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Matthias

BOOM!

The front gate explodes, blasting open a path to Viktor Sokolov’s estate. Bombs are one of Bash’s specialties. I don’t know where he learned it. I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to. All I know is, I’ve never been more grateful for one of his odd hobbies.

BOOM!

A second blast tears through the front door. Dom leads the charge, abandoning all stealth now that our cover’s blown. Fifty Syndicate men flood through the front while another fifty, led by Roman, enter from the back, as Bash’s third bomb clears that entrance.

Bash and I bring up the rear, guns raised, moving fast down the hallway.

A Russian rounds the corner. Without any hesitation, I fire a headshot.

Down he goes .

Dom wants to minimize casualties. Says we need to preserve our relationship with the Bratva as much as possible. That we need to avoid a war.

That’s fine.

But if anyone gets between me and Margot, they’re dead.

Even though Bash and I don’t usually fight on the front line, we’re just as trained. And there was no chance in hell we were sitting this one out.

We move fast, crouching low. Bash got us the floor plan, so we know the layout. We’re betting she’s in the basement. I doubt she got the luxury of a guest room.

I force myself not to think about what I’ll find down there. Not yet. First, I have to get to her.

A Russian ambushes us, grabbing Bash in a chokehold. Bash doesn’t miss a beat. He flips the guy over his shoulder and takes him down like it’s nothing. Pressure points, or some ninja shit knocks him out cold.

We leave him. Bash’s apparently honoring Dom’s ‘don’t kill unless necessary’ order. I’m not sure I would’ve.

Finally, we reach the basement door, but it flies open. Another man lunges at us. Bash moves to take him, and I push past them.

“I’m going down. Hold the stairs,” I snap. “Don’t let anyone follow. I’ll take care of whoever’s left down here.”

I charge down the steps.

The basement splits. Left or right.

I pause for half a second.

Then go left.

My gut never lies about her.

Doors line the hallway, each with a tiny, grimy window.

The first room: a filthy cot, a metal toilet, and floors stained with God-knows-what. My stomach twists. These are cells. This is where they’ve kept her .

Second room: empty.

Third: a man. Not my problem.

Fourth: empty.

Fifth: my heart stops.

She’s curled on the cot in fetal position. Her back to the door.

Brown curls, once bouncy and vibrant, now lie limp and lifeless. The once jade dress from the gala is now ripped, stained, and barely clinging to her frail frame. Her skin, once glowing, is now sickly pale.

Margot .

Relief surges through me, slamming into my chest like a wrecking ball.

She’s here.

After seven goddamn days, she’s here.

I try the handle, and it gives. I fling the door and let it hang open. These doors lock automatically. I won’t let it trap us.

I step inside.

Relief morphs into heartbreak.

She’s thin, too thin. Like she hasn’t eaten once. Her curves are gone. Her bones are visible beneath her grimy skin. Bruises mark her face, arms, and neck. Cuts and filth do too. Bags hang under her eyes so dark they match the bruises.

My chest aches. My girl, my spitfire, lies broken.

I move toward her but freeze.

She hasn’t moved.

She should have heard me.

She should have stirred.

But she remains perfectly still.

Fear. Pure, blinding fear rips through me.

She’s just unconscious.

She has to be.

Then, her chest rises. Barely .

She’s breathing.

Relief rushes in again.

I drop to my knees and gently cup her cheek. My fingers graze a lock of her hair. It doesn’t even bounce, too stiff with grease and dirt.

I shake her shoulder carefully, terrified she’ll break under my touch.

“Sweetheart, it’s me,” I whisper. “Please wake up. Please open those beautiful eyes.”

She stirs.

Her lashes flutter.

Then, those eyes find me. Dazed and distant, but there.

“Matty?” Her voice is hoarse, barely audible.

But it’s her. It’s really her.

Tears sting my eyes.

I lift her into my arms as gently as I can. She’s too light. Too frail. A feather in my arm. I clutch her tightly. Too tightly.

I realize it must be painful for her, so I let go a little.

“No.” She whispers.

I freeze as my heart shatters.

She doesn’t want me to hold her.

I start to lay her back on the cot, but she lets out a weak sound of protest and wiggles closer.

My breath catches.

She meant ‘no, don’t let go.’

I pull her back to me, tighter than before. I bury my face into the crook of her neck. Her sweet scent is gone, replaced by dirt and blood and fear, but it’s still her. It’s still my Margot.

She lets me hold her.

And I cry. One tear. Then another.

I glance down. Her eyes are slipping closed again.

She’s losing consciousness. My heart squeezes. She’s been through too much .

I don’t know everything they did to her, but I will. I’ll have to ask. One day. And when I do, it’ll gut me.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

My throat tightens.

Thank you?

No. I don’t deserve her gratitude. I don’t deserve anything from her. I don’t deserve her.

I failed her.

I left. And that’s why she was taken. That’s why she suffered.

I will spend the rest of my days trying to earn her forgiveness. And still, it won’t be enough.

We wait in silence. Me holding her, her body soft against mine, until the gunfire ceases.

Bash appears in the doorway.

“We’re clear. Let’s go. We–” He stops when he sees her. His eyes well up as he lets out a gasp of horror. “Matthias… is she…?”

I shake my head. “She’s alive.”

He exhales. “Thank God. She’s going to be okay. But we have to go now, before Viktor gets back.”

We waited until the house was empty. His wife is dead, his daughter is at college, and his son lives elsewhere. Only guards were home.

It’s one thing to rescue my woman. It’s another to storm in while Viktor’s there. That would be war.

Dom’s betting everything on framing this as a retrieval of Syndicate personnel. A rescue, not an attack.

Bash turns and disappears down the hall.

I rise with Margot in my arms. She’s light enough to carry one-handed, but I cradle her with both. One hand on her back. One pressing her head to my heart.

Her soft breaths warm my chest. I need it to know she’s still with me .

We exit the basement. For the first time, I take in the house.

It’s hideous. Tacky as hell. It looks like someone vomited money all over it. I’d expect nothing less from Viktor.

I’m glad to leave it behind.

The whole ride, I don’t let go of her.

I can’t.

I won’t.

She’s safe now.

She’s coming home.

And I will never let her go again.