Page 22 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

"Because they think we're still playing by civilized rules," I reply. "They think this is about negotiation and leverage and gradual escalation."

"And instead?"

"Instead, we show them what total war looks like."

The assault begins at 2 AM with coordinated strikes on all entry points. Flash-bang grenades, automatic weapons fire, the kind of overwhelming violence that breaks enemy morale before they can organize resistance.

But Roman's men aren't just professionals—they're fanatics loyal to a dead cause, and they fight like it. The warehouse erupts into a killing ground as his best soldiers, men who've been with him for decades, turn every corridor into a death trap.

"Contact left!" Boris shouts through my earpiece as automatic weapons fire tears through the metal walls. "Multiple hostiles, heavy armor!"

"Casualties?" I demand, moving through the warehouse with Mila close behind me, both of us keeping low as bullets whine overhead.

"Three down on the north team. These aren't ordinary guards, sir. Roman brought his best."

His best. Men like Kozlov, Roman's lieutenant who earned his reputation in the Chechen wars. Like Petrov, the sniper who could put a bullet through a man's eye at three hundred meters. Like Volkov himself, Roman's cousin who supposedly once killed six men with nothing but a combat knife.

"Movement ahead," Mila whispers, pointing to shadows shifting near the stairwell.

I signal for silence and watch as three figures emerge from concealment—tactical gear, military-grade weapons, moving with the coordinated precision of special forces operators. These aren't street criminals. These are soldiers.

The firefight that follows is brutal and immediate. Roman's lieutenant comes around the corner firing a modified AK-47 on full automatic, forcing us to dive behind concrete pillars as bullets fragment the air where we'd been standing.

"Alexei Morozov!" he shouts in accented English. "You killed our families! Now we kill yours!"

"Your families died because they chose the wrong side," I call back, then signal Mila to move right while I go left.

The battle becomes a deadly game of cat and mouse through the warehouse levels.

Roman's men know the building layout better than we do, but we have superior numbers and the advantage of righteous fury.

Every room we clear reveals evidence of the trafficking operation—holding cells, medical equipment for keeping victims sedated, transportation schedules written in multiple languages.

"Sniper!" Boris's voice crackles through my earpiece just as a bullet takes off my left ear. Roman's marksman has positioned himself in the rafters, picking off my men with mechanical precision.

"Mila, stay down," I order, then coordinate with my team to flush the sniper from his position. It takes three men and enough covering fire to level a small building, but we finally bring him down.

The real battle begins when we reach the basement level where Roman waits with his inner circle—five men who've been with him since the beginning, who consider dying for him an honor rather than a duty.

They've turned the basement into a fortress, with reinforced positions and overlapping fields of fire. Every approach is covered, every angle protected.

"Grenades," I order, and we blow apart their defensive positions with military ordnance that turns concrete into shrapnel and steel into twisted metal.

But even then, Roman's men don't break. They fight like cornered wolves, making us pay for every foot of ground with blood and ammunition.

We find them in a basement room that reeks of fear and suffering. Mila's parents are alive but terrified, zip-tied to chairs in a space that looks like it was designed for torture.

Roman is waiting for us with a smile and a gun pointed at her mother's head.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morozov," he says pleasantly. "How good of you to join us."

"Let them go," I say, my rifle trained on his center mass.

"I don't think so. We still have business to conclude."

"Our business concluded the moment you threatened my family."

"Did it? Even though Mrs. Morozov came to me willingly? Even though she listened to my offer with such interest?"

"Even though."

"You know, I expected more from Viktor's sister. He had principles, convictions, a willingness to sacrifice for the greater good. She seems more... practical."

"She's exactly what she should be."

"A woman who puts her own happiness above innocent lives?"

"A woman who chooses love over fear."

Roman's laugh is genuinely amused. "Love. Yes, I can see how love has made you both so very rational."

"Rational enough to bring enough firepower to level this building."

"And kill the hostages in the process?"

"If necessary."

The casual way I say it makes Roman's smile falter slightly. He's beginning to understand that I'm not here to negotiate. I'm here to end this permanently.

"Alexei," Mila says softly. "He's stalling."

She's right. Roman is buying time, waiting for something—reinforcements, an escape route, a tactical advantage we haven't considered.

"Last chance," I tell him. "Release the hostages and I'll make your death quick."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll make it slow."

Roman studies my face and sees exactly what I am in this moment—not a businessman or a civilized criminal, but a predator protecting his territory with absolute ruthlessness.

"You really would burn the world for her," he realizes.

"Without hesitation."

"Even knowing what it makes you?"

"Especially knowing what it makes me."

Roman's finger tightens on the trigger, and I see the moment he decides to take everyone down with him.

The shot echoes through the basement like thunder.

But it's not Roman's gun that fires.

Mila's pistol barks once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Roman spins and falls, blood spreading across his designer shirt as he collapses beside the chairs.

"Nobody threatens my family," she says, smoke curling from her weapon.

I cross the room in three steps and put two more rounds into Roman's chest, making sure he's dead. Then I cut her parents free while she keeps watch.

"Is it over?" her mother asks through tears.

"It's over," I confirm.

The cleanup takes another hour—securing the scene, extracting the hostages, making sure Roman's remaining men understand that their boss is dead and their organization is finished.

By the time we're back at the estate, adrenaline and relief and the aftermath of violence have left us both wired and shaking.

"Your parents are safe," I tell Mila as we enter our bedroom. "Medical team checked them out, no serious injuries. They're sleeping in the guest wing."

"Good," she says, but her hands are trembling as she sets down her weapon.

"You did well tonight. Three clean shots under pressure, perfect tactical awareness."

"I killed a man."

"You killed the man who murdered your brother and threatened your family."

"I know. I just... I've never..."

I cross the room and pull her into my arms, feeling the aftershocks running through her body.

"It's normal," I tell her. "The shaking, the adrenaline crash, the way your mind keeps replaying the moment. It means you're human."

"Do you ever get used to it?"

"No. And I hope you never do."

She looks up at me, and I can see the war raging behind her eyes—relief and horror and the primitive satisfaction of protecting what matters most.

"I need you," she says suddenly.

"What?"

"I need you to touch me, to remind me I'm alive, to make me feel something other than the echo of gunshots."

"Mila—"

"Please. I know it's wrong to want this after what we just did, but I need to feel alive. I need to feel loved. I need you to claim me so thoroughly that I forget everything except how much we mean to each other."

The desperate hunger in her voice shatters the last of my restraint. She needs me to ground her, to remind her that we survived, that we won, that we're together and safe and home.

I can do that.

I kiss her hard, tasting adrenaline and relief and the metallic edge of violence on her lips. She responds with equal desperation, her hands clawing at my clothes like she's trying to crawl inside my skin.

"Yes," she gasps against my mouth. "Like this. Like you're claiming me, like you're reminding me who I belong to."

I strip her clothes away with urgent efficiency, needing to see her naked and unmarked and completely mine. When she's bare before me, I can see the flush of arousal mixing with the aftermath of battle.

"You're so beautiful," I growl, backing her toward the bed. "So brave, so fierce. You saved us tonight."

"We saved each other."

"Always."

I cover her body with mine, claiming her mouth while my hands roam over heated skin. She arches beneath me, desperate for contact, for connection, for the affirmation that we're both alive and together and victorious.

"I need you inside me," she pants. "I need to feel you claiming me, marking me, reminding me that I'm yours."

"You are mine," I promise, positioning myself at her entrance. "Completely, irrevocably mine."

I enter her in one hard thrust, and she cries out at the sudden fullness. This isn't gentle or romantic—this is primal claiming, the biological imperative to affirm life after violence.

"Yes," she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Just like this. Hard and deep and like you'll never let me go."

"Never," I promise, setting a rhythm that's powerful and possessive. "You're mine forever, little wife. Through war and peace, through violence and calm, through everything."

"Yours," she agrees, meeting every thrust with desperate hunger. "Always yours."

I drive into her with the fury and relief of a man who almost lost everything, who fought his way through hell to keep the woman he loves safe. She takes everything I give her and demands more, her body clenching around me like she's trying to pull me deeper.

"Come for me," I command, reaching between us to circle her clit. "Come for the man who would kill anyone who threatens you."

She shatters with a scream that probably wakes half the house, her climax triggering mine as I bury myself deep and empty everything I have into her welcoming body.

We collapse together, hearts hammering and bodies trembling with aftershocks. The violence is over, the threat is ended, and we're both alive and together and home.

"It's finished," I murmur into her hair. "Roman is dead, your parents are safe, and his organization is scattered. No one will threaten us again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She curls against my chest, and I can feel the tension finally leaving her body. We survived. We won. We're together.

And tomorrow, we'll start building the future Roman tried to take from us.