Page 23

Kira

T he night splits open with the first gunshot.

One moment, we're hurrying across the underground parking garage—Mikhail's hand firm around mine, our footsteps echoing against concrete—and the next, the world fractures into chaos. The black Range Rover waits fifty feet away, driver alert, engine purring. Freedom so close I can almost taste it.

Then the squeal of tires. The sudden flood of headlights. The parade of black SUVs that appear from nowhere, blocking our path like a wall of obsidian.

"Stay behind me," Mikhail growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my skin prickle. In one fluid motion, he pulls me against his back and draws his gun. The metal catches the fluorescent light overhead, cold and lethal.

Men pour from the vehicles—six, eight, maybe more—their faces obscured by black balaclavas. The garage air, already thick with exhaust fumes, now crackles with tension.

"Mikhail Zhukov," one calls out, his accent distinctly Eastern European. "We only want the girl. Walk away now, and you might live to see morning."

I feel Mikhail's body tense against mine, the solid wall of his back becoming impossibly harder. His heat radiates through his tailored suit, warming my trembling hands where they clutch at the expensive fabric.

" Kisa ," he whispers, so quietly only I can hear, "when I create an opening, you run to the stairs. Don't look back."

"I won't leave you," I breathe, surprising myself with how much I mean it. Six weeks ago, I despised this arranged marriage. Now, the thought of abandoning Mikhail makes my chest constrict painfully.

The first shot comes without warning—not from Mikhail, but from one of the masked men. It ricochets off a concrete pillar inches from our heads, sending dust and fragments flying. I flinch, a small cry escaping my lips.

Mikhail moves like a predator unleashed. His first shot finds its mark—a gunman crumples to the ground. His second creates a spray of blood from another attacker's shoulder. The garage fills with the deafening cacophony of gunfire, the acrid smell of cordite burning my nostrils.

A strong arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward. Not Mikhail's. I scream, kicking wildly as a stranger drags me toward one of the SUVs. My heel connects with something soft—a knee, perhaps—and I hear a satisfying grunt of pain.

"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 cartilage audible 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."

The engine purrs to life, and we pull away from the carnage. Through the bulletproof glass, I watch the garage disappear into shadow, taking with it any remnants of the woman I was an hour ago.

Mikhail's hands are on me before we've cleared the parking structure, his fingers threading through my hair, tilting my face toward his.

In the dim interior light, his eyes burn with something primal—a hunger that has nothing to do with the violence we've just survived and everything to do with how I wielded that gun.

"You magnificent creature," he breathes against my lips, his accent thick as honey. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

His mouth crashes against mine, tasting of copper and desperation. I can feel the tremor in his hands as they map my face, my throat, the torn fabric at my shoulder. He's never touched me like this—like he's drowning and I'm oxygen itself.

"Mikhail," I whisper, but his name dissolves into a gasp as his teeth graze my lower lip.

"You stood your ground," he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes heat pool low in my belly. "You fought beside me. You saved my life."

His hands find my waist, spanning it completely as he lifts me with effortless strength. My knees bracket his hips, the torn silk of my dress riding up my thighs as I settle against him. Through the expensive wool of his trousers, I can feel exactly how much my display of violence has affected him.

"I can still smell the gunpowder on your skin," he murmurs, his lips trailing fire down my throat. "Still see you standing over that bastard with smoke curling from your barrel."

The Range Rover takes a sharp turn, the motion pressing me more firmly against him. I bite back a moan as his arousal presses against the silk between my legs, already damp with my own need.

"You're not the same woman who walked into that garage," he continues, his hands sliding beneath the torn fabric to find bare skin. "You're something else entirely. Something mine."

His fingers trace the edge of my lingerie, and I arch into the touch despite myself. The contrast is intoxicating—his gentleness now against the lethal precision I witnessed minutes ago. Both sides of him call to something dark and hungry in my chest.

"Yes," I breathe, the word escaping before I can stop it. "I'm yours."

His pupils dilate at my admission, swallowing the ice blue until only a thin ring remains. Something shifts in his expression —possession mingled with wonder as if I've given him a gift he never expected to receive.

"Again," he commands, his voice hoarse. "Say it again."