Page 75 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Mikhail doesn't stop. He grabs my hair, pulling my head back until my neck is arched, and drives his fist into my ribs.

The breath leaves my lungs in a violent, agonizing gasp, my body curling forward as I try to protect my stomach. I hold my left hand over my belly, my fingers digging into my skin as I try to absorb the blows, keeping him away from my lower abdomen. He hits me again, his boot catching my hip, the physical pain a dull, heavy roar that vibrates through my bones.

He stands over me, his chest heaving, his beige suit splattered with the fresh blood dripping from my lip. He looks down at me like I’m an insect he’s trying to crush into the concrete.

"You're going to beg before I’m finished with you," he pants, his hand reaching down to grab Ekaterina’s shoulder. "Maybe I’ll start with the little sister. Let’s see how much sunshine you have left when she’s bleeding on the floor."

Ekaterina shrieks, trying to crawl deeper into the corner, her face pale with a raw, wild terror.

"Don't touch her!" My voice is a raw, jagged shriek that tears through my throat. I lunge forward, the chain on my right wrist snapping taut against the radiator pipe with a loud, metallic clang. I grab the silver pocket knife he’d dropped on the floor, my fingers locking around the hilt, and swing it at his leg.

The blade catches the fabric of his trousers, slicing a clean line through the beige wool and cutting into his thigh.

Mikhail lets out a sharp yell of pain, stepping back as a thin line of red blooms on his leg. He looks at the cut, then back up at me, his eyes wild with a primitive, murderous fury.

"You bitch," he growls.

He steps away from Ekaterina, his boots thudding as he walks back to me. He kicks the knife out of my hand, the metal clattering across the concrete, and grabs my throat with both hands, pinning my head back against the radiator.

He squeezes.

My air is cut off instantly, my lungs burning as I try to draw a single, ragged gasp. The room begins to dim, the yellow light of the bulb turning into a spinning white fog, but I don't stop looking at him. I glare into his blue eyes, my teeth bloody, my fingers clawing at his wrists with everything I have left.

I kept him away from her. The thought is the only thing keeping the panic from taking over. I kept Ekaterina safe. Ilya... please. Please be alive.

He releases my neck suddenly, letting me fall limp against the concrete, my chest heaving as I choke, a thick, ragged gasp of air finally rushing into my lungs.

He looks down at me, his face twisted in disgust, and turns toward the stairs. "Lock them in. No food. No water. We’re moving them to the docks tomorrow."

The steel door at the top of the stairs slams shut, the heavy deadbolt engaging with a loud, final click that plunges the basement back into the suffocating darkness.

The single lightbulb turns off, leaving us in the quiet, damp cold.

I lie there on the concrete, my body shaking with a violent, uncontrollable tremor. My jaw is throbbing, my lip split and leaking blood, my ribs aching with every shallow breath I take. I slowly roll onto my side, my left hand instantly dropping to my flat stomach, my fingers curling over the silk of my dress.

Please be okay, I pray into the dark, the tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and running down my cheeks, mixing with the blood on my chin. Please, baby, just hold on. Your father is coming. He has to be coming.

Ekaterina crawls closer to me, her small, shaking arms wrapping around my waist, her face burying into my back as she sobs silently. I hold her hand, my fingers locking with hers, our grip the only thing keeping us anchored in the dark.

I close my eyes, the image of the burning Kovalevskii estate flashing behind my eyelids.

Ilya...

30

ILYA

The smell of bleach is the first thing that registers, a sting that burns the back of my throat.

I try to draw a breath, but my chest instantly locks, a blinding, white-hot spike of agony driving straight through my left lung. I let out a low, wet cough, a thick, metallic taste filling my mouth as my head thrashes against a thin, vinyl pillow. The ceiling above me is made of raw pine joists, the rhythmic, muffled vibration of heavy washing machines rumbling somewhere overhead.

The basement clinic.

My eyes blink open, the flickering light of a single fluorescent tube making my skull throb with a dull, heavy rhythm. I try to sit up, but my body refuses to obey. My legs are completely dead, numb and heavy under a rough wool blanket, and a thick plastic chest tube is taped tightly to my left side, drawing dark, sluggish bubbles of red into a plastic canister on the floor.

"Don't move, Pakhan."

Yuri, the young field medic who usually handles the dock enforcers' knife wounds, steps into my line of sight. He’s wearing a blood-stained green apron, his hands covered in thin latex gloves that are smeared with dark crimson. He has a silver syringe in his hand, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and frantic with a panic he’s trying to hide. "Your lung is half-collapsed. The steel beam crushed three of your ribs. If you pull that tube out, you’re going to choke on your own blood in five minutes."