He cuts me off. “He’s the reason you’re lying to everyone, including yourself.”
“I’m done talking about Artyom,” I say, trying to pull back again, but he clamps down harder and yanks me forward.
“You’re coming with me,” he says through clenched teeth, and suddenly his voice isn’t desperate anymore—it’s something colder, that scares me more than the men who grabbed me outside the club, because this ismy brother, and he’s looking at me like he’s willing to drag me through the street if he has to.Was he really there that night?
“No,” I say, louder, pushing against his chest. “Stop it, Lucas. Let go. Let me go.”
“Please,” he says, and now he’s begging but his hands are still rough, his breathing unsteady, his eyes unfocused. “I need you, Kira. I can’t do this without you. You have to come with me. You’re all I have.”
“Lucas,” I plead, “you’re hurting me.”
For a moment he doesn’t seem to hear me, and then everything snaps at once—his fingers digging in even harder as I try to pull back, both of us reacting at the same time in this messy, frantic tangle of panic and desperation?—
“Kira.” Artyom’s voice lands like a gunshot.
Lucas jerks in surprise just as Artyom steps into view, and the cold, lethal look on his face makes my heart stop beating for a second. Mikhail is behind him, tense, watching everything. Artyom’s gaze drops to Lucas’s hand gripping my arm, and something inside him breaks. I see it. Ifeelit.
He moves so fast I barely have time to react. One second Lucas is beside me, the next Artyom has him by the front of his jacket, slamming him back against the brick wall with so much force my ears ring.
“Let go of him!” I cry out, grabbing Artyom’s arm, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe any differently. He’s somewhere else entirely.
Lucas chokes out a sound as Artyom’s fist slams into his stomach, folding him forward before another blow catches the side of his jaw. The sound of impact is sickening, and I stumble back, reaching for Artyom again.
“Stop—please, stop—he’s my brother—Artyom, you’ll kill him?—”
He doesn’t hear me, just grabs Lucas again, drags him up by his shirt, and forces another hit that makes Lucas’s head snap to the side. Blood splatters across the pavement.
“Artyom!” I shout, louder this time, pulling on his shoulder with both hands. “Please stop, please, he’s not—he’s not the enemy?—”
Before anyone can react, shadows move at the end of the street. Four men, maybe five, rushing in fast. Mikhail curses under his breath, stepping forward and Artyom finally looks up, just enough to see the movement, but not enough to release Lucas.
And the men grab him. Two pull Lucas away from Artyom, dragging him backward, yelling in Russian, while the others step between them.
“Wait!” I shout, panic shooting through me. “Stop! He’s hurt—let him go—what are you doing?”
But the men don’t listen. They haul Lucas toward a black SUV parked at the corner. Mikhail steps forward with his gun drawn, but Artyom lifts an arm to stop him, his jaw clenched, eyes burning.
“Don’t,” Artyom snarls.
They shove Lucas into the car, the door slamming hard enough to echo off the buildings, and the engine roars as they pull away, disappearing down the street in a blur that leaves the air vibrating and the silence collapsing in behind it.
I’m left standing there with my breathing too fast and too shallow, the whole scene still ringing in my ears, while Artyom stands a few steps from me with blood on his knuckles, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths, his eyes fixed on the empty stretch of road where my brother vanished moments ago.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kira
Artyom doesn’t move for a long moment after Lucas disappears in that SUV, doesn’t even blink, just stands there with his chest heaving and blood dripping slowly from his knuckles like he hasn’t realized yet that the fight is over.
The whole street feels wrong now, heavy and echoing with what just happened, and I’m still shaking so hard I can barely feel my fingers. I want to speak, to say something, anything, but my throat feels tight and raw, and the words get stuck somewhere behind panic and guilt and the image of my brother being dragged away.
Mikhail steps closer first, scanning the street like he expects someone else to jump out of the shadows, but I’m looking only at Artyom, because something is off, something in the way he’s holding his arm slightly away from his body.
“Artyom,” I whisper, taking a shaky step closer. “You’re bleeding.”
He doesn’t react at first, doesn’t even look at me, but when I move close enough to touch him, I see a deep cut along his forearm, long and already swelling, probably from when one of the men grabbed him while pulling Lucas away. Blood smears down to his wrist, dark and thick.
“You need to get that treated,” I say, my voice catching.
