Page 13 of Hunted Bride

All I have to do is break the window to get out of here.

Khishnik can’t be right about the glass being unbreakable. Isn’t that a fire code violation?

Since when has your family ever cared about local ordinances?

Disjointed thoughts race through my head.

I run past the bedrooms on the main floor into the living room and to the double patio doors that lead to a large deck. One level down, a pool shimmers enticingly in the sun.

I grab the handles and try to yank them open. The hinges rattle, but they don’t open.

“Fuck,” I pant. “He wasn’t kidding about the doors being locked.”

Footfalls on the kitchen tile startle the shit out of me. A panicked wheeze comes out of me. My khishnik is huge. Well over six feet of solid muscle. He strides toward me with the slow patience of a predator.

“Time’s up, Mouse,” my stalker drawls. He’s familiar in a way that I can’t quite place. I know I haven’t seen him before. Even with the sunglasses, hat, and gaiter, he is memorable in a way that not many men are. His broad shoulders and muscular build are as unforgettable as they are uncommon, even in a fitness-obsessed city like Los Angeles.

The world of the Russian bratva is small, especially here in the United States. Most of the brotherhood’s activity takes place back in our home country. My family carved out a niche in San Francisco and expanded into LA when my sister moved here. They do cybercrime, blackmail, money laundering—dark web crime and protection rackets. That doesn’t mean their globe-spanning digital crimes don’t bleed into the real world.

Growing up in San Francisco, where they hid their activities behind a front as a legitimate tech startup, my parents tried to keep me out of it. Honestly, their world always scared me so much that I disappeared into my own fictional world where the danger couldn’t actually hurt me. Yet they still interacted with other bratva factions. I’ve seen someone who looked like my khishnik before.

Who?

I can’t remember, and right now I can’t think. My whole body is flooded with adrenaline, yet I can’t move. Every fiber of my being is telling me to get through that door and escape into the hills beyond the property. All I do is stand there, panting, about to pee my pants with terror.

He’s not even trying to hide his approach. Deliberate, slow footfalls approach from the kitchen, with its tile floors that make every step echo menacingly.

“You won’t get out that way,” he says casually. “I told you the doors are locked.”

Why does his voice have to be even sexier than I imagined it would be? An erotic shiver of mixed revulsion and anticipation rolls down my spine. Just like when he called me last night, I’m disgusted with the way my body reacts to him. It’s like I can’t help it.

I don’t want my stalker to fuck me senseless. What sane woman would?

I might be shy and lacking in self-confidence, but he makes me so angry.

That flash of fury boiling over is what finally prompts me to act.

“You.” I pull out my knife. During the six minutes head start he gave me, he switched out the sunglasses, hat, and neck gaiter for a mask. My sister has a ton of old costumes from her various movie productions lying around. I don’t know where they all come from, or care. All I know is that Alisa apparently had a Ghostface mask sitting around, and that my pursuer is wearing it.

Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

Hairs on the back of my neck lift as he steps from the kitchen into the carpeted living room. The rug silences his movements. He’s wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt and black jeans. Tattoos creep out of his sleeves and down his arms. Russian symbols mixed with American symbolism. An eagle spreads its wings. The heavy black marks extend all the way to his knuckles. My instincts sing danger, run.

He glances at the paring knife in my hand and laughs. “What are you planning to do with that?”

I edge around the sofa, keeping the large sectional between me and him. I imagine him grinning as he feints to the left, then pivots right and jumps over the ottoman. I yelp and stumble back.

“I told you what would happen if I catch you, Mouse. Careless of you to let me get so close. It’s like you want to be caught.”

“Don’t come near me,” I snarl.

With my back pressed against the cold window, I brandish my paring knife, chest heaving. He plants one sneakered foot in the center of Alisa’s expensive sofa and steps over the back, landing easily before me. I thrust the steel at him and miss. He catches my wrist. One twist, and I drop the knife. It lands with a dull thud at my feet.

He kicks the knife away. It spins wildly on the carpet and lands underneath the couch where I have no hope of reaching it.

Oh, fuck. I’m so fucked.

He presses me against the glass. “You didn’t run fast enough, Milena.”