Page 65 of Forced By the Bratva

Sitting there with his hand still near my skin, I couldn’t hold that story together as cleanly as I had before. I didn’t pull away.

He noticed. Of course he did. His eyes stayed on mine for a moment, then he let his hand drop and stepped back just enough to give me space.

His touch raised a flutter in my chest, a reminder that every day, I found new reasons to find him attractive. The scent of his cologne invaded my senses, and I could feel his warm breath against my skin.

Slowly, he traced his thumb along the curve of my mouth, and I felt my breath hitch. He locked eyes with me in a way that weakened my knees.

The silence stretched, my heart racing with the growing awareness that I might have begun falling for this man. Against my better judgment.

And that alone scared me more than anything else.

Chapter 22 – Ilya

I was fast asleep when I heard it: the unmistakable sound of gunfire, loud and rapid. My eyes snapped open, and I sat up immediately, on high alert.

Bullets tore through the window, glass exploding inward. I rolled hard across the bed as rounds stitched the mattress where my head had been a second earlier.

Outside, something detonated—close enough to shake the walls and make the lights flicker. Screams cut through the night. My men. Intruders. Both.

I yanked the bedside drawer open, grabbed the pistol, racked the slide, and hit the floor. More rounds slammed into the wall above me.

I stayed low, crawled to the doorway, then pushed out into the hall in a low sprint, using the frame for cover as another burst chewed up the plaster behind me.

The hallway was chaotic. Staff ran in every direction—some armed, some not. I shouted for them to get back inside and lock the doors. A few listened. Most were already moving toward the sound of fighting downstairs.

Three figures in full tactical gear appeared at the far end of the corridor. Rifles up. Helmets. Night optics. One of them spoke, voice clear and flat over the noise.

“Find the girl.”

The accent wasn’t Russian.

I didn’t need more than that. The girl was Iris.

I opened fire first. The initial rounds forced them to scatter. One broke left and took the stairs hard, heading straight for the upper floor. The other two shot back at me, weaving between doorways as they advanced.

Bullets sparked off the walls. I dropped behind a heavy console table, came up, and put two shots into the closer man’s vest. He staggered with a grunt but kept coming.

I moved, closing the distance before he could reset. With lightning reflexes, I kicked the rifle out of his hands hard enough that it spun across the floor.

The second man swung his weapon toward me. I sidestepped from the attack, grabbed his wrist, and twisted hard. He screamed at the sickening crack of his broken arm.

I hauled him toward me before the pain would fully register. With one hand on his jaw and the other on the back of his head, I snapped his neck effortlessly.

He dropped to the ground. Dead.

The first man had recovered his rifle. I saw the muzzle swing toward me. My own gun had skidded away during the scramble. I rolled, scooped it off the floor, and fired twice.

He dodged the first bullet, but the second round took him clean through the head. He went down hard and didn’t move.

Downstairs, the fighting was still loud. My men were holding. Gunfire cracked in controlled bursts. Someone shouted “clear!” on the east wing. Another voice called for more magazines.

They were doing their jobs. I left them to it and took the stairs two at a time. My heart raced as I hoped to reach her room on time.

I was halfway down the upper hall when I heard her scream.

“Iris!”

I ran harder. The door to her room stood open. I hit it at full speed.