Page 78 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

My side is on fire. Every breath is a knife in my lung, the blood slowly soaking through the fresh duct tape, sticky and warm against my ribs. I don't care. I let the pain burn, let it wash over my brain like a cold wave of water, keeping me sharp, keeping me focused on the only image that matters.

I’m coming, Via.

She is my other half. My violent, beautiful whole.

And if I have to drag myself through the mud of that shipyard on my knees, I’m going to tear Mikhail’s throat out with my bare teeth before I let him touch what is mine.

I slide my leather glove on, my fingers locking around the cold steel of my rifle as the van turns toward the river.

The city is going to burn tonight.

But when the smoke clears, I’ll be the one holding her in the dark.

31

VIA

The concrete beneath my cheek is vibrating. The storm outside has been dead for hours, but the air in this damp, lightless basement is humming with a sharp, concussive pressure that makes my ears pop.

Muffled, rapid gunshots echo through the floorboards above us.

I sit up slowly, my right wrist jerking against the rusted radiator pipe, the iron handcuffs clinking sharply in the dark. My shoulder is stiff, my split bottom lip dry and cracked, the taste of dried blood thick in my mouth. I press my free left hand flat against my belly, my fingers digging into the green silk of my dress, my heart hitting my ribs in a fast, terrified rhythm.

We’re getting out of here.

Ekaterina is huddled against my side, her small frame shaking so violently her shoulder blades are knocking against my chest. She’s clutching her knees, her face buried in the wool of her sweater, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches. "Via... is that... is that him?"

I hope so.

"It’s him," I whisper, my voice a dry, ragged thread in the dark. "I told you. The grumpy bastard doesn't know how to stay dead."

A massive, bone-rattling explosion shakes the ceiling above us, throwing a thick shower of grey plaster dust down into the dark. Ekaterina lets out a sharp shriek, her hands flying to cover her ears as the floorboards groan under some heavy, falling weight. The screaming starts then, high, frantic shouts in Russian, the voices carrying a wild, disorganized panic that tells me the Russo perimeter has completely collapsed.

The heavy steel door at the top of the stairs is kicked open, a flood of harsh, yellow light pouring down the wooden steps.

Uneven, frantic footsteps thud down the stairs, the wood creaking loudly under the weight. Mikhail descends into the basement, and he is completely unrecognizable. The neat, beige composure he maintained yesterday is entirely gone. His suit jacket is missing, his white shirt torn at the shoulder and soaked with a mixture of black grease and dark, fresh blood. His face, the left side a melted, pink ruin of scars, is dripping with sweat, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and wild with the panic of a cornered animal.

He’s holding a heavy black pistol in his right hand, his fingers shaking so hard, the barrel is tracing small, erratic circles in the air.

"Get up," he growls, his voice a high, wet wheeze as he stumbles toward us. "Get the hell up!"

I don't move, my hand staying flat over my stomach as I look up at him through the yellow light. "The water is rising, isn't it, Mikhail? Your little Russo friends are running out of bullets, and you've realized you’re nothing but a decoy."

He lunges forward, his boot catching my hip as he kicks me back against the radiator. The rusted iron bites into my spine, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting through my ribs, but I don't let a sound escape my lips. He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a small, silver ring of keys, his hands shaking so violently, he drops them onto the concrete.

"Shut up!" He drops to his knees, his fingernails scraping against the concrete as he scrambles for the keys. He grabs them, shoves the smallest one into the cuff on my wrist, and twists it.

The lock clicks open, the heavy iron band falling away from my skin.

He grabs me by the arm, his fingers digging into my muscle with a desperate, crushing strength, and hauls me off the floor. I stumble, my legs stiff and cold from hours on the concrete, my head spinning with a sudden, dizzying wave of nausea. He reaches down, grabbing Ekaterina by the collar of her coat, and drags both of us toward the stairs.

"We’re going to the slipway," he pants, his hot, sour breath hitting my neck as he forces us up the creaking wooden steps. "The boat is idling. If Kovalevskii wants his little prizes, he can try to catch us in the channel."

"He’ll catch you before you even clear the harbor," I say, my feet scraping against the wood as I try to drag my weight, trying to slow our progress. "He knows the river better than you do, Mikhail. You’re just a tourist in his city."

He pushes me through the door at the top of the stairs, and the sheer volume of the chaos hits us like a physical blow.

We are standing on the mezzanine of a massive, ruined shipyard warehouse. Overhead, the corrugated iron roof is riddled with neat, starlike bullet holes, the pale evening light cutting through the smoke in long, grey beams. Sparks are showering down from a collapsed crane tower near the center of the floor, and the concrete below us is a mess of broken crates, burning fuel drums, and silent, dark shapes slumped in the dust.