Page 47 of Sold to the Bratva

The world narrows to a single point of rage. My wife. Myprintsessa.

I don’t wait. I’m out the door, gun loaded, blood roaring like thunder.

I tell the driver to take the day off, and slide into the seat, gripping the wheel, but not sure where to go. My men are all over the city looking. Finally after what seems like forever, my phone pings with an address. They’ve found her.

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, tires squealing in protest.

Thirty minutes later I nose the car into a narrow alley and spot the building. I exit the vehicle and find Mikhail waiting for me.

“We go in quiet and quick. Get her out, leave no one standing,” I say.

Mikhail nods.

“We leave a message that my wife is never to be touched again.”

We move forward toward the building and find a door, unguarded. We quietly enter and make our way through the space.

The warehouse stinks of rust and gasoline. I slip through the shadows, Mikhail covering my flank. One wrong move and she’s gone.

Then I hear it — her voice, sharp as a blade, cutting through the darkness.

“My husband’s coming. And when he gets here, you’ll beg for mercy you don’t deserve.”

Pride slams into me. She’s terrified, but she’s still fighting.

I see where Katya stands, facing a man with malice in her eyes.

The first shot I fire takes the smirk off her captor’s face.

Chaos erupts. Bullets sing. Mikhail drops one man; I’m already on the other. He shoves Katya forward like a shield, but I don’t hesitate. My bullet finds his temple before his finger finds the trigger.

Katya stumbles into my arms, rope biting her wrists, tears streaking paint down her cheeks. I cut her free and crush her to me.

“You came,” she whispers, voice trembling.

“I’ll always come for you,” I growl against her hair. “No one touches my wife. Ever.”

When we finally stumble back into the night, her hand never leaves mine.

Back in the car, I untie her wrists and look for any other injuries before starting the engine and heading toward home.

She shivers in the passenger seat and I crank up the heat.

“I thought we were okay,” I say, my voice rough.

“We were,” she says. “But I’m not.”

The honesty slices like glass. I nod slowly.

“I’m trying, Isaac. I’m trying to be this woman you need. A wife. A mother. A Bratva queen or whatever the hell this life is shaping me into. But it’s happening so fast. And I’m scared I’ll lose myself in it.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” I say softly.

She finally looks at me. Her eyes are rimmed red, yet clear and strong.