Page 71 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

The sound of their voices fills the cottage. Russ's frustrated growl, Nick's clipped commands, and Alex's quiet threats. It's like listening to a symphony of violence being orchestrated in real time, and I'm standing in the middle of it all, completely out of my depth.

Russ paces near the window, his voice rising with frustration. "I don't care what excuses you have. Find out who's responsible for the delay and handle it. Yes, handle it. Do I need to spell out what that fucking means?"

The casual violence in his tone makes my stomach twist. This is who they really are. Not the playful men who made me laugh and held me while I slept.

Alex finishes his call and immediately moves to the back door, checking the lock mechanism. He pulls out a small toolkit from somewhere and starts reinforcing the strike plate. "This lock is shit," he mutters. "Anyone with basic skills could kick this door in."

"I've lived here for six months without problems," I say defensively.

"You've lived here six months without anyone having a reason to come after you," Alex corrects, not looking up from his work. "That's changed now."

The words send ice through my veins. I retreat to my desk in the corner of the living room, desperate to escape the suffocating reality of what my life has become. My laptop sits open with a half-finished blog post about winter hiking trails, and the normalcy of it feels absurd now.

I try to focus on the screen, try to lose myself in words and research like I always do when reality becomes too much. But concentration is impossible with three Bratva bosses conducting criminal business ten feet away from me.

Nick's voice cuts through my attempted focus. "Marla."

I look up to find him watching me from the kitchen table, maps spread out in front of him like battle plans. His expression is unreadable, but there's something protective in the way he's looking at me. No, protective is too gentle a description. He looks almost... feral.

"No one is going to touch you," he says quietly. "You understand that? Anyone who tries won't live to tell about it."

The words should terrify me. The promise of violence, the casual certainty with which he delivers it. But instead, they offer a little relief. My muscles relax slightly. Until then, I guess I'd been worried about what they were going to do with me. It'd be easy to write me off and let whatever happen, happen. After all, I'm just a woman they'd had sex with.

"Damn right," Russ adds from the window, his phone finally lowered. "We'll bury them so deep no one will ever find the body."

I look at Alex, who's moved on to reinforcing the window locks. His words had been much different earlier, promising that I'd wish I'd never heard of them if I turned out to be guilty. Now he glances over his shoulder and meets my eyes.

"No one fucks with you," he says simply. Unless I turn out to be guilty. He doesn't say it, but I hear the words in my head anyway. A shiver works its way through my body. I should be comforted since I know I'm not guilty of anything but getting research for my writing—and having a good time doing it. But there's still a nagging fear that won't quite abate.

My phone buzzes on the desk. Sharon's name flashes across the screen with a text: You okay?

I pick up my phone but my fingers hover over the screen. How am I supposed to answer that? I guess I'm okay, but finding out about Zach's dad's connections has thrown me for such a loop, my head is still spinning. So now, I'm not exactly okay, but I'm also not in immediate danger.

I text back: Fine. Talk later.

Russ's phone rings again, and he answers with barely controlled irritation. "What now?" He listens, his expression darkening. "Fuck. How long ago?" Another pause. "Find out who authorized that route change and bring them to me. I don't care if it's inconvenient."

He ends the call and looks at Nick. "Someone redirected one of my shipments without clearance. Third time this month."

"Internal problem?" Nick asks.

"Has to be. No one outside the organization knows those routes."

The conversation continues around me, filled with references to shipments and routes and security protocols I don't understand. I turn back to my laptop, but the words on the screen blur together meaninglessly.

"You want to help me gather firewood?" Russ asks suddenly.

I look up to find him standing near my desk, his light eyes softer than they were moments ago when he was threatening someone over the phone. He's trying to distract me from the chaos, I realize. Trying to give me something normal to focus on.

"It's freezing outside," I point out.

"Fresh air will do you good. You've been cooped up in here for days."

He's not wrong. The cottage walls are starting to feel like they're closing in. I glance at Nick and Alex, but neither objects to the idea.

"Fine," I say, standing. "But if I get frostbite, I'm blaming you."

Russ grins, and for a moment he looks like the playful man who first approached me at the Ivory Wolf. "Deal."