Page 19 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Then I hear it.

A tiny, wet gasp from the closet.

I move toward the double doors, my boots crunching on the broken glass. I pull one door open, my gun ready to fire.

She’s there.

She’s huddled in the corner of the small walk-in closet, buried under a pile of silk robes and dresses. Her white lace wedding dress is torn, her bare shoulders shaking so violently, her bones look like they might break. Her head is tucked into her knees, her hands clutching her ears as she hyperventilates in short, jagged gasps that sound like she’s choking.

She doesn't look up when the door opens. She’s completely gone, lost in the red of her own head.

"Via," I say, my voice rough, the anger in my chest suddenly turning into something soft. Something painful.

I reach down to grab her, to pull her out of the dark, when a shadow moves in the corner of my eye.

A mercenary, the sixth man, springs from behind the hanging rack of dresses. He’s got a combat knife, his face twisted in a desperate snarl as he lunges for my throat.

I don't have time to raise the gun.

I drop to one knee, catching his wrist with my left hand. The blade stops inches from my throat, the cold steel reflecting the red emergency light. He’s heavy, his weight pushing me back toward Via.

I can’t let him near her.

With a roar, I drive my head forward, slamming my forehead into his nose. I hear the bone snap, a spray of hot, thick blood hitting my face. He staggers back, and I grab his head, twisting his neck until I hear the wet, heavy crack of his vertebrae giving way.

He hits the floor with a dull, limp thud, his eyes rolling back into his head, his blood pooling on the white carpet inches from Via’s bare feet.

I stand over him, my chest heaving, my face covered in his blood. I look down at Via.

The sight of the kill has completely shattered her.

She let out a sharp, piercing shriek that cuts through the hum of the siren. She’s clawing at her own skin now, her nails digging into her arms until she draws blood, her eyes wide, wild, and completely vacant. She’s hyperventilating so hard, her chest is moving in violent, unnatural jerks, her lips turning a faint, terrifying shade of blue.

"Mama," she gasps, her voice a tiny, broken sob. "Mama, don't look. The red... the lilies are red. Papa, make them stop. Please, make them stop."

I drop the gun, not caring that there might be more of them in the hall. I slide into the closet, ignoring the blood on the floor, and pull her into my lap.

"Via," I growl, wrapping my arms around her. She fights me, her hands clawing at my face, her nails digging into the fresh cuts on my cheek, but I don't let go. I hold her tight against my chest, my body a solid, heavy wall against her panic. "Stop. You’re in my house. It’s over."

"Let me go! Monster! You're going to kill her!" she shrieks, her voice breaking. She’s shaking so hard, her teeth are chattering. "The red... there's blood on my dress. There's blood on my face."

"It’s not yours," I rasp, my mouth near her ear. I take her hands, forcing them away from her face, pinning them against my chest. Her fingers are ice cold, wet with her own sweat. "Look at me, Via. Look at my face."

She thrashes, her head shaking from side to side. "No! No!"

"Look at me!" I roar, and the command is loud enough to make her freeze.

She opens her eyes. They’re wide, dilated with terror, but as she focuses on my face, the wildness starts to recede. She looks at the blood on my cheek, the graze on my ribs, the raw, bleeding mess of my knuckles.

"Ilya..." she whispers, her chest still heaving, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches.

"I’m here," I say, my voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration. I release her hands and cup her face, my bloody palms staining her pale cheeks. "You're safe. Nobody is touching you."

"You... you're bleeding," she whispers, her fingers rising to touch the cut on my jaw. She’s still shaking, but the hyperventilation is slowing down, her breathing starting to match the heavy, rhythmic thud of my heart.

"It's not my blood," I say, and for a split second, I want to kiss her. I want to taste the salt of her tears and the vanilla of her skin until the scent of the dead men in the hall is gone.

Before I can move, a radio on the dead mercenary’s vest crackles to life.