Page 32 of Unholy Tsar

Bastard.

I wasted no time in sending more men to help with the search, all while making calls to access the CCTV footage from the area where she was taken. My contact quickly sent me the footage of the moments leading up to it, and I couldn’t help but re-watch it over and over again.

Fuck me. She looked so happy and carefree.

I can’t contain the rage building inside me any longer. My hands clench into fists as I imagine driving them into the assailant’s face. Pausing the video, I take a screenshot of the plate number, then send it to Dante so he can find out who it belongs to—not that I believe it will give us any answers.

I’ll have to get those the old fashion way.

I’m already storming out of Cecilia’s apartment when Marie tentatively asks if I’m going home. “Of course not,” I snap at her. “I have an asshole to catch.”

“You might want to change out of those bloody clothes first,” she mutters, then darts out of the living room before I can bite her head off. Glancing down, I curse under my breath —I’m still soaked through with blood from dealing with those vermins earlier. Damn it.

Cecilia can’t see me like this, not after what she’s been through.

Begrudgingly, I take Marie’s advice and drive home. A quick shower and I’ll join my men.

I’m getting dressed when the buzzer sounds. I ignore it, and a few seconds later, it starts ringing continuously like someone’s pressing down on it. What the hell, is the doorman not there?

Buttoning up my shirt, I stalk to the elevator bank and tap on the panel so I can see who my obnoxious guest is.

Shock washes over me at the face that fills the screen.

“Cecilia?”

She glances up and around, probably searching for the source of my voice. I press the button to unlock the elevators for her; then I switch the camera on the panel to the one inside the elevator so I can watch her as the elevator brings her up to me.

I frown when she sags against the wall, and I take in her disheveled appearance. Her dress is dirty and—is that blood? My vision winks out as rage momentarily blinds me.

Thankfully, the elevator doesn’t take long, and in no time, the doors slide open. Cecilia is slumped on the floor, her body trembling, her breathing shallow. Heart pounding, I grab her arm and immediately notice the jacket covering her hand. It’s soaked in blood.

“Who did this to you?” I growl.

“Maksim,” she whimpers, collapsing into my arms. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Pushing aside my anger, I hold her close as she starts crying in my arms. I wrap one arm around her waist and run the other up and down her hair softly. “Shh, it’s okay, Myshka. You’re safe now.” She nods into my chest and sniffs, her cries slowly subsiding.

I swallow my questions as I lead her to my bedroom. “Stay here,” I tell her, pointing to the armchair in front of my mantle. She sinks into it wordlessly, and I quickly go to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. On my way back, I pause at the doorway to study her. She’s huddled into herself, looking so small and vulnerable in the oversized armchair. Like a completely different person from the strong and feisty woman I know.

My fists tighten around the first aid box’s handle. Heads will roll for this.

To my surprise, Cecelia glances up at me, and a soft, sad smile fills her lips. “You’ll have to repay the doorman. He paid off my cab fare,” she quietly informs me, her voice cracking.

I force myself to return the smile as I approach her. She’s not the one I’m angry at. It’s my incompetent men who will feel my fury. But for now, Cecilia’s safety is all that matters. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her, crouching in front of her to examine her injured hand. As gently as possible, I unroll the jean jacket and get my first look at the wound.

It's a straight gash that runs through her palm from below her thumb to the end. Thankfully, it’s not too deep and shouldn’t leave much of a scar. “I cut myself,” she mutters.

Looking up at her, I’m surprised when she lifts her right hand to smooth my forehead. I didn’t realize I was frowning.

“I was trying to cut out his eye like you taught me, but he slapped the knife out of my hand. I knew if I lost it, I'd be screwed. So I… I caught it with my left hand.”

“You missed the handle and grabbed the blade,” I realize, and she nods in response. “How did you get away from him?” I ask, trying to distract her as I clean her wound with disinfectant.

She hisses in pain, and I murmur an apology. “I jumped out of the van.”

“You what?”

I have to remind myself not to tighten my grip on her hand as she tells me how she escaped. By the time she finishes her story, there’s a whole lot of contained rage simmering under my surface. Rage that I need to let out.