Page 31 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

I watched him die and could do absolutely nothing about it.

I had never thought I’d care if the man who had pretended to be my brother died. I was so sure my heart was full of hatred for him, but I couldn’t help the scream that erupted from my throat when Rafael slammed his head with a bat like he was hitting a baseball.

It was scary watching Mateo’s face get bashed and beaten to a pulp. And there was so much blood, accompanied by the horrifying sound of his bones crunching and cracking. I watched the scene with horror, unable to peel my eyes away from the grisly sight.

Mateo’s body, which was slumped on the ground some feet from the storage shelf, now began to form a pool of crimson red, and it almost felt like I couldn’t breathe as I stared into his pummeled face.

Even though he had wronged me, I couldn’t help but feel pity for Mateo. His whole life, he had been Joaquin’s pawn, and a small part of me still thought of Brandon Orozco, my little brother. But now they were both gone.

I sobbed uncontrollably as memories of Brandon and me flashed through my head. Right before he died, our eyes had met, and I could swear that I saw a hint of regret flash through his eyes.

It was all make-believe, but I truly loved him.

As Rafael now clung to me, working to untie my bonds, I could feel the bloodlust oozing off him. It was thick, making me shiver when he touched me with his stained hands.

I knew Rafael was a hardened killer, but watching him in action unlocked a new type of fear in me, making me wonder why I had been so brazen and rude to him from the beginning.

But as repulsed as I was watching him kill, I felt safe in his arms—until the door to the room creaked open, causing Rafael to disengage from my embrace, stepping in front of me and pushing me away from view.

With his face turned toward Mateo’s dead body at the other end of the room, Joaquin walked in slowly, hands clasped behind his back, while the discordant sound of shots firing outside filled the room.

“What a waste,” Joaquin mused, now turning his attention to Rafael and me. “Don’t you think so, my friend?”

I grimaced at Joaquin’s dehumanization of his own nephew’s life.

I already knew that Mateo was nothing more than a foot soldier for him, but hearing him actually confirm that was gut-wrenching to say the least. He didn’t care that his nephew was now a corpse, bleeding dry onto the concrete floors that seemed to suck in his blood.

“I’m going to kill you, just like I did your nephew,” Rafael threatened darkly, and from behind me, he balled his fists, ready to strike at Joaquin, who then smiled eerily.

“The plan was to have you here anyway, so I could cut you up like I did to that brat’s mother.” Joaquin pointed at me, then added, “And when I’m done with you, I’ll relish the intimacy of killing her as well.”

My blood shuddered right as Rafael lunged at Joaquin, who suddenly pulled out a knife, its sharp tip glinting even with the room’s dim lighting, and he swung it toward Rafael’s face.

Slash.

The knife seemed to cut across a part of Rafael’s face, and his blood splattered onto the door they stood in front of. A shrill scream escaped from my lips while they continued to fight.

It wasn’t like Rafael’s fight with Mateo, where he’d quickly gained the upper hand. Joaquin was just as good as Rafael—and faster.

Rafael pulled out another Glock from the pockets of his tactical jacket and shot at Joaquin’s arm, but the monster barely flinched and instead skillfully kicked the gun out of Rafael’s hands, and then proceeded to punch Rafael, but Rafael countered by kneeing Joaquin in his crotch.

While Joaquin tried to recover, Rafael grabbed the hem of his shirt and forcefully pushed him to the shelves at the edge of the room, and Joaquin’s head rammed against them with a resounding crack .

One punch.

Two punches followed.

And then my eyes widened when Joaquin weakly, yet swiftly, gripped his knife, digging it into Rafael’s knees, a booming laugh leaving his mouth as Rafael staggered back.

“You fucking psychopath,” Joaquin snarled at Rafael, wiping the blood off his mouth.

Joaquin’s eyes then made contact with mine, and he grinned, showing off his bloodied teeth, while Rafael tried to regain his composure.

My heart leapt into my throat. They were both bloodied, and though Joaquin seemed to be the one in worse shape, he still looked more energized and ready to take on Rafael, who cussed loudly in Russian, running his tongue over his busted lip.

I knew I had to do something—a way to help or call for backup instead of just watching them beat themselves up until one of them died.

And so, while Joaquin tried lunging at me, Rafael grabbed him by the cloth, all the while bleeding through the open wound on his leg.

My hands shook in fear as I looked around the room, which was filled with their grunts and huffs. Apart from the chair I was still on, the only other weapons were the spiked bat beside me and Rafael’s gun.

I had only ever shot a gun once in my life during a hunting session. I remember being so bad at it that Father made sure never to let me wield one again. I considered using the spiked bat, but both of them were too swift with their attacks, making it hard to get between them.

I wondered why no one else was coming into the room. The gunshots from outside had receded now, and I was certain someone out there survived.

No. No one could do this except me.

So, even though my whole body ached and my face was swollen with blood matted to my hair, I reached over to the gun on the ground.

Joaquin killed my parents. And just like Rafael had said to Mateo, I had made my own promise that Joaquin would die. I wasn’t going to let that slide.

Once the cold metallic weapon sat in my hands, I stood from the chair, which scraped against the ground, pointing the gun at Joaquin. But it was hard to focus, as they kept shifting positions, trading blows.

I bit my already busted lip, shutting one eye as I tried to concentrate. My heart pounded hard against my chest with fear—and an odd sensation of excitement at the thought of inflicting pain on the man who had taken too much from me.

My hands shook, but I drew in a deep breath.

Aim and fire.

I chanted the words in my head and then pulled the trigger, aimed right at Joaquin’s leg, while they were still very distracted.

Bang!

The bullet dug into his tibia, and he yelled a “Fuck!” The knife in his hands fell onto the ground with a resounding clang .

I smirked, limping toward both of them so I could get a closer range. And while he struggled to compose himself, Rafael grabbed his neck with both hands, knocking Joaquin against the concrete wall—and right beside where Mateo’s dead body lay.

Joaquin struggled to breathe, the veins in his eyes popping as his hands clawed out for help and to grab something he could use against Rafael.

But I didn’t give him the opportunity, because I fired another shot at his palm—satisfaction filling me when he couldn’t even express the pain he was feeling by screaming.

I wanted to be the one to end his life, but Rafael already seemed too engrossed in doing that as Joaquin’s face started to turn purplish.

“I told you it would be slow and painful,” I said, cutting through his strained breaths.

A tear fell from Joaquin’s eye just before the popping of his neck bones filtered through, and his neck fell limply to his side right as Rafael let go.

Joaquin’s body dropped to the ground with a thud , right beside Mateo’s already pale corpse, and my breath hitched. I couldn’t believe it was finally all over.

Meanwhile, Rafael’s rapid breathing filled the silence between us before his face turned to mine—bruised all over, his eyes dark with a thirst for blood. He walked over to me and pulled me against his chest. The sound of his pounding heart met my ears as I wrapped my arms around him.

“You’re safe now, kroshk a .” The rawness of his accent brushed through his sentence as he said, “It’s all over.”

My eyes looked over at Joaquin’s dead body. It was an ugly sight—nephew and uncle sprawled against each other, the bodies deformed, with flies and bugs already swarming Mateo.

I gulped hard, shaking my head.

“No, this is just the beginning,” I told Rafael as we pulled away from the hug, and he cupped my face, searching it thoroughly.

“I underestimated you, kroshka —”

“I know.”

All my life, I had been underestimated by everyone around me. I even always underestimated myself. Who would’ve thought all I needed to shoot a moving target perfectly was to channel my anger into the shot?

A weary smile crossed my lips as Rafael’s eyes fell to the little bump on my stomach, and his hands shakily reached out to it, the warmth of his hands seeping through the silky fabric of my dress. His eyes gleamed with a plethora of emotions—joy, relief, and gratitude.

“A baby, huh?”

I nodded. “Our baby.”

“Thank you,” he rasped, his eyes still stuck on the bump—until the door was kicked open forcefully once again, causing Rafael to be on full alert.

We both sighed in relief when Rafael’s right-hand, Maxim, came into view, panting and drenched in blood, his long, dark hair flowing over his shoulders.

His gun that had been pointed, ready for an attack, fell to his side as he now approached us with a sigh, looking around the room that resembled a surgical space, with all the weapons and blood everywhere.

“Good job, Maxim.”

Rafael acknowledged his right hand’s efforts with a nod, which Maxim reciprocated.

He offered me a smile. “You fought hard, ma’am,” Maxim said to me. “You did good.”

Newfound tears formed in my eyes at his words. It was probably my hormones making me all emotional at how I’d actually survived everything.

I fought hard and recklessly to survive, and even though I had made stupid decisions, I still made it.

My heart still ached for Mateo, and I wondered if things between us could’ve gone differently if he had just switched sides. It didn’t matter that he had lied to me. I just wanted to know that he cared for me in some way.

But now, I had to accept that he was dead and gone.

Rafael once again pulled me to his side as Maxim walked past us, crouching down and analyzing the bodies before him.

And then, in a low, malicious voice that made my insides tingle, Rafael ordered Maxim, pointing at Joaquin’s body, “I want that fucker’s head sliced clean, and when it’s off, wrap it nicely in a box and send it to his family.”

Maxim nodded, grabbing Joaquin’s knife that sat between his legs. “Yes, Boss.”

I shuddered as Maxim began to work, cutting open Joaquin’s head like he was a butcher cutting meat. And I tore my gaze away right as Rafael picked me up in one swoop, my legs dangling as he held me in his arms, limping out of the room.

I leaned my head against his chest, feeling weariness course through my bones.

“You can rest now, kroshk a ,” he told me, his voice filled with an unmistakable warmth that made me sigh in contentment.

“Thank you,” I told him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “And I love you.”

His eyes briefly fell to mine as they began to droop.

I could see surprise swarming in them before they softened—almost unrecognizable by the emotions in them.

I was afraid he wouldn’t say it back, afraid that I was the only one who truly loved him.

But then, amidst the sound of skin being split open in the room, he confessed the words right back to me.

“I love you, too, Arlette Kamarov…. I’ve always loved you.”

The world before me faded away right as he said those words, but I wasn’t afraid of the darkness.

He loved me. My husband, Rafael Kamarov, loved me—and that was all that mattered.