Page 97 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

I shove the phone into my pocket, sprinting through the hallway like a madman. My fists clench, fury ripping through me like wildfire. I should have never let her go. Never trusted she’d be safe without me.

I hit the garage, throw the door open, and get into my car. The engine roars to life like it knows I don’t have time to waste.

I call Maxim again. It doesn’t connect.

I call again. Voicemail. Fuck.

I push the pedal down so hard the tires scream against the concrete. I’m flying down the street, swerving around cars, red lights blurring past me like blood in water.

Please, God.

Let her be okay.

Let her be breathing.

Let me not be too late.

If something’s happened to her—no. I’ll burn the city down.

Her house is covered in smoke when I arrive. I slam on the brakes and jump out before the car fully stops, sprintingtoward what’s left of Violet’s building. The smell of smoke is thick—furniture, wood, plastic, all of it burning. My heart lurches as I take in the blackened door, the shattered windows, the flames licking up one side of the living room.

Her apartment is a goddamn war zone.

“Maxim!” I bark, my voice hoarse from panic.

He’s crouched against the side of the building, blood running down his arm. His face is tight with pain, his jacket torn and stained.

“I tried—” he rasps out. “I came back when I heard the bang. Someone tried to run me over. Took a shot at me. Just grazed me. I—” He exhales, shaking his head. “I couldn’t get to her. I couldn’t save her.”

Everything inside me stills. Goes deathly, murderously calm.

I step over broken glass, half-burned picture frames, debris. My eyes search the room like a wolf locked on scent.

And then—I see it. Her necklace.

The thin silver chain glinting in the firelight, caught between a scorched book and a half-burnt throw pillow. The charm is twisted, singed, but I’d know it anywhere.

Violet’s. Mine. I reach down and pick it up, the metal hot in my palm. And something inside me breaks. Not with grief. Not with helplessness. With cold, seething fury.

I should’ve never listened to her.

Should’ve fought harder.

Should’ve kept her locked inside my world—even if it meant she hated me forever.

I could’ve lived with being her monster.

But this? This ruin? This empty apartment, soaked in smoke and blood and absence?

No.

No.

If something happens to her—if she’s gone—I will never forgive myself.

“I let her go,” I whisper to no one, to everyone. “But now…I’ll kill every last person who laid a finger on her.”

I look down at the necklace clenched in my hand, the charm digging into my skin. Anyone who touched her. Anyone who planned this. Dead.