Page 3 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

I turn to go, already picturing the long walk back, eager to leave. Then the first raindrop lands against my wrist.

A second hits the back of my neck. Then the sky opens all at once.

It comes down hard—cold and fast, soaking my hair, my shoulders, the fabric of my hoodie clinging to my spine. I curse under my breath and bolt across the narrow road, eyes scanning for cover.

There’s a warehouse just up the block. No sign, no lights, just an open loading dock with the door pulled halfway up. It’s probably condemned. I don’t care.

I dart toward it, rain pounding against my back, and slip under the shelter with a grateful exhale. The box of books stays behind, but I promise myself I’ll circle back for it.

Just as soon as this lets up.

Maybe it’s stupid given the voices I just heard, but the alternative is a twenty-minute walk back in the dark and soaking rain.

The warehouse is darker the deeper I go, the shadows stretching into the ribs of the building like an open mouth.

I slip past the stack of crates, breath held tight, and step closer to the half-open sliding doors.

From here, I can see a wide concrete floor lit by a single overhead bulb.

It swings slightly, casting slow-moving shadows across the space.

There are four men inside.

One is on his knees.

His face is a mess: bruised, swollen, and slick with blood. His arms are pinned behind him, his whole body hunched like he’s barely staying upright. I don’t move. I barely even blink. My pulse screams in my throat, but I can’t look away.

The other three men stand like statues. Two near the walls, keeping their distance, and the third directly in front of the man on the floor. He’s tall, sharp in posture and stillness, a coat hanging from his broad shoulders. In his hand, a gun.

I don’t even notice it at first. Not until the man tilts his head, just slightly, and raises the pistol with deliberate calm. My stomach drops. I can’t hear every word, but his voice cuts through the warehouse—low, hard, controlled. Russian?

The man on the ground pleads. I hear it in the shape of his body more than his voice. His head shakes once. Twice. Then the man with the gun says something final—something that sounds like a command—and fires.

The pop of the silenced shot is unnatural. Soft and wrong., but the result is the same.

The man on the floor jerks. Then collapses sideways, blood blooming across the concrete.

My hand flies to my mouth. My foot shifts, a sharp scuff against the floor.

All three men freeze. One of them, broad and watchful, turns fast, eyes scanning the dark.

The man with the gun moves slower, like he already knows where I am. Like he’s tracking prey. He looks toward the crates. His eyes don’t meet mine, but they don’t need to. I feel him see me.

Everything inside me breaks loose.

I bolt.

Heart hammering, legs burning, I spin away from the doorway and sprint back through the dark. My shoulder clips a crate, pain flashing down my arm, but I don’t stop. I can’t. My boots slip across wet concrete, but I recover and keep moving, breath tearing out of my throat in raw gasps.

Behind me, I hear movement. Footsteps. Shouting. A string of Russian curses cracks through the warehouse like lightning.

They’re coming.

I burst through the corridor I entered from, everything a blur of shapes and shadows. Rain leaks through the broken windows high above, dripping onto my face and mixing with sweat. I hit the dock door at full speed, shove it up with both hands, and dive through the gap.

Outside.

Cold air slams into me, followed by a wall of rain that drenches me instantly. I skid across slick pavement, barely catching myself on the brick wall opposite. The alley’s darker than before, the night settled in deep and low, but I don’t pause.

I run.

Boots pounding through puddles, water splashing up my legs, soaked fabric clinging to my skin. The warehouse looms behind me, empty and enormous. I don’t look back.

I can’t. My lungs scream. My legs ache. My chest is tight with the weight of what I saw—what I shouldn’t have seen.

He shot that man like it meant nothing, like it was routine.

I tear down the alley, take a sharp left toward the main road, nearly slip, catch myself with one hand against a dumpster. My bag bounces hard against my side, soaked and heavy. I think of the box I left behind, the delivery note scribbled in haste.

Useless now. I just need to get away.

Streetlights glow dim in the fog, halos of yellow through the rain. I can see a distant intersection. If I can get there—if I can find someone, anyone, then maybe—

A door slams behind me.

They’re close.

I push harder, forcing my legs to move even when they beg me to stop. The street widens up ahead. I pass a boarded-up laundromat, a liquor store with a blinking OPEN sign, a shuttered diner with half the letters missing from its name.

Then I hear it. A voice. I can’t make out the words, but I hear the fury in them.

I duck between two parked cars, cut through another alley, smaller this time. A rusted fire escape towers above me. I skid, then catch my balance, and keep going.

Each breath tastes like copper. My ribs feel like they’re splitting open, but I don’t stop.

Not until I reach the far end of the alley, where the lights are brighter. I grab the edge of the nearest building, press my back to it, and suck in air like I’m drowning.

Nothing moves.

The silence that follows feels deeper than before. But it’s different now. Charged.

I press a shaking hand to my mouth.

I can still feel the echo of the shot.

The way that man fell.

The way the one with the gun had looked toward me, cold and steady. He’s going to come looking.

I know it.

The pavement blurs beneath my feet as I run, hard and fast, lungs heaving like they’re going to split open.

I don’t look back. I can’t. The rain lashes against my face, streams into my eyes, but I keep going.

My hoodie sticks to my skin, soaked through and heavy.

Every breath burns. Every step feels like I’m running on fire.

The alley spills into another industrial block: low buildings, rusted fences, windows like black eyes staring blankly into the street.

The scent of wet asphalt, oil, and old metal fills my lungs.

No one around. No lights. No voices. Just the pounding of my boots and the echo of footsteps that aren’t mine.

Footsteps echo behind me, louder now. Heavier. Closer.

He’s faster than he looks. Or maybe I’m slower than I think.

I shove past a sagging gate, duck beneath a bent pipe, keep my body low, moving like instinct alone is dragging me forward. My legs scream. My vision blurs; but I see it up ahead, a flash of light, a car turning onto the main road. The neon blur of a corner store. A person, maybe. Someone.

Hope flares.

I dig deep, pull whatever strength I have left. My feet slap against the pavement, sending up tiny sprays of water. I reach the edge of the alley—

Almost there.

Then a hand clamps down on my wrist.

Steel fingers lock tight. I cry out, startled, but the sound is swallowed by the rain and wind. I’m yanked backward so fast I barely register it, the world spinning sideways as my balance disappears.

My back slams into cold brick, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. The impact sends pain shooting up my spine. I try to twist, try to scream, but he’s already there. A body pins me in place—solid, warm, and terrifyingly steady.

Rain soaks us both. His coat presses against my chest. I smell smoke. Gunmetal. Something sharp and clean, like expensive cologne over blood.

One hand around my wrist, the other at my throat, firm but not choking. Not yet. But there’s a promise in his grip. One wrong move, and he’ll tighten. I can feel it.

“Got you,” the voice murmurs, bright and teasing.

His face is close. Pale blond hair, soaked and plastered to his forehead. Sharp cheekbones. A long scar along his jawline. And his eyes—they’re wrong. Not Angry but wild, like he’s enjoying this.

I try to scream, but the sound sticks in my throat. All I can do is gasp, heart pounding so violently I think he must hear it.

He watches me for a second longer. Just long enough to make sure I know it’s over. That I can’t run again.

“You saw too much,” he says. “A shame to waste somebody so pretty.”

Then the pistol lifts. Smooth. Effortless. Like brushing hair from someone’s face.

I flinch.

The last thing I see is the flash of silver at the barrel’s edge—

Everything goes black.