Page 33 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)
The only thing that registered in Fedya’s mind was getting his wife out of the chaos.
He could barely think about what had happened: why it happened, where the shots were coming from, and who was firing them. His mind had narrowed down to one thing, and that was her, crouching behind a table with her hands over her ears, her eyes frantically searching the place for him.
His body moved before his mind could catch up, and Maeve flinched when a bullet pierced through the glass that was right on top of the table she was hiding behind.
He got to her just in time for the lights in the bar to go out, plunging them into darkness.
Shadows slipped through exits, muzzle flashes lighting up in the dark.
There were too many goddamn variables, too much he hadn’t accounted for.
But he didn’t need anyone to tell him that his identity had been compromised. Maybe it had been for a while now, because the smug bastard who was Maeve’s father surely had a part to play in this ambush.
“Come on, zhena ,” he said in his normal voice as he grabbed Maeve’s arm. “Let’s move.”
They kept low, slipping through the narrow hallway that had brought them there in the first place.
Bullets tore into the walls around them, screams echoing like a nightmare.
Maeve stumbled once, but he caught her, his body running on pure adrenaline and muscle memory as he pushed through the exit into the cold alleyway.
His car was three buildings down, parked discreetly behind a loading dock.
He took Maeve’s hand and told her to hold on tight, then they made a run for it.
He shoved her into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and climbed behind the wheel, suddenly feeling his energy slowly start to seep out of him.
He twisted the key and roared the engine to life, tires screeching as he pulled out and tore down the street.
His hands were clenched around the steering wheel, and he didn’t stop, reminding him of the first night he’d been at The Grotto, how he’d raced like a madman to get Luca treatment as soon as possible.
“ Jesus , Fedya,” Maeve’s ragged voice said to him. She was breathing hard, her eyes wild with panic as she stared at his stomach. “You’re bleeding.”
It made sense now—the abrupt change in his energy levels as he started the car.
He had been too focused on Maeve’s safety to notice that he had been shot, let alone feel the pain.
But now that she had said it, now that he was aware of the deep red that soaked through the side of his dress shirt, now that he could feel the bullet hole dangerously close to his spleen, his body began to register the pain.
Sharp and dull at the same time. But hot, searingly hot.
He’d experienced worse.
He kept his eyes on the road like it was nothing. “It’s fine. I need to get you home.”
“What?” she snapped, staring at him like he was out of his mind. “Did you hear what I just said? You’re literally bleeding out, and you’re talking about taking me home.”
“You’ll be safe at home.”
“We need to go to a hospital.”
No. That made no sense to him. He couldn’t care less that he was hurt.
She could have been hurt. He had seen her right there, right in the line of fire, and if he hadn’t gotten to her quickly enough, she could have been shot.
Why the fuck would he care about a stomach wound when she could have been shot?
He had been too lax, too relaxed. He should’ve seen this coming from the abrupt invitation from Cormac. For fuck’s sake, he was smarter than this. Smarter than Cormac’s stupid little games.
And because of his stupid lapse in judgment, he could have lost Maeve.
“I said it’s nothing,” he snapped, his foolishness taking over. He was angry, hurt at the fact that she could have been hurt. He deserved more than a stupid fucking bullet to the stomach.
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, her voice trembling. “Pull the fucking car over, Fedya. Right now.”
He was losing the strength to argue, bleeding all over his fucking pants. His side throbbed with every breath he took as he eased the car over to the side of the road.
Maeve was already unbuckling before he killed the engine. She stormed out, slamming the door, and came around to his side.
“Move over,” she ordered, her eyes blazing.
He blinked at her, bleary. “Maeve—” But he’d never heard her so angry, so furious, and he couldn’t count the number of times she’d been angry at him.
“I will drag you out of this car right now, and trust me, that would hurt more than you’re already hurting.”
He bit back his groan as he slid into the passenger’s seat, the shift pulling at his wound.
Maeve climbed into the driver’s seat quickly, adjusted it with quick hands, and turned the car around.
He leaned his head back, trying to steady his breathing.
His ribs ached as she stepped on the gas, but his pride ached even more.
“What are you doing?” he asked when he felt her fingers tugging on the pocket of his coat.
But she didn’t answer. Her fingers tapped quickly against the screen, and she raised the phone to her ear before she could ask who she was calling.
“Viktor? It’s Maeve. Fedya’s been shot and he’s losing too much blood.” A pause. “I’m taking him to the hospital right now. You need to meet us there. I’ll send you the coordinates.”
Oh hell.
If Viktor was going to be involved, the rest of his family would as well.
In other words, he could kiss his secret about his marriage to Cormac’s daughter goodbye.