Page 82 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Four. Five.

I stand up slowly, my breathing a ragged, wet gasp that tastes of sulfur and blood. My vision is splotched with dark, spinning spots, my knees shaking so violently, I have to lean my weight against the rusted side of a container to keep from falling onto the gravel.

"No!"

The scream carries through the grey fog, high, frantic, and carrying a wild, terrifying desperation that I’d recognize anywhere in this world.

Via.

The pain in my body vanishes. The white fog in my brain clears, replaced by a sudden, primitive, and completely wild focus. I throw my rifle aside—it’s empty anyway—and pull my combat knife from my boot, my fingers locking around the hilt as I run toward the sound of her voice.

I reach the edge of the wooden finger pier just as the world ends.

Petr Denisov is standing in the mist, his dark coat hanging open, his submachine gun smoking in his hands. He looks old, his face pale, but his eyes are fixed on the boat at the end of the dock.

Mikhail is there. He’s standing on the wet wood of the pier, his face a melted pink ruin of scars, his hand holding a heavy black pistol.

He’s going to shoot.

I lunge forward, my boots thudding loudly on the wet planks of the dock, but I’m too far. I’m thirty yards away, my broken body unable to close the distance before the hammer drops.

"Father!"

Via’s shriek tears through the quiet fog, a raw, bloody sound of pure, unadulterated agony.

Mikhail pulls the trigger.

Bang.

Petr doesn't run. He steps directly into the line of fire, his body a solid, unyielding shield that blocks the round from hitting his daughter.

Bang. Bang.

Two more shots rip through the quiet fog.

The impact of the bullets throws Petr backward, his body shuddering as he falls heavily onto his knees, his SMG clattering onto the wooden planks. He slides flat onto his back, his blood, thick and dark, instantly blooming across his white shirt.

Via scrambles to his side, her gold hair falling over her face, her hands pulling his head onto her lap. The emerald green silk of her dress is immediately stained with his blood, a heavy, wet smear that looks exactly like the wedding train at the cathedral.

"He’s dead, Via," Mikhail says, his voice carrying a sick, quiet satisfaction as he steps closer, his pistol pointing down at her head. "Your family is finished. Now get on the boat."

I’m running, my boots throwing up high sprays of water from the wet planks, but before I can reach them, Via moves.

In a single, fluid motion, her hand slides onto the cold grip of my father-in-law's dropped submachine gun. She rolls away from his body, her knees hitting the wet wood, and swings the barrel upward.

She pulls the trigger.

The gun barks, a rapid, deafening spit of muzzle flashes lighting up the grey fog. But her hands are shaking, her wrists unable to control the heavy snap of the weapon. The rounds tear through the wooden planks of the pier, throwing up a high shower of splinters, but they miss Mikhail’s chest, the bullets scraping his shoulder before flying into the dark water.

Mikhail lets out a sharp yell of pain, his hand flying to his grazed shoulder, his face contorting into a manic, primitive fury. He levels his pistol straight at her face, his finger tightening on the trigger. "You bitch! I’m going to⁠—"

I hit him.

I leave my feet, my body a solid, crushing projectile that slams directly into his chest. The force of the impact throws both of us off the pier, our bodies crashing through the grey mist and hitting the cold, dark water of the channel with a massive, wet explosion.

The cold water is a sudden, shocking violence that hits my lungs like liquid ice, my ears instantly ringing with a heavy, muffled pressure.

Mikhail is fighting me, his hands clawing at my face, his boots kicking against my ribs as we sink into the black depths. He’s wild, a frantic, desperate animal trying to find the surface, but my grip on his collar is iron. I drive my combat knife straight into his thigh under the water, the blade tearing through the beige wool of his trousers and slicing deep into his muscle.