Page 53 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I cross the space before he can drag her upright. He tries to pull her in front of him. I catch his gun wrist, wrench it up, and fire once into the night. Then I take his face in my hand and drive the back of his skull into the SUV window until the glass caves. Once. Twice. Three times. He drops softly at her feet.

Elena flinches against the wheel well.

There’s blood on my hands, my shirt, the side of her robe where I touched her. She looks scared of me for the first time since I met her. Fair enough.

Dima cuts the ties at her wrists and steps back fast.

I crouch in front of her. “Look at me.”

She does.

Her mouth is split. Dirt streaks one cheek. Gravel is ground into one knee, and rage is still holding her up by habit.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

She pushes up and almost goes over. I catch her by the waist before she hits the ground.

Her hands grab my coat. I pull her closer and check her fast. Back of the skull. Throat. Jaw. Ribs. Wrists. Every place a man can damage and lie about it later.

“I’m fine,” she says.

I look at the blood at her mouth. “Get your act together and say that again.”

Anger comes back first. Good. “You look terrible.”

“You should see the other side.” I squeeze her hand.

Around us, my men finish the yard. One last shot near the loading bay. Boots on gravel. Radios. A body dragged clear. Ilya calls the exit secure. Dima says one is alive for questioning.

I don’t care yet. Elena is still gripping my coat, her blood on my shirt and her fingers locked in the fabric. I straighten with one arm around her and turn her away from the bodies, but she has already seen what happens when a man puts hands on her and calls it business.

The convoy sits broken around us, hoods steaming, doors hanging open, blood running through the grit toward the cracked drain. One man twitches near the fence. Dima fires once and keeps moving. Elena follows the sound, then looks back at me, pale, shaking, furious, alive. I keep my hand at her waist because taking it away isn’t an option yet.

“Estate?” she asks.

I look over the yard, the dead men, the wrecked cars, and the road back toward the estate Karpov opened from the inside. The gate let them through, the codes gave them a lane, and that house doesn’t get my trust until I take it apart room by room.

I look down at her. “Not yet.”

16

ELENA

Maksim takes off his fur-lined coat and wraps it around my shoulders. The coat is heavy and still warm from his body, and it drops over me almost to my knees. He pulls the front closed across my chest with both hands, and for one second, he isn’t giving orders over blood and wreckage. He’s just keeping me covered. I hate that I need it, and I hate more that I lean into the warmth anyway.

He steps closer, putting himself between me and the men around us.

My shoulder burns where someone slammed me into the car, and my stomach tightens in small waves that scare me more than the bruises. I press one hand under the coat, over my lower belly, just a second. Then I drop it and square my shoulders, pulling the coat tighter around me as I force myself to stand steady in front of his men.

Maksim notices anyway. His eyes dip once, then return to my face.

“Dima,” he says to one of his men.

Dima steps forward, broad chest, blood on his sleeve. “Pakhan?”

“Take two teams back to the estate,” Maksim says. “Check every room. Count every man. Pull Karpov’s people out and line them up.”