Page 83 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

He lets out a muffled, bubbly shriek of pain, his grip on my neck loosening.

I leverage my weight against his chest, my boots kicking against the rusted side of a sunken barge, and force both of us back to the surface.

We break the water in a high spray, our lungs gasping for the cold, damp air. I grab him by the hair, my fingers tangling in the wet strands, and drag his head back. I swim with my one good arm, pulling his weight toward the rusted steel ladder of the slipway.

I haul him out of the water, throwing his body onto the concrete floor of the warehouse. He lands heavily, his shoes scraping against the dust, his breath coming in short, panting wheezes as he tries to crawl toward the shadow of the shipping containers.

I climb the ladder, my dislocated shoulder screaming with a blinding white pain, my torn stitches leaking a steady trail of red across the concrete. I don't feel the cold of the water. I don't feel the broken bones in my hand.

I only see him.

I walk toward him, my boots silent on the wet concrete, the combat knife held low in my right hand.

"Ilya..." He scrambles backward on his elbows, his face pale, his blue eyes wide with a sudden, absolute terror as he sees the raw, wild look in my eyes. He’s bleeding from his leg, his grazed shoulder dripping red onto his beige suit. "The... the treaty. Viktor Russo... he’ll kill you if you touch me. He has the southern docks."

"Viktor Russo isn't in this room," I say, my voice a flat, freezing whisper that doesn't sound human.

I step on his leg, my boot grinding into the bone until he lets out a high, piercing shriek of agony that echoes off the high corrugated iron roof. He thrashes, his hands clawing at my boot, but I don't move. I lean my weight down, the bone snapping under my heel with a sharp, dry pop.

"This is for my sister," I growl.

I drive my knife straight through his left palm, pinning his hand flat to the concrete floor. He screams, his head tossing back, his teeth grinding together as the blood fountains from the wound, staining the grey dust a deep, dark red.

"And this," I say, my voice dropping into a flat, deadly whisper as I lean down, my face inches from his scarred, twisted smile. "This is for my wife."

I grab his jaw with my left hand, my fingers digging into the pink, puckered scar tissue of his face. I twist his head, exposing his throat, and slide the blade of my knife slowly across his skin.

I don't go fast. I want him to feel every single millimeter of the steel. I want him to know the exact moment his life leaves his body, to hear the wet, heavy rush of his own blood hitting the concrete.

He chokes, his eyes rolling back, his limbs shaking in a series of violent, desperate spasms before he finally goes completely still beneath my boots.

The dock is covered in a dark, thick pool of red, the blood-for-blood ritual complete. Mikhail is dead.

My combat knife slips from my fingers, the metal clattering softly against the concrete.

The strength in my body vanishes. The physical toll of the dislocated shoulder, the crushed ribs, the torn stitches, and the ice-cold water of the channel finally catches up to me in a single, crushing wave. My knees bucking, my weight falling forward, I collapse onto the concrete right next to his corpse.

I roll onto my back, my chest rising and falling in short, wet gasps that taste of blood and copper.

My vision is splotched with dark, spinning spots, the yellow light of the warehouse ceiling turning into a heavy, suffocating blackness that rushes up to swallow me whole. I try to turn my head, my eyes searching through the thick grey fog for the gold hair and the green silk of her dress.

Via...

"Ilya!"

Her voice carries through the dark, warm, frantic, and completely real. I feel her hands on my face, her small, soft fingers cupping my jaw, her tears warm against my cold skin.

"Stay with me, Ilya," she sobs, her voice a ragged thread in the dark. "Please. Don't go. You have to stay."

I try to smile, but my jaw is too heavy, the darkness finally closing in around my eyes.

33

VIA

The white ceiling is the first thing that registers, a flat, blinding square of acoustic tile that smells of industrial bleach and lavender-scented disinfectant.

I don't move. My head is resting on a stiff, paper-covered pillow, and there is a steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep echoing from a digital monitor somewhere near my left ear. My throat is dry, feeling like it has been scrubbed with steel wool, and my jaw is a dull, throbbing ruin of pain. I slowly roll my head to the side, my eyes stinging as they adjust to the bright, artificial light of the private hospital room.