Page 63 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

Fuck.

I don’t think—I just run.

Down the hall, around the corner. The smell of smoke is already threading through the estate. We’re under attack again, just like Arina predicted. I feel something burning inside me. Not just anger. Rage. The kind that floods my blood and makes my vision pulse red.

Because this—again—means someone inside my walls opened the door.

I turn the corner and nearly collide with Milo, blood splashed across his cheek, his shirt torn at the collar. He’s dragging one of ours—Tomas—who’s bleeding from the leg.

“Three came in through the east corridor,” Milo shouts. “They knew exactly where to hit.”

My jaw clenches. I nod stiffly and delve into the fray.

Chapter 15 – Violet

The silence in the panic room is thick, almost maddening—until it’s ripped apart by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

I jolt upright, panic clawing its way through my chest.

Not again.

I rush to the far end of the panic room, where I noticed a small panel when Kaz locked me in. I press it, and just like the ones in his bedroom, CCTV screens light up across the wall.

My breath hitches.

The house is a warzone.

Guards are shouting and firing. Bodies drop to the ground, blood blooming across the floors I walked just moments ago. The east corridor is in flames. The estate, once cold and untouchable, is now unrecognizable—chaos painted across every screen.

My eyes dart between feeds, searching—where’s Kaz?

There—the east wing. He’s a storm in motion, gun in hand, rage burning in his eyes. He’s dragging a body across the marble floor, one arm clamped around the man’s collar like deadweight, the other slick with something dark. His shirt clings to his skin, soaked through—and I can’t tell if it’s his blood or someone else’s.

His face is thunder.

His eyes are wild.

And for one terrifying second, he stumbles.

I press a hand to my mouth.

Is he hurt?

My chest twists. The fear is sudden and sharp, like a blade between my ribs. I’ve never seen him like this. Unhinged. Animalistic. But it’s not the violence that grips me—it’s theaching panic blooming in my stomach that something might happen to him.

Something real. Something final.

I brace both hands on the monitor and lean closer.

“Please,” I whisper to no one.

I don’t care that he locked me in here. I don’t care that he’s killed more people than I can count. I don’t care about the blood or the chaos or the brutal way he defends what’s his.

I care that it’s him.

And I’m terrified I’m going to lose him. Because somehow, somewhere between being his prisoner and being his problem, he became my person.

I’m still watching Kaz through the screen when the door creaks open. I whirl around, heart in my throat—ready to scream, to fight, to—