Page 25

If Zoya was gone, there was no reason for me to stay here.

No reason to keep fighting.

There would be no light at the end of the tunnel.

Jesus fuck, how was I going to get out of this?

A window, up high and over to the right, shattered, glass raining in from the outside.

Then another on the other side.

Snipers.

Mateo started cursing, so he wasn't the one hit, but someone had been.

Then….

Footsteps.

Several pairs of footsteps. All in perfect synchronization, echoing from the hall, getting louder as they got closer.

Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

It was like hearing death itself walking closer and closer.

Two more sniper shots, and then the cavalry arrived.

Artem, Damien, Kostya, and Gregor were all dressed in black and strapped up with more weapons than a small army. They didn't flinch as they walked into the room, guns drawn, and they started firing.

I got to my feet and moved to take my place next to Gregor, who shot me a look, eyes meeting mine for a split second—steel gray and unforgiving, but there was something else there.

Something that looked like understanding. Like forgiveness, maybe. He gave me the slightest nod, barely perceptible, but it hit me like a physical blow.

My cousins. My family.

They'd come for me when I'd gone rogue, when I'd chosen her over everything we'd built together.

"We finish this," Gregor said, his voice carrying the weight of our shared history, our shared purpose. "Then we talk."

Artem moved to flank my left without being asked. Kostya took point. Damien covered our six. Like we'd done a thousand times before, like we'd do a thousand times again.

The Ivanov name meant something, and we protected our own—even when our own were being goddamn idiots.

Thank you, I wanted to say, but the words got stuck in my throat.

Instead, I checked my magazine and fell into formation.

They'd understand.

They always did.

Gregor didn't need to say anything more. His actions spoke louder than words.

He and the others were here to help me, support me, because I was one of them. I was in deep shit, but that would be handled later.

Together, we cleared the warehouse.

"Leave the ugly one alive!" I yelled.

"I'm going to need you to be more specific," Damien replied.

Mateo broke out of cover and ran.

"That one," I said.

"Then go get him, cousin," Gregor answered.

Together, we worked our way through the rest of the warehouse.

I didn't locate Mateo. The little weasel was surprisingly good at hiding.

We moved room by room, clearing the warehouse, leaving nothing but bodies piled for the flies and rats to find.

"Where did he find all these fuckers?"

"The same place they found the men who raided our compound," Artem said. "They hired a bunch of locals."

Damien made a low groan of agreement in the back of his throat, then used a handheld radio to talk to the snipers. Mikhail would be one of them, and since he was injured, Pavel would be the other.

"We are still looking for the girl but get the supplies ready. We are going to firebomb this fucker when we are done."

"Got it." Mikhail's voice echoed through the hall.

We cleared every room, every office on the main two floors.

"Has anyone come out?" Artem asked on the radio.

"Not a soul," Pavel said.

"Basement," I answered. "There is cold storage and some empty rooms, including one they use for interrogations. Maybe they put her down there."

"Maybe she is hiding down there," Gregor snapped back.

He made damn sure that I knew there was going to be a come-to-Jesus moment between us soon.

I bit back my commentary. He'd either see what I did, or he wouldn’t. Either way, we'd cross that bridge when we fucking got there.

We marched down the rickety metal stairs to the basement.

It was dark. Cold. Too cold. The only thing I could hear was my heart hammering in my ears. Gunpowder from upstairs still hung in the air until we got to the first hallway, and I detected it.

A metallic bite, an all too familiar smell.

Halfway down the hall there was a stain, a dark red liquid seeping from under the door.

"No," I gasped.

At the same time, Kostya said, "Is that blood?"

No. No. No.

I ran. There was no checking other rooms or clearing corners and blind spots. I ran toward that door, and when I wrapped my fingers around the handle, I almost ripped it from the hinges.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Mateo was screaming at her. "I barely fucking hit you."

The sight of her broke something fundamental inside me.

Zoya—my fierce, defiant little warrior—lay crumpled on the concrete like discarded trash.

Her clothes were soaked through with blood, creating a dark halo around her broken body. Her skin was chalk-white, lips blue-tinged and trembling with each shallow breath.

But her eyes...Christ, her eyes were still fire. Even bleeding out, even dying, she looked at me like I was her salvation and her destroyer all at once.

He'd shot her.

He had fucking shot her.

Mateo's eyes were wild. The high had clearly turned bad.

He let out a monstrous scream and then drew his foot back like he was going to kick her.

I didn't aim—didn't need to.

The Glock bucked in my hand, the sound deafening in the confined space. Mateo's head snapped back like he'd been hit by a sledgehammer. Where his face used to be was now a crater of bone and brain matter, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing while blood pooled beneath him.

Good. Not painful enough for what he'd done to her, but it would have to do.

Before his body had even hit the concrete, I was on my knees, reaching for her.

"Roman?" Her voice was barely a whisper, threads of sound that I had to strain to catch.

Blood bubbled at the corners of her mouth when she tried to smile. "I knew you'd come. I told him...told him…my monster would…find me."

My hands shook as I reached for her, afraid that even the gentlest touch would shatter what was left. "Don't talk, my little warrior. Save your strength."

"Couldn't…let him win." Each word cost her, I could see it in the way her chest hitched, the way her eyes fought to stay focused. "Couldn't let him...break me."

The wetness on my cheeks surprised me.

I hadn't cried since I was eight years old, since the day my father taught me that tears were a weakness. But watching the light fade from her eyes, feeling her blood seep through my fingers as I pressed my hands against her wounds—this was a different kind of breaking.

"Stay with me," I commanded, putting every ounce of authority I possessed into my words. "That's an order, Zoya. You don't get to leave me. Not like this. Not ever."

Her smile was heartbreaking in its fragility. "My dangerous man," she rasped.

The silence that followed was deafening.

More terrifying than any gunfight, any torture, any threat I'd ever faced.

This was the sound of my world ending.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. Her words were barely a whisper.

"I will never not come for you." I cupped her jaw, stroking her terrifyingly cool cheek.

Her eyes slid closed, and my world shattered.

I was too late.