Page 64 of His Contract Queen

I don’t think as I run after them.

Officials begin shouting orders, security scrambling to herd guests back to their seats to get them under control like frightened sheep. The press surges forward like vultures sensing fresh meat, their camera flashes exploding in rapid succession, blinding white strobes that turn the ballroom into a war zone of light and shadow. Phones are already up, live streams flickering to life, captions already writing themselves.Scandal at Military Gala—Decorated General’s Daughter Accuses Father of Corruption.

None of it matters.

My vision tunnels to the exact spot on stage where Katerina had been dragged off moments before by four uniformed officers who thought they could manhandle her like cargo. I shove through bodies without apology, shoulder-checking a rear admiral who stumbles sideways with an indignant yelp, elbowing past a cluster of reporters who try to block my path.

“Clear a path,” I snarl into the comms. “Now.”

My guards respond instantly—the familiar, clipped cadence of men who’ve followed me through worse than this.

“Alpha team moving to stage left.”

“Bravo cutting through the east corridor.”

“Perimeter vehicles are at the service exit.”

Fuck, they’re leaving.

I take the stairs up to the stage two at a time, boots slamming against polished wood. I catch the flash of Ramil disappearing behind the heavy black curtain at the far right side, his posture rigid as he’s escorted away.

Hands seize me from behind, yanking on my jacket hard enough to wrench my shoulder.

Ramil’s men. I recognize the arrogance in their technique immediately. The assumption that this glittering, civilian-filled setting protects them from consequences, that I’ll restrain myself just because there are a hundred pairs of eyes around to witness, will always be their downfall.

The first man earns a shattered nose before he can finish lifting his hand to speak into the comms unit at his hip. Cartilagecrunches under my knuckles, blood sprays in a bright arc across the stage floor.

He howls, staggering back, but I’m already moving again.

The second goes down with my elbow slammed into his throat, larynx collapsing under the blow as air whistles out in a strangled wheeze. He drops to his knees clutching his neck.

The third manages to land a glancing blow on the side of my face, but it’s nothing that knocks me back. My enforcers storm the stage behind me like a black tide, tackling him to the ground before he can follow through with a second strike. The impact of bodies hitting the floor reverberates through the boards beneath my boots.

I don’t stop to look.

I turn and sprint off stage, shoving through the heavy velvet curtain into the dim service corridor beyond. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the smell of industrial cleaner and old grease hangs in the air. My footsteps pound as I follow the trail, the faint echo of men barking out orders up ahead.

I burst out of the venue’s rear service door right as a black SUV peels away from the curb, tires screaming against wet asphalt. Slush-like rain has started to come down, turning the alley into a wet mess.

Two of the venue’s security team have been left behind, turning toward the sound of the door slamming open behind them.

I’m in motion without hesitation.

My hand finds the grip of the Glock holstered at my hip. Muscle memory takes over as I draw, sight them both, and fire off two controlled double-taps. The first man jerks once, crimsonblooming across his white dress shirt before he collapses onto the ground.

The second spins away, reaching for the weapon at his hip, but my second pair of bullets catches him dead center in the chest. He staggers back two steps before hitting the brick wall of the alleyway. He slides down, leaving a dark smear behind him. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with rainwater, spreading in thin rivulets toward the storm drain.

The SUV’s taillights are already shrinking in the distance.

I don’t waste breath cursing.

I sprint toward the nearest vehicle—the other SUV left behind—and slide behind the wheel. The engine roars under my foot the second I push it into gear and drive.

Rain lashes the windshield as I tear down to the main road, my headlights cutting through the night. My phone is already in my hand, hitting the direct line to my surveillance team. I need eyes in the sky, traffic cams, every license plate reader pulled between here and wherever the hell she’s being taken.

If they hurt her, there will be no place on Earth that will protect those men, or Ramil Borchin, from me.

The streets blur as I push harder on the gas pedal, ignoring the horns and shouts and the very real risk of exposure. I don’t care about consequences at this point. Adrenaline drowns out everything else. Malyshko can punish me however he wants once this is all over and I have her back.