The one who had stomped on my wrist scrambled for his weapon, but Maksym was faster. He fired into the bastard’s shin, bone shattering with a sharp pop. Blood sprayed. The man screamed, clutching his leg. He tried to crawl. Maksym walked past him.
I couldn’t get to my feet. My knees dragged along the filthy floor as I inched back, spine hitting the wall with a dull thud. My wrist pulsed like it had its own heartbeat, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He moved through the room like a god of death—silent, surgical. Every step deliberate. Every shot a sentence.
The owner bolted for the exit. Maksym’s arm lifted, calm as ice. The shot rang out before he even touched the handle.
Dead.
The last one tried to run too. He made it two steps. Maksym’s bullet caught him between the shoulder blades. He dropped.
The room fell silent.
Just blood. Just bodies. Just me, sitting in the corner, shaking like a leaf.
The one who’d crushed my wrist whimpered behind me, trying to reach for his gun.
Before he could grab it, I stood. Staggered over. Kicked the weapon away. Then I stepped on his mangled leg, and when he screamed, I bent down and picked the gun up myself.
“Don’t move,” I hissed, aiming it at his face. “Try anything, and I’ll fucking end you.”
Behind me, Maksym’s voice was calm. “Malaya.”
I didn’t turn.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I said, my voice trembling.
He came up behind me. “Cute,” he said flatly. “But I’ve got it covered.”
And then he pulled his own trigger. The man’s head jerked sideways. Blood splashed my shoes.
My breath caught. I turned and stared at him.
He holstered his weapon and turned to me. For a moment, he just looked—eyes scanning my face like he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing. Then his hand lifted. Rough fingers, calloused and stained by a hundred sins, brushed lightly along my cheekbone. The gentleness of it made my chest seize.
But just as quickly, he dropped his hand.
I blinked, confused. Something raw flickered behind his eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.
I hesitated. Pain pulsed in my wrist, but I shook my head. It wasn’t bad enough to matter.
He glanced down, jaw clenching as his gaze landed on my hand.
“It’s nothing,” I said too quickly. “I’ll be okay.”
His nostrils flared like he didn’t believe me—but he didn’t argue. Just gave a sharp nod and turned away.
“We need to go,” he said. “Now. More will come.”
He walked to Valeria. Her stockings were torn, her legs bruised. He gently pulled the fabric of her dress down over her thighs, his movements careful, almost tender. Then he knelt beside her, checked her pulse and tapped her cheek with a firm, assessing hand. She groaned faintly, her eyes fluttering.
“She’ll be fine,” he said, his voice clipped.
Wordless, he slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her close.Her head lolled against his chest, her body limp in his hold.
“Let’s go.”
