Page 39 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The fifth man tries to step around his screaming partner, but I’ve already pulled my Glock.

Three rounds to the chest. The impact drives him back through the loading dock doors, his body tumbling down the concrete steps into the rain-slicked alleyway outside.

Five.

I don't wait to see if he’s breathing. I tuck Via under my arm, my left hand holding her thighs against my hip as I run through the loading doors, my boots splashing through the dark pools of red coating the kitchen floor.

The cool, wet air of the alleyway hits my face like a bucket of ice water, clearing the heat from my brain. The rain is heavy now, a steady, driving downpour that instantly washes the fresh blood off my face and runs down the front of my white shirt in pink streaks.

My armored SUV is already idling at the corner of the alley, the driver’s side door open. Dmitri is there, his suit jacket torn, a smear of black soot across his jaw as he holds the rear door open for us.

"We need to move, Boss!" he shouts over the roar of the rain and the distant, wailing sirens of the city. "The Russo captains are regrouping at the perimeter! The whole block is going to be a war zone in two minutes!"

I shove Via into the back seat, climbing in right after her and slamming the heavy, reinforced door shut. The electronic lock engages with that heavy, familiar clunk that means safety.

The car screeches away from the curb, the tires throwing up a massive spray of dirty water against the brick walls of the alleyway as we barrel toward the highway.

I lean back against the leather seat, my chest expanding as I take a long, ragged breath. My shoulder is throbbing, a deep, burning ache where the sniper round grazed me, and my forearm is leaking a steady trail of crimson onto the dark leather of the seat.

Via is huddled next to me, her legs drawn up to her chest, her emerald silk dress soaked in rain and grease. She’s shivering, her hands clutched around her arms as she stares down at the floor of the car.

She isn't talking.

I watch her, my jaw working rhythmically. The silence in the car stretches, heavy and thick, the only sound the steady slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. I reach out, my large, bloody hand coming to rest on her knee.

She flinches, just a fraction, but she doesn't pull away. She looks up at me through the tangle of her wet golden hair, her hazel eyes glazed with terror.

"You took a bullet for me," she whispers, her voice a thin, broken thread that barely carries over the sound of the rain.

"I took a graze," I growl, my voice low and flat. "Don't flatter yourself, Via. If you die, my contract with your father is worthless. I need you alive to keep the ports."

It’s a lie, a cold, professional lie designed to protect the fortress I’ve built around my own heart. But as I look at her, as I feel the trembling heat of her skin under my palm, I know the truth.

I’d take ten more bullets before I let anyone else see her bleed.

She looks at my hand on her knee, then back up at my face. She doesn't call me a monster. She doesn't make a joke about my suit or my ego. She just slides closer across the leather seat, her small, cold hand rising to rest over the fresh cut on my forearm, her fingers warm and steady against my skin.

"It’s going to leave a scar," she murmurs, her thumb tracing the edge of the wound.

"I have plenty of scars, little bird," I rasp, my hand sliding from her knee to wrap around the back of her neck, my fingers pulling her in until her forehead is resting against mine. "One more won't change the view."

She lets out a long, shuddering sigh, her body finally relaxing against mine as the SUV speeds through the dark, rainy night toward the fortress.

I look down at my wife, her golden hair damp against my chest, her fingers still holding onto my bleeding arm, and I realize I don't give a damn about the city.

She’s in my house now.

And I’m going to kill every single man who tries to take her away.

15

VIA

"I can walk."

My voice is a dry, useless rasp against the damp collar of his jacket. The words don't even feel like they belong to me.

My legs are completely dead, dangling over his massive forearm like loose rope as he carries me past the guards standing at the entrance of the estate.