Page 118 of Twisted Proposal

I stood and started firing one after the other, watching them all drop. I didn't stop until all of them were dead and I had to lean on the table to stay steady.

The sound of wood splintering echoed through the destroyed room. I sagged, exhaustion dragging me down, not sure how much more I could take. I only had three shots left in one gun, two in the other.

If I had to grab a piece-of-shit rifle to kill them all, that was what I was going to do. I might die, but I was going to take all those motherfuckers down with me.

"Artem, you alive?" Kostya called, and I sighed with relief.

Backup was here. I just needed to make sure none of them had gotten to Viktoria.

"Holy fuck, what happened here?" Pavel said, coming into the room, looking at the bodies littering the floor. "What are you, John Wick?"

"They were untrained and poorly armed, but yes," I answered, unsteady on my feet. "You should see what I can do with a pencil."

Kostya let out a low whistle. "No doubt, brother."

"You need medical," Pavel said.

I held up my hand to stop him from rushing to me. "Clear the house first. And the tunnels."

He looked at me for a moment like he was going to argue, then nodded. "Fine, but you stay here. Mikhail is on his way."

The second they left, I went the other way, heading for the master bedroom.

It took me far too long to reach it, and the room was spinning around me, so it took two tries to type in the code. When I had the door open, Viktoria stood there, tears streaming down her face.

"My god, Artem!" she screamed, rushing to me.

Her hands fluttered over my wounds, pressing hard against the one in my side. Blood soaked between her fingers—my blood—but she didn't pull away.

Her face, always defiant, was twisted with something I'd never seen before.

Fear. Not for herself, but for me.

"Don't you dare die," she commanded, her voice thick with emotion. "Don't you dare leave me."

Those words hit harder than any bullet.

In her panic, in the heat of the moment, she'd revealed more than all our conversations ever had.

Not Stockholm syndrome. Not manipulation. Something real.

I slumped against the doorframe, my strength fading from me, blood pooling at my feet. My response was weak but resolute. "You're safe…that's all that matters."

"No, it's not all that matters, you stubborn bastard," she sobbed, pressing harder against my wounds. "I can't lose you. I won't."

I collapsed under my own weight.

I had lost too much blood.

My eyes never left hers as darkness crept in around the edges of my vision.

If I was going to die, then as long as the last thing I ever saw was her eyes—filled with tears for me, caring for me despite everything—I would die a fortunate man.

CHAPTER37

VIKTORIA

Artem lay at my feet, bloody and broken.