Page 65 of His Contract Queen

The city becomes a blur of lights and sharp turns as I follow the SUV, reckless speed eating up distance until I’m directly behind them.

Another vehicle cuts in hard from the side, forcing me to swerve to avoid hitting them, then another behind me. Ramil’s men move with grim efficiency, boxing me in with practiced coordination. Gunfire cracks through the night, shattering the back windows and ripping through my windshield. I duck instinctively as another shot grazes the hood, sparks exploding as soon as it hits.

I jerk the wheel just in time to avoid being clipped, tires screaming as I fishtail across two lanes. A second car rams into my rear quarter panel hard enough to nearly send me spinning. For a split second, I feel the world tilt dangerously. I force the tires back onto the road through sheer will, slamming the accelerator down and threading through traffic that has no idea death is about to unfold between stoplights.

Another volley of bullets erupts as a car pulls up right behind mine. This time, I can’t dodge fast enough. A round punches through the back window, showering the interior with glass. I taste blood in my mouth but I don’t care.

The car ahead takes a sharp turn that I can’t follow in time without plowing directly into oncoming traffic. I hesitate for half a heartbeat and that’s all it takes.

They vanish.

I slam on the brakes several blocks later, tires screaming in protest as the car skids to a halt. My chest heaves, breath coming in and out of me in uneven pulls. My hands are locked white-knuckled around the steering wheel, the engine ticking angrily beneath the hood, overheated metal snapping and cooling in the sudden stillness.

I stare out the windshield.

The car is gone. And with it, Katerina.

Something tightens in my chest, eclipsing even the fear I felt the second those men grabbed her. I’ve lost men before… I’ve lost territory through unavoidable disputes. I’ve buried both of my parents by the time I turned thirty-five.

This isn’t like that at all.

I’ve fought wars and dismantled enemies piece by piece. I’ve stared down men who believed themselves to be untouchable and proven them wrong at every turn.

But this… this is different.

This is my heart being ripped clean out of my chest.

By the time I pull up outside Sasha Sokolov’s home, the adrenaline pumping through me has finally burned itself out of my system, leaving only hollowed pain behind.

“Let me in,” I say to the guards down at the front gate.

Both of them frantically scramble to open it. I drive up the second they’re parted wide enough to fit the SUV through.

My hands are slick with blood, though I don’t know from where, by the time I park the car in front of the house. It’s smeared across the steering wheel, streaked down the front of my shirt, dark and tacky against my hand when I lift it to my ribs. The SUV looks like it drove straight through hellfire with how badly it’s been marred.

It mirrors me perfectly.

I get out and stumble on my feet. The blood loss has made me lightheaded, my limbs harder to coordinate to get me to the frontdoors. By the time I manage to make it to them, they’re being pulled open.

Sokolov freezes the moment he sees me. For a long moment, he just stares at me. Not at my face, but at the blood rapidly coloring my shirt.

“Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened?” is all I hear him say before everything around me goes dark.

When I come to again,the world returns in fragments.

The low hum of fluorescent lights overhead is what I notice first, then the sharp, metallic tang of blood and antiseptic on my tongue. My side throbs like someone has driven a railroad spike straight through my ribs and left it there.

I’m sprawled on my back across what must be Sokolov’s kitchen island. The cold granite under my shoulders sends a shiver rolling down my spine. My jacket has been removed, my shirt sliced open from collar to hem. A halogen work lamp has been dragged over, its beam mercilessly bright, pinning me in place like an insect on a board.

Sasha stands beside me, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a pair of medical gloves on his hands. He’s working in silence that comes from having done this too many times. A pair of surgical pliers glints in his right hand, slick with red. His left hand presses a folded gauze pad against the entry wound just below my lowest rib. The steady pressure sends fresh fire racing up my spine.

I try to breathe through it.

He doesn’t look up when my eyes finally focus. He just reaches for something on the tray beside him and slides it back into the ragged hole without preamble.

Fuck.

Sharp pain makes my teeth clench so hard, I taste copper. My vision whites out for a second. When it clears, he’s already yanking, pulling free a jagged shard of lead the size of a thumbnail. It clinks into a metal kidney dish with a sound that makes me slightly dizzy.