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"Feisty bitch," my captor snarls, his breath hot against my ear.
Through the chaos, I catch a glimpse of Mikhail. Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead, his eyes wild with a fury I've never witnessed before. When he sees me struggling in the stranger's grip, something primal transforms his face. It's terrifying and somehow beautiful—like watching a storm roll in over the ocean.
"Touch her again, and I'll cut off your hands," he roars, his accent thickening with rage.
I feel the cold press of metal against my temple. The click of a safety being released.
"Drop your weapon, Zhukov," my captor demands. "Or your pretty little wife gets a bullet in her brain."
Time suspends. I meet Mikhail's ice-blue eyes across the garage, and in that moment, I understand something fundamental about the man I married. Behind the cold exterior, behind the calculated brutality, there beats a heart capable of something like love.
And I realize, with startling clarity as the gun digs deeper into my skin, that I'm not ready to lose him either.
My purse dangles against my hip, and its weight reminds me of the contents. With a desperate twist, I wrench my body sideways, my hand diving inside to find my Glock. Unfortunately, the man holding me doesn't expect resistance—they never do. That's their mistake.
I feel the satisfying weight of the gun in my palm as I yank it free. In one fluid motion born of hours at Mikhail's private range, I aim downward and pull the trigger.
The sound is deafening. And so is his scream.
My captor crumples, howling as he clutches the bloody ruin between his legs. His mask has slips, revealing a contorted face I don't recognize but will never forget.
"Kira!" Mikhail's voice cuts through the chaos, a mixture of pride and panic I've never heard before.
The stairwell door crashes open, and Vanya bursts through with three men, their weapons already blazing. Relief floods through me for an instant before another attacker lunges, grabbing for my hair. I duck, spin, and fire again. The bullet catches him in the shoulder, spraying crimson across the concrete floor.
Mikhail is a demon unleashed, moving with lethal precision. He slams his elbow into a masked face, the crunch of cartilageaudible even amid the gunfire. His eyes find mine across the chaos, a flash of electric blue that somehow steadies me in this storm of violence.
"Behind you!" I scream, raising my weapon again.
Mikhail drops to one knee as I fire over his head, catching an attacker in the chest. The man staggers backward, surprise visible in his dying eyes.
The garage echoes with moans and shouts, the acrid smell of gunpowder burning my throat. I step over a body, my designer heels slick with blood. There's a strange clarity in this moment—like the world has crystallized into simple truths: survive, protect, fight.
Vanya's men methodically clear the space, their movements precise and practiced. One by one, the attackers fall or surrender.
When it's over, when the final shot rings out, and silence descends like a heavy curtain, I find myself standing in the middle of the carnage, gun still raised, breath coming in short gasps. My beautiful dress is torn and spattered with crimson. My hands don't shake. That's what surprises me most.
Mikhail crosses to me in three long strides, his face a mask of blood and fury that softens only when his hands cup my face. His thumbs brush my cheekbones, leaving smears of red I can feel but not see.
"Kisa," he whispers, his accent thick with emotion. "My fierce, beautiful wife."
I should be horrified. I should be falling apart. Instead, I feel reborn in blood and gunpowder, standing amid the wreckage of men who thought I would be easy prey.
"I told you I wouldn't leave you," I say, my voice steadier than I expect.
His eyes darken as he pulls me against him, his heart thundering against mine. Around us, Vanya's men secure the survivors, their efficiency chilling.
"Who sent them?" I ask against Mikhail's chest.
His arms tighten around me. "Someone who will not live to see tomorrow's sunset."
The promise in his voice should terrify me. Instead, I find myself nodding against the solid wall of his chest, breathing in his scent of sandalwood and gunpowder and blood.
"Good," I whisper, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
The Range Rover's door slams shut behind us with a definitive thud that seals out the chaos we've left behind. My ears are still ringing from the gunfire, my pulse hammering against my throat as Vanya slides into the driver's seat. The partition rises between us with a mechanical hum, cocooning Mikhail and me in leather-scented darkness.
"Drive," Mikhail commands, his voice rough with residual adrenaline. "The safe house. Now."