Page 73 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

No. A sudden, primal scream tears from my throat, a raw, bloody sound of pure, unadulterated fury that shakes the dust from the air. I grab the heavy steel beam with my one good hand, my muscles bulging, my teeth grinding together so hard, they chip as I try to lift the weight.

I don't care about the pain. I don't care about the blood running down my face or the broken bones in my hand.

And if I have to crawl through the ashes of this entire city on my hands and knees, I’m going to find him.

I’m going to find my sister. I’m going to find my wife.

And then I’m going to tear Mikhail’s throat out with my bare teeth.

29

VIA

The taste of chloroform is the first thing that registers, a greasy coating on the back of my tongue that makes my throat dry and raw.

I try to swallow, but my tongue feels like a dry block of wood, my teeth sticky and tasting of copper. The back of my skull is throbbing with a violent hammer that aligns perfectly with the heavy thud of my heart. I blink, but it doesn't do any good.

Everywhere is pitch black.

I try to lift my right arm to wipe the sweat from my eyes, but a clink echoes through the quiet space.

My wrist jerks back, a cold band of rusted iron biting deep into my skin. I pull harder, my shoulder tensing as the rattling sound of heavy chains vibrates through the floorboards beneath me. I’m sitting on cold, damp concrete that smells of rust, mold, and old fuel. My left hand is free, but my right is handcuffed tightly to the vertical iron pipe of a rusted, freezing radiator.

The Esplanade. The boutique. The flash-bang.

The memories hit my brain in a sudden, dizzying rush that makes my stomach do a violent, nauseating flip.

A cold, paralyzing wave of terror washes over my chest, so thick I can barely draw a breath of the damp, musty air. My hand instinctively drops to my flat stomach, my fingers curling tightly over the smooth green silk of the dress I’d changed into at the boutique before the world blew up.

Please. Just be okay. Don't let me lose this baby. Not here. Not in this dark.

My fingers press into my flesh, searching for any sign of pain, any indication that the blast or the fall had ruined the tiny, fragile heartbeat growing inside my womb. My body is sore, my ribs aching from where I hit the cash wrap, but there’s no sharp, tearing pain in my belly. Just a dull, empty ache that matches the dread settling into my gut.

A quiet, trembling sob carries from the darkness to my left.

I freeze, my ears straining to track the sound through the quiet room. "Ekaterina?"

"Via?" Her voice is a tiny, broken thread that barely carries over the low, rhythmic rattle of the pipes. "Via, are you awake? I can't... I can't move my hands. It’s so dark."

"I’m here, Ekaterina." I reach out with my free left hand, my fingers sweeping across the cold concrete until they find the soft wool of her sleeve. I pull her closer, my arm wrapping around her shaking shoulders, pulling her head down onto my lap. She’s shivering, her teeth chattering so hard I can hear them click in the quiet. "Stay quiet. Don't move. I’ve got you."

"They... they put a bag over my head," she whispers, her chest heaving against my thigh. "They dragged us into a van. I heard them talking about Ilya. They said he was dead, Via. They said they burned the estate."

What?! No, no, no, no. That’s a lie.

It’s a lie.

"They're lying," I say, my voice flat, cold, and completely steady, though my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest. He took a bullet graze and didn't even blink. He’s not dead. He can't be dead. "They're just trying to scare you. Don't listen to them."

A metallic screech echoes through the ceiling above us.

A sharp, thin line of yellow light cuts through the darkness at the far end of the room, growing wider and brighter as a heavy steel door is pushed open. Footsteps thud slowly down a flight of wooden stairs, uneven, dragging footsteps that carry a slow, rhythmic limp.

A single, bare lightbulb swings from the ceiling, turning on with a sharp click that makes my eyes burn and water.

I squint through the yellow light, my hand tightening on Ekaterina’s shoulder as the figure steps onto the concrete floor.

Mikhail is wearing his beige suit, but it’s no longer clean. The trousers are stained with dark grease, the lapels dusty and torn at the seam, but it’s his face that makes the breath completely stall in my throat.