Page 6 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

A fifth person was here, and though I have no idea where the hell they disappeared to, I assume he’s the one who suddenly frees me. When the rope around my wrists is sliced away, I can lean down and undo the rope attaching my ankles to the chair’s legs.

Despite the darkness still lingering, I lunge in the direction of the mattress to immediately remove her binds.

A part of me cautions to go slowly and gently, to ease her quivers and ensure she knows it’s me touching her and not them , but I want her out of the fucking ropes that helped make this entire thing possible.

Once she’s untied, she practically collapses in my lap. Or maybe I yank her to me. Either way, she’s slumped over me, her tears and sobs ravaging my insides. Moya dusha needs everything and more, and for the first time ever, I’m helpless to provide.

Tell me what you need. It’s what I want to demand, but the words are lodged in my throat amongst the horror. I can’t do anything but hold her tightly. To keep her safe where she’ll never be taken again.

She was in my arms earlier and was taken. I didn’t protect her, so what makes now different?

Fuck. My head drops into her neck, and I breathe in her scent. Normally sweet, but now tainted by them and this disgusting mattress. Before I realize what I’m doing, I wipe at her neck.

She can’t smell like them. Only her citrusy scent. Only me. Never them.

Smelling like them will keep this night alive. She must be clean. Body and soul, they must be scrubbed from her.

But no amount of wiping is enough, and my hand slides through her hair to cup the back of her head, resting her on my shoulder. She cries louder, her noises muffled as though she still has the cloth in her mouth.

I want to speak but don’t know what to say. What to reassure her with. It’s okay is an utter lie when it’s not okay. It’s not okay to have been taken viciously by monsters. It’s not okay for me to have been forced to witness it. None of this is okay .

“Dimitri…” Her voice cracks at the end, her voice fading into nothing.

“I’ll kill them,” I vow, hearing her speak my name giving me the ability to open my own mouth. “All of them. I won’t stop hunting them until they’re burning in Ad .” Hell. “I’ll hunt them across the entire fuckin’ world if I have to. I’m so sorry, moya dusha .”

Sorry. It’s not enough; it’s nearly laughable. It’ll never be enough.

Her hand scrapes against my chest, fingers curling in my shirt while she shakes against me. Shock, cold—all of it. Her quivers are a result of me not protecting her, and I fucking hate it. Them most of all, but also myself for failing her.

“Can I dress you in my shirt?” No isn’t really an option, because her shaking has to stop. Making her warm is all I can do, but I also want to give her the option. For her to have a say in one thing happening tonight.

She nods into my chest, and I straighten slightly to pull the material over my head, managing to get her into it with minimal movement.

She’s limp in my arms, but my night vision is slowly kicking in and making out what the darkness has hidden from me: the complete and utter brokenness in her normally deep, soulful gaze.

Fuck.

She needs a hospital. Medical help I can’t give her, especially sitting on the throne of her devastation.

Then I need a weapon. And names. And a fucking direction so I can find who did this.

But before any of that, I hold her. Let her cry into my shoulder while I plan the destruction of everyone who harmed her.

Myself included.

The bastards took both our phones and my wallet, which isn’t all that surprising, so we’re left with nothing to call for help with. I gather Katya in my arms, ensuring my shirt is tucked around her before carrying her from the warehouse and down the connected road.

The sky’s a deep purple. It’s that hour before sunrise hits when nighttime lingers in the sky. It should highlight the beauty of the world and our lives ahead instead of being the backdrop for two broken souls walking away from the hell they suffered.

Katya hasn’t spoken in hours. I assume shock finally hit her system.

At this point, I’d rather she be numb and retreat to a place in her mind that protects her from reality.

She’s been staring at my neck, her eyes dimmed and empty.

Every once in a while, I feel her breath coast along my bare chest, and when she breathes, so do I.

They might have broken her soul, but it’s only temporary. That I vow. She’ll be better soon—physically and mentally. I’ll walk to the next country over and never stop if that’s what it takes. I’ll carry her until my body physically breaks down. Anything to get her help.

I walk until finding a road, then take the shoulder, hoping I’m heading in the correct direction to a town. Or for a kind person to stop and help, but the road remains desolate.

It’s at least another ten minutes of painful steps before tires scrape on the pavement behind us. I turn in the sound’s direction, hoping the driver takes pity and stops.

Thankfully, the rusted tan car comes to a slow stop. The passenger window rolls down and a middle-aged woman leans over, her attention solely on Katya limp in my arms.

I don’t give her a chance to ask for details before bursting out, “Hospital. Please help us.”

“O-of course.”

She flicks the lock, granting me entry to the back. As I slide in and across the bench, I keep Katya pinned to my chest, her face hidden from the woman’s probing gaze. Once the door’s shut, she doesn’t leave right away, which grates on my nerves. Can’t she see we’re in severe need of help?

She eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I have to ask… What are two kids doing this far away from the city like…this?” Her undescriptive question implies she doesn’t know how to categorize what she’s seeing. I don’t blame her, because neither do I.

“ Mem , please. Just drive. I promise I didn’t do this to her. I’m trying to get her help.”

She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, and whatever she finds in my desperate gaze has her pulling the car off the shoulder and continuing down the road.

“How far away from Moscow are we?”

The woman glances at her GPS in the car’s dashboard. “Twenty minutes’ drive or so.” She glances over her shoulder, pin-straight blonde hair falling like a parting curtain. “Is she okay?”

“Nyet.” I manage to look away from Katya, who shows no sign of comprehending we’re in another’s presence, to ask the woman, “What’s your name?”

She hesitates before replying, “Polina.”

“Last name?”

She huffs. “I must be insane to answer, but Sokolov. Why?”

“Well, Polina Sokolov, when I get home, I’ll make sure you are well compensated for your help.”

She snorts, but again, I don’t blame her for doubting.

Picking up two young people, both only half-dressed, who look like they’ve gone through something—which we have—doesn’t scream wealthy.

Especially wealthy enough to repay a stranger.

She has no idea who she truly has in her car, and for being our guardian angel, she has my gratitude.

“All right, kid.”

Within the week, she’ll be proven otherwise. For now, her doubt is at the bottom of my list of worries.

As the drive continues, I bury my head into Katya’s hair, breathing in the fact that, despite everything, she’s alive. Alive and in my arms. She’s still here. And we’ll make her better.

The Moscow skyline eventually comes into view as the road dips and bends. Polina drives us straight to the largest hospital in the city, stopping by the curb in front of the emergency department.

She turns in her seat to speak, but I’m already halfway out the door, ducking back down to tell her, “Thank you, Polina. You will be repaid for this.”

I slam her car’s door shut and take off for the building, rushing inside and finding the nearest medical staff.

My legs falter as my strength officially gives out. I fall to my knees, pleading to the nurse, “Help her.”

Hours pass in a flurry.

Katya’s been taken away and, no matter what I threaten or demand, they won’t let me follow, insisting I be checked out too. The staff don’t understand that since I’m breathing and upright, I’m fine. Whatever the assholes drugged me with is long out of my system.

I disclose everything to the main attending nurse and doctor so they can treat her correctly and not have me arrested, believing I was the one behind her pain. I even mentioned Polina’s full name, so she can corroborate the ending of my story.

The medical staff listen and jot notes before explaining the cops will need my official statement when they come.

As a Bratva soldier, I run from the law.

Far and fast, even if we have people on the inside in case such a thing happens.

This time, I’ll remind them of the pull the Volkov name has in Russia so when four men’s bodies turn up one day, they’ll look the opposite way.

“Please,” I beg the nurse when the doctor leaves to make the call, “let me see her.”

The elderly woman frowns, her wrinkles deepening with displeasure. “Until her parents give permission, we can’t allow it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who carried her in!”

“Sir…” She lifts her hands as though to calm me. Thing is, I’ll never be calm again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Volkov.”

“Repeat that again,” I demand, baring my teeth, realizing I’m probably borderline manic. “ Volkov. You’ve heard the stories of my family. You know what I can?—”

“Do?” Her brows lift, and this grandmotherly figure seems much larger suddenly.

“Before you threaten me, understand I can have you thrown out of here. As of hours ago, you are no longer a patient of ours, therefore have no need to be on hospital grounds. Wealth doesn’t have the same influence in medical settings as you may believe, Mr. Volkov. Patients come first.”

Frustration rumbles through me. She’s right, and without Ursin here, my demands will mean a lot less.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “But please…an update.”

She glances down the hallway, pressing her lips together. “She woke up a bit ago but wasn’t handling it well, so we were forced to sedate her. Her parents are with her.”

My hands grip the edge of the chair, my leg bouncing up and down. “Whatever it’ll take to see her, I’ll pay it.”

The nurse glances over my shoulder, her teeth dragging over her bottom lip.

Finally, she recites a room number in a low voice.

“It’s down the hall. The room has a window, and last I saw, the curtain was left open.

So if you happen to walk by, you could see inside.

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but considering you did bring her in…

and”—her eyes soften—“judging from what you told me, she’d want you there too. You obviously love her.”

“More than anything,” I hurriedly reply before rushing off down the hallway that reeks of bleach and sanitizer in the direction of the room the nurse directed me to.

As she said, the blinds are left drawn, allowing me to peer inside.

Her parents are whom I notice first. Her father is standing by the bed, his gaze locked on the floor by his feet.

Grief etches his expression, pinched like he’s feeling a fraction of the physical pain his daughter had to withstand.

On the opposite side and seated in a chair is Katya’s mother.

She’s bent forward, her head resting on the bed beside her daughter’s hand.

It’s the figure on the bed who truly breaks me. Who makes my knees weak until I stumble against the window, palm pressing against the glass to catch my falling body. She looks so much frailer in the hospital bed, eyes shut and needles shoved into the back of one hand.

I want to go in there and hold her. To apologize. To be there .

Her father’s eyes dart to the window at the slight thud my palm makes. His lips press together, and I can’t tell if he’s frowning or not.

He looks away, so I never figure it out.