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A deafening sound fills the room.
My heart stops, frozen in terror as I wait for death.
And a moment later, the cold metal of Sascha’s knife slips from my throat.
A heavy thunk launches my pulse into a sprint, and when I dare to open my eyes, I find Mishka standing, holding a smoking gun.
His face is twisted in agony, his eyes locked on his target.
Slowly, I turn to look at Sascha. He’s slumped forward, leaning heavily on the kitchen chair beside me. Crimson fluid drains from a perfect hole in the center of his forehead.
He’s dead.
Mishka releases a burst of air, drawing my eyes away from the grisly scene as he lowers his gun, dropping it onto the bed.
Then he races to me, falling onto his knees as he collects the knife his brother dropped. He works quickly, cutting my still-bandaged wrists free of the chair, and as he turns his attention to my ankles, I reach up to drag the gag from my mouth.
The rope trapping my shoulders to the back of the chair is the last he cuts, and then he pulls me to my feet, gathering me desperately into his arms—as if he can’t believe I’m safe until he feels that I’m still alive and warm. Sobbing, I cling to him, burying my face in his bare, muscular shoulder as I shake like a leaf.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I cry, my heart aching with sympathy for what Mishka had to do to save me.
He killed his own brother—the brother he only just found out was still alive. The brother who would do anything to protect Mishka, who stuck by his side through a terrible childhood. Sascha was his best friend. I know how much he missed him, the loss he felt on the day their clan was wiped out.
And now Mishka shot him to save my life.
“Shh,” he soothes, his strong arms holding me fiercely, trying to hold me in one piece. “You’re okay.”
His large hand cradles the back of my head, pressing my ear against his chest so he can rest his cheek on the crown of my head. His heartbeat hammers at a frantic rhythm against his ribs, telling me he was just as terrified as me, even if he seemed calm.
“God, I’m so sorry, Mishka,” I sob again, the apology spilling from my lips in uncontrollable waves.
With a huff, he guides me gently away from his body, gripping my biceps as he holds me at arm’s length. “What could you possibly be sorry about?” he breathes in exasperation. “This is my fault, Alina. My responsibility.”
I shake my head, the guilt turning my stomach to lead. “My family has caused you so much pain. We wouldn’t be here if my father hadn’t come after your clan. And poor Sascha…” I glance over my shoulder toward him but can’t bring myself to look. “The suffering he endured. My family tore you apart, drove a wedge between you two. And now I’m the reason you had to kill your brother. I feel awful.”
“Alina, stop,” he insists, cradling my face in his palms so he can gently swipe at my tears with his thumbs. “You’re not responsible for any of the troubles we endured. Sascha chose his path in life. So did I. And you—and our baby—are the best things that have ever happened to me.”
My chest throbs at his tender words, the way he draws me back into his arms. He presses kisses to the top of my head, and the relief that floods me steals my breath away. I still feel terrible for the events my family set in motion. I had no idea such horrible things were happening right under my nose. All at the whim of my father.
But the last few days have opened my eyes to the full extent of the violence, the cruelty. So many people have suffered at my father’s hands. And Mishka, sweet, loyal, caring, protective Mishka has lost entirely too much.
Suddenly, I don’t understand how he could set aside all that hurt and anger just for me. Now that I’ve witnessed firsthand the pain and loss, it’s staggering that he could love me the way he does, that he would have any desire to be with me.
Arms wrapped around his bruised ribs and still trembling uncontrollably from the sheer amount of adrenaline my body released, I try not to squeeze too hard as I tip my chin to meet his stormy eyes. “Thank you for saving my life. Again,” I murmur, my heart swelling with gratitude.
Mishka chuckles, the low, soft sound sending a warm vibration through my body. “I assure you, I’ll save your life as many times as you need,” he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
His fingers graze my chin, and his gaze dips to my lips, giving me a second’s notice before he leans in to kiss me. Like a potent painkiller, it soothes my aching pains and settles my shaking ever so slightly. I savor the tender moment. It’s a chaste kiss, not a ravenous, sensual one that sets my skin on fire, but it’s no less passionate. And it tells me just how deeply he loves me, how desperately he needs me in his life.
When he draws back, the warmth in his eyes melts my heart. But the sadness that lingers there tells me Mishka’s fresh loss weighs heavily on his soul.
“I need to make a call. I’ll need some help cleaning up,” he rasps, his voice ragged with emotion. “Get dressed, hmm? And I’ll take a look at that cut.” He turns me toward the kitchen, intentionally keeping my back to the body occupying the center of his apartment.
I try not to look behind me as I walk on wobbly legs to the kitchen to collect the clothing we discarded there earlier. As I pull on my jeans, I catch Mishka’s fluid Russian as he speaks quietly to someone on the other end of the phone.
“Who was that?” I ask when he hangs up a moment later. Pulling my shirt over my head, I’m careful not to let the collar brush against my cut as I finish dressing.
“Viktor. He’ll be here shortly.” Mishka takes out a fresh shirt from one of his dresser drawers, then he makes his way into the kitchen.
