Page 20

ROMAN

I knew better.

This was my fault.

A wave of fire surged through my veins, burning away every shred of logic. Guilt knotted in my gut like barbed wire.

I was the one that let my guard down. I got too comfortable, and I didn’t notice the cars coming up the driveway.

She was my captive, not my girlfriend.

Of course her people would come for her. How could I have let myself be so stupid?

The cameras were off, shut down because the sight of Zoya in my T-shirt was for my eyes only.

Worse, I was the one that ordered the other men to leave and, in my arrogance, deactivated every ounce of security including the alarms.

I told myself at the time they weren’t needed. I had Zoya under control, and I didn’t want her vulnerability on display.

Except that wasn’t the true reason.

I sent them away because I didn’t want anyone to catch me being so vulnerable with her.

Like this silly little domestic scene, us cooking together.

I didn’t want anyone else to see that and realize that I had a weakness.

That I had done the unthinkable and caught feelings for our enemy.

Gunfire tore through one of the kitchen windows, glass exploding like shrapnel. Wood splinters rained down in a lethal hailstorm as I grabbed Zoya.

Covering her body with mine, I pressed us both to the kitchen floor.

This was my fault, because I took my eyes off the goal and let my main objective slip. I liked the way she fought me and the way her body felt against mine. I let all of it cloud my judgment and now we were both fucked.

The hail of bullets didn’t let up.

Didn’t they know about her condition?

One shard of glass and she would bleed out.

I needed a gun, and backup.

But most of all, I needed Zoya to stay down.

“ Printsessa , stay here,” I demanded.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide as she nodded.

I thought she understood.

With a quick press of my lips to her forehead, I got to my feet, staying low as the kitchen took hit after hit and I half crawled, half ran behind the counters to the other side of the room.

How did this happen? The cabin was protected. No one should have had any idea where it was.

The only men who were allowed here, ever, were ones that had been working for my family for years, most of them distant cousins themselves or men who had married into the family.

This should have been impossible.

Just as quickly as the questions flashed through my mind, so did the answer.

The fucking doctor.

He had to have been the one to sell us out.

Kostya brought the doctor, but he wasn’t the doctor from the compound. That man was busy treating Alina and Pavel. Their care was a greater priority because they were Ivanovs and Alina was carrying another in the next generation.

When I demanded a doctor, they had to get someone else.

And knowing Kostya, the doctor they brought in was not in a position to refuse. He probably owed hundreds of thousands of dollars in gambling debts. Kostya would have promised to knock down that debt or extend the time he had to pay before he started losing body parts.

A man like that could not be trusted.

Not because he owed us money, but because if a man—especially a doctor, who would make good money in the U.S.—owed the fucking bratva money, you had to ask yourself, who else did he owe?

He must have owed the Colombians, too.

Fuck.

And that was why they were comfortable firing through the glass. The doctor must have told them she was given the medication.

I hoped he had already spent whatever my cousins paid him and that he was living it up. Because as soon as I got my hands on that doctor, he was a dead man.

That motherfucker had brought war to my doorstep, and once I survived this… I was going to enjoy killing him.

All was fair in war, but he didn’t get to save Zoya only to deliver her back into danger.

Finally, I got to the other side of the kitchen and grabbed two guns that were secured under the cabinets. I aimed out the window and started firing.

I couldn’t see shit.

There were at least three cars, all of them with their headlights on bright and aimed directly into the kitchen.

Meaning I couldn’t tell where the bullets were actually coming from.

I couldn’t even judge how many men were there. There were too many bullets flying, too many guns firing to tell them apart.

To make matters so much worse, Zoya did not obey.

I didn’t know why I thought she would.

These were her men, here to save her.

When I looked back, she was on her feet.

“Get down,” I yelled.

She looked at me, her eyes hard and a single tear falling down her cheek.

“I wish I had met you in a different life,” she whispered, her voice trembling like a prayer... and then she turned to leave.

Getting to my feet, not bothering to duck down, I lunged for her.

More windows exploded in front of me, bullet after bullet whizzing by me, more than one grazing my body. Fire lashing through my skin with every single rip and tear. Every piece of flying glass that hit my skin was one that didn’t hit her.

I reached for her and pulled her behind my body.

“Don’t go,” I said.

It wasn’t a demand, it was a plea, a warning.

She may have outwitted and outmaneuvered us, but she had no idea what she was dealing with. Not really.

My gun up, I fired back, bullet after bullet, in defense of this woman.

And how did she repay me?

She pulled from my grasp, taking advantage of my distraction and heading back toward the side door.

I turned just in time to see her ripping it open and slipping out into the night.

It didn’t slow. The gunfire didn’t stop.

I kept shooting, firing off three more rounds and killing at least two men.

Still, the gunfire didn’t stop.

Something was wrong.

She was out the door, circling toward them from the side of the cabin.

They shouldn’t be firing.

They should still have their guns up, shooting at anyone who got near her, but not like this.

They weren’t here to rescue her. They did not give a fuck about her safety or well-being.

Shit.

“Zoya,” I shouted as I launched out of the doorway toward the cover of a nearby tree, but she was already too far ahead, closing the distance between herself and them.

I saw it.

The flicker of hesitation, the crack in her resolve.

She was too close to them. Her steps faltered, and then she froze in place.

She turned her head toward me.

The light was bright, obscuring most of her face.

All I could see was the brilliant green of her eyes as they filled with horror.

She knew.

It took leaving the safety of the cabin, the safety of my protection, but now she realized the truth.

She knew this wasn’t a rescue. It was an execution.

These weren’t her men—not anymore.

“Roman,” she screamed. Her voice was raw, filled with something I didn’t want to name, something desperate that tore at my gut.

My mind was already racing, calculating, trying to find the angles to take a shot. But the man closest to pulled her into a chokehold and held her as a human shield.

Mateo.

He was going to die. Slowly.

The glare was still too much. I couldn’t get a clean shot off that didn’t risk her life. I would never risk her life. Even if I was willing, I couldn’t do it.

Even if I was sure I wouldn’t hit her, my finger would not pull the trigger.

The risk was too high.

And that was my fault, too. I shouldn’t have had any hesitation.

If she were anyone else, I would have shot Mateo through her, in a place that would kill him but only injure her.

Through her arm and into his heart or something.

If she were anyone else, I’d risk her life and kill him, then drag her back into the cabin by her goddamn hair and finally get the answers I should have gotten hours ago. She would slowly bleed and I would kill her men in front of her.

But Zoya was different.

I pushed forward, leaving my cover as I fired at the other men surrounding them.

I may not have been able to hit Mateo, but I could take out a few of his men while I tried to get closer.

A sharp, searing pain tore through my shoulder, sending me crashing to the ground.

Mateo was using a large caliber firearm, and the force was enough to knock the wind out of me, but I got up, crawling to my knees and then stumbling to my feet.

For her, I pushed through the agony and forced my vision to focus as I got to new cover.

In a haze of pain, I caught sight of the doors of one of the SUVs being thrown open.

Zoya was shoved inside, kicking and screaming the whole way.

My brave little warrior fought with everything she had, and I was so proud of her.

I fired my gun a few more times, not sure I hit anything. My vision blurred at the edges, but I fought the draw of darkness.

Cold, quiet darkness. It called to me, like my mother's voice, beckoning me home.

Blood poured from my wound, hot and wet, staining my shirt. The familiar smell of iron filled my nose, and the taste of copper filled my mouth, but I didn’t care.

All I cared about was her.

I needed to get to her. If it cost me my life, then so fucking be it. I hadn’t felt alive in so long, anyway.

The SUV roared as they gunned the engine, the tires screeching against the pavement as they sped off into the night down the long, winding driveway, back toward the private dirt road leading out of here.

It was getting harder to see. The edges of my vision were turning black, but I couldn’t look away. Not yet.

Zoya needed me.

I moved as fast as I could, flanking the other men. Once I was further around the side, so the headlights were not blinding me, I killed them.

Even injured, I was efficient. One bullet per man, one fast-pass ticket to hell for each of them.

Zoya needed me. She needed me to save her.

I fired again, over and over, until they were all dead and then I ran to one of the idling SUVs, throwing it into gear and following the fucking SUV that held my woman.

Mine.

I claimed her. By right.

She was mine.

Even if that meant I was going to keep her chained to that goddamn chair for the rest of her life.

The pain in my left shoulder fueled me. Every time I blinked, I saw her. I saw her run from me, and then I saw the fear in her eyes. I was going to enjoy punishing her when I had her back.

My vision blurring as I drove, I finally caught sight of them and focused as hard as I could on the license plate, trying to make out letters and numbers.

VPB 855-something.

I focused on that last digit with all the energy I had. My vision was swimming, but I needed to know what it was.

Someone started firing at me again, taking out a tire. My shoulder screamed, doused in a fire from the bullet lodged there as I wrestled the SUV to a stop and tore out of the cab, sprinting after them.

VPB 855…was that a 4 or a 9? I couldn’t tell.

VPB 855 — Fuck.

They fired again and just missed me, the bullet grazing my other shoulder, making me stumble and fall on the dirt road.

I ignored the pain, and the way my lungs fought to get air, my breath a white mist in the cold. I looked up at the SUV pulling further away, and it was getting harder to remain conscious.

They hadn’t hit an artery, but they had gotten close; my arm was soaked in blood, and I was losing a lot of it quickly.

Running hadn’t helped.

VPB 8554.

I was sure of it.

I forced my lips open and said it out loud.

Over and over.

Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the trees and the stars peeking between the leaves.

My mother’s voice came to mind again—sharp, scolding this time, telling me I’d finally gone too far. But even her ghost couldn’t reach me now.

There was only Zoya. Only war.

There wasn’t room for my mother right now.

VPB 8554.

I’m coming for you, printsessa. And God help the men in my way.

I repeated the license plate number over and over as the world around me faded into nothing and I lay there, collapsed in the cold mud.