Page 8 of The Pakhan’s Arranged Bride (West Coast Bratva Pakhans #2)

I was on my way to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee when I heard Jadon say Miron’s name.

Benedikt is at work.

Hearing Miron’s name set my heart beating wildly.

Do they know something?

So, now I’m pressed up against the wall outside Benedikt’s home office. Jadon is inside, talking to Benedikt on the phone, and it’s clear that something is going on regarding my stepbrother.

“He was seen at the warehouse? Yes, sir. I’ll leave now. I can be there in about—mm—fifteen minutes. Yes. Alright, sir.”

He hangs up, and for a second, I panic with nowhere to hide as he walks briskly towards the door. So, instead of hiding, I walk right into him as though I was passing by.

He huffs as we bump into each other, and I let out a surprised yelp.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Ulyana,” he blurts out, gently touching my shoulder while his eyes study me with concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s okay. Where are you off to in such a rush?” I step back, straightening my clothes and dusting my hands over my top.

“I have to get to work. I hope you have a lovely day.”

I smile and step aside, letting him pass. “You too, Jadon.”

As soon as he’s out of sight, I bolt into action, grabbing my phone, keys, a black baseball cap and running out to my car. I don’t have a gun on me, but I have a very elegant knife strapped to my ankle beneath my jeans.

Nestor was always against me carrying a gun, but I think it’s time for me to invest in one.

Jadon is already gone by the time I get out, but it’s fine. I know which warehouse Benedikt is working at today. It’s a busy port on the edge of the docks, fifteen minutes from here.

Being cautious, I park some distance away. My car is rather obvious, and I don’t want anyone spotting it or telling Benedikt I’m here. If Miron is in the area or if they have information about him, I will discover it for myself.

Sneaking up to the warehouse is easier than I expected it to be. There is a lot of noise coming from inside; something is going on, and people sound panicked about it.

I stand near a small side door. It’s cracked open just enough for me to peek inside without being seen.

Benedikt’s employees are rushing around a crate. People are shouting orders, telling others to get it on the forklift, to move it.

I don’t know what’s in the crate, but they aren’t happy about it.

Some of the guys are shaking their heads, others are moving away from it, fearful.

It takes my full strength to tug the door further open, wide enough for me to slip through to get into the warehouse, but as I’m about to, movement catches the corner of my eye, and I turn my head just in time to see Miron running across the open space between this warehouse and the next one.

He’s headed towards the docks.

The sight of him causes my entire body to freeze. Rigid with anger, fear and hatred, I’m frozen for a second as emotion overwhelms me before I manage to pull myself out of it. I won’t let him get away. He has to pay for what he’s done. Turning from the door, I run after him.

Just as I push away from the warehouse, there is a deafening crash.

It’s like thunder, but too close, too heavy.

A shockwave pulses through the air and I’m thrown to the ground by the pressure of it.

My face hits the ground as I skid along the dirt for a few feet.

My ears are ringing as I choke on dust, stirred up beneath me.

I blink, confused and disoriented. My body hurts.

From behind me, I hear screaming, men shouting in pain. It pulls me from my stupor. They need help.

Pushing myself to my knees, I glance in the direction I saw Miron running. While I hate the idea of him getting away, knowing he must be responsible for this, he is no longer my priority.

The chaos behind me sounds far more urgent.

People need help.

I scramble to my feet, head spinning, and for a second, I’m sure I’m going to pass out, but I don’t.

Turning back to the warehouse, I see the small door has been blown clean off the hinges. I gasp in horror as I run through it, into the smoke-filled space of destruction.

Whatever was in the crate exploded. The remains of the crate are on fire, along with other crates that were nearby. Everything is shattered, with men scrambling around the mess to pull their friends and co-workers to safety, trying to help those who are injured.

I snap into action, running towards a man lying on the ground, rolling in pain, clutching at his face.

“Hey, hey, look at me. I’m going to help you,” I shout, grabbing his attention.

He rolls onto his back and grabs my arm with his bloody hands.

One of his eyes has a massive, bleeding gash right through it. It’s obvious he will never see from that side again.

His other eye is so wide with shock it’s bulging from his head.

“My eye,” he screams, his fingers tightening around my arm.

“I’m going to help you. Just breathe. I’m going to help,” I do my best to reassure him, not knowing if he can even hear me.

I move fast, tugging my cardigan off and wrapping it around his head, applying pressure to try and stop the bleeding.

The man is whimpering but letting me help.

“Let’s get you up, away from the fire,” I say.

He lets me slip my arm around his back to try pull him to his feet, but he’s weak and in shock and very heavy.

Another worker sees me and comes to help. Together we get him on his feet.

I wrap the man’s arm over my shoulder and say to our helper, “I’ve got him from here, thanks.”

“Take him out front. The medics are coming,” he shouts, and runs to help someone else.

We make our way through the chaos towards the front parking area, where I set the man down with his back resting against one of the cars. “Stay here, okay? The doctors are coming. I have to go and see who else needs help.”

He grabs my arm. “Thank you—thank you,” he repeats.

Standing up too fast, my head spins again, and I lean against a car for a moment, taking deep breaths of fresh air, not realizing how tight my lungs are from the smoke.

My eyes are burning. I rub across my cheek with the back of my hand, but gag when I realize that I’m covered in someone else’s blood, mixed with black soot and dirt, and my face is dry from the smoke.

I hurriedly wipe my hands on my jeans, but it’s no good. I’m filthy. It doesn’t matter. I have to go back in there and help people.

Where is Benedikt? Is he okay?

Squinting into the chaos, I try to find him, but I can’t. I can hardly see anything in there. He could be anywhere inside the warehouse. He could be badly hurt. He could be dead. No. Don’t think that.

For now, I have to focus on the things I can control—the people I can help. I have to hope for the best—that someone is helping him if he needs it.

I run back inside, my heart racing, my lungs burning from the thick air.

I spot a man lying face-down and kneel next to him, trying to roll him over.

It takes a lot of effort, but I manage to do it—except there is a piece of metal, blown from the blast and sliced straight into his neck.

He’s dead. His lifeless eyes are open as he stares up at the ceiling.

I gag and stagger away from him.

Help someone else. Help someone else, my head screams at me, stopping the panic from freezing me in place.

I find another man, blood oozing from a wound in his leg.

“Give me your belt,” I demand.

He looks at me in confusion.

“Your belt. Now,” I shout.

He tugs it off, moving in pain, and hands it to me.

I work quickly, creating a tourniquet above the wound to stop the bleeding. When that’s done, I want to get him to his feet, but he’s even bigger than the last guy, so I know I’ll need help.

He’s not in danger from the fire, but the smoke is thick enough here to do damage. I can’t leave him here.

I stand up, looking around. I’m about to yell for someone to help me lift him when a man arrives at his side and pull him to his feet.

“Thank you so much,” I mutter, standing up—and coming face-to-face with Benedikt, the injured man leaning against him, groaning in pain.

The shock on Benedikt’s face mirrors mine. We both stare at each other for a moment, disbelief washing over him as though he’s looking at my ghost.

“What are you? How? Why aren’t you at home?” he blurts out.

“Get him outside,” I say with urgency. “His leg is bleeding badly, I don’t know how long the tourniquet will hold.”

Benedikt narrows his eyes towards me and nods.

Then he’s gone.

I’m drowning in relief. He’s alive. He’s okay.

But there’s no time to enjoy it.

I run over to a man who is walking blindly in no direction at all. He’s shouting for help.

I get to his side and take his hand. “What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

“I got it in my eyes.” He turns towards me and his eyes look burnt, chemical burns, bloodshot and oozing thick watery substance. The skin around his eyes is red and peeling.

“Let me get you outside,” I say loudly, wrapping my arm around his waist.

He holds on to me and puts his trust in me as I lead him around obstacles towards the front.

As I’m walking out, Benedikt passes me again and takes the man from me. “Ulyana, don’t go back in there—"

But I’m already running back into the warehouse to find someone else to help. There are people in here in pain, suffering, I can’t just leave them.

I’m kneeling next to a man who is struggling to breathe.

He’s panicking and searching his pockets, sitting on the ground, gagging on the thick smoke.

“What do you need?” I say, taking his face in my hands and forcing him to look at me.

He shakes his head, slapping his chest. I don’t understand.

Benedikt squats next to me.

“He’s asthmatic,” he shouts over the noise around us.

Immediately, I start searching the man’s pockets, but I can’t find an inhaler. Panic washes through me. I scramble to my feet and spot it behind him, on the ground, fallen out of his pocket.

I grab it and press it to his lips, and he grabs my hand as though it’s his lifeline.

Benedikt brushes his hand over my back. I glance at him and his eyes are filled with warmth.

“Can you get him outside?” he asks.

I nod. “Just help me get him on his feet.”

Benedikt helps the man up before he rushes away, and I hold him steady as I lead him out.

He takes another breath of his inhaler outside in the clear air.

I pause before going back in. My throat is so dry I can barely swallow. My eyes are burning. My hands are shaking.

But there are still people who are worse off than me, so I have no time to think about that.