Page 36 of Bratva Bidder

Lev notices immediately, his mouth twitching in something that might have been a smirk under other circumstances. But he’s smart enough not to push.

I don’t answer. Not out loud.

We take the stairwell two at a time, our boots pounding the metal steps as we descend, and for the first time in years, my heart isn’t calm.

Because the thought has crossed my mind more than once—the idea of securing my claim in blood, tying Nadya to me permanently in the oldest, most undeniable way possible.

But this isn’t the time for that.

The memory flashes through me again?—

Nadya’s hand grabbing my jacket, yanking me back hard just before the shot cracked through the air. Her body between mine and the blast zone without hesitation. I don’t know what that was.

Instinct?

Training?

We reach the hallway door and I’m already unlocking it, breath held in my chest like a loaded chamber.

Lev is watching me but says nothing. He can see it. He’s known me long enough.

Nadya’s still pressed against the far wall of the narrow corridor, her arms wrapped tight around her middle, her eyes wide and searching the second we step in.

Relief crashes into me so hard it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. I lower my gun without thinking, stepping inside, closing the distance in three long strides before she can even say my name.

I don’t touch her.

I want to—but I don’t.

Because if I do, I’m afraid something inside me might break wide open, and I won’t be able to close it again.

Her eyes find mine, and whatever fear was there melts into something else. Something I can’t name but feel like I’ve been chasing in the dark.

I swallow hard. “We’re getting you out,” I say quietly, nodding at Lev who stands guard by the door. “Now.”

She doesn’t argue. Just follows, falling into step beside me like she belongs there, as if her place has always been at my side—even if neither of us would admit it out loud.

We take the stairs this time, fast but careful, sweeping each landing before moving. The hotel has fallen eerily silent now, like the attack sucked the oxygen out of the walls. No more gunfire. No more screams. Just the low hum of emergency lights and the distant echo of voices trying to recover from shock.

We reach the ground floor through a back stairwell that opens near the parking structure. My guards are already sweeping the area, radios crackling with clipped orders. The SUVs are ready, engines humming, doors open, routes cleared.

But just as we step through the last set of doors and into the open corridor, we nearly collide with someone rounding the far corner.

Alexei.

His jacket is half-unbuttoned, and there’s a thin cut above his eye, bleeding in a line down his temple. He looks pale—more shaken than I’ve ever seen him—and for a second, he just stops, staring at us.

At Nadya. Then at me.

“You’re okay,” he says finally, his voice rougher than usual, like it scraped its way out of his throat. “They said you might’ve been hit.”

I nod once, brief. “Close call.”

Alexei’s eyes drift toward Nadya, and for a moment I catch something flicker behind them—relief, maybe, or something else he doesn’t let rise all the way to the surface.

“You?” he asks her, a little softer.

“I’m fine,” Nadya answers, her voice steady despite how pale she is. “You?”