yuli?—”
I touch his face gently with trembling fingers, terrified he’ll shatter in my palm. He doesn’t move. His skin is cold.Too cold. I press my ear to his mouth, stilling everything inside me.
For a few seconds, I don’t breathe, holding it in, ignoring the chaos outside as I listen.
What if Yaroslav killed him? Why wasn’t I here earlier?
