Page 4 of His Stolen Bride

Sergei leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I know he begged and promised. He died because he wasn’t careful, and he put you in this position for the same reasons.”

My heart pounds. “What do you mean, he died because⁠—”

Sergei’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen and his brows knit together for a fraction of a second. Then his face smooths. “Finish your sentence,” I demand.

He pockets the phone. “We’re going to do this quickly. You marry me, your mother stays safe, and your family stops paying for your father’s mistakes.”

“My mother stays safe,” I repeat. “That’s a threat.”

“That’s reality.”

I open my mouth to ask another question and Sergei’s head turns sharply, eyes locking onto something outside. His body goes tense. I follow his gaze and see a man cross the street in a dark coat with his hands in his pockets.

My first thought is that’s nothing unusual. My second thought, when the man pulls out a gun and raises it, is oh, shit.

Sergei moves fast. He shoves the table hard enough that it slams into my thighs, grabs my wrist, and yanks me down. The first shot cracks through the glass.

People scream. Chairs scrape. Someone drops a tray. I duck and cover my head as Sergei pulls me toward the floor. “Stay down,” he snaps.

Another shot. Sergei twists, trying to get eyes on the shooter, and the bullet hits him in the chest.

His grip on my wrist loosens instantly. His mouth opens, but no words come out. “No,” I breathe.

He falls forward. His weight hits me, heavy and warm. Blood spreads across my coat. My hands shove at him, trying to push him off, but he’s too big and my arms are shaking. “Sergei,” I gasp, tears falling freely now. “Sergei, get up.”

His eyes go wide, and he tries to breathe but can’t. The shooter’s footsteps pound closer.

I scramble, pushing Sergei’s body aside, crawling on my hands and knees under the table. My coat drags through spilled coffee and blood. My brain is screaming at me to run, run, run. I get my feet under me and bolt toward the back door.

Another shot hits the wall near my head. Plaster chips spray across my cheek. I flinch but I don’t stop. I slam through the back door and sprint into the alley.

My lungs burn. My legs feel weak. I run anyway. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I’m going away from Sergei Morin dying on top of me.

I reach the street and look left, then right.

A black SUV rolls up so smoothly, it’s already beside me before I can react. The passenger door opens. A man leans out. “Alina.”

I turn and run. My foot catches on uneven pavement. I stumble, catch myself, keep running.

Hands grab my arms from behind. I scream and swing my elbow back. It lands on someone’s ribs, and he grunts. Another hand clamps over my mouth. “Stop,” a voice snaps in my ear. “Stop fighting.”

I bite his palm. He curses and tightens his grip, dragging me backward. The SUV door is open again. I kick, twisting hard, but I’m hauled in anyway. The door slams shut.

My mouth opens and I scream again, loud, broken, panicked. The man beside me grabs my chin, forcing my face toward him. “Shut up.”

I spit in his face. His eyes go flat. “All right.”

Something sharp presses into my neck. I jerk back, but it’s too late. My body goes heavy too fast. My head drops forward. The last thing I see is the man wiping his cheek, annoyed. Then everything goes dark.

When I wake up, my mouth is dry and my wrists hurt. I’m in the back seat of a different vehicle now, or the same one, I can’t tell. My hands are zip-tied in my lap. Two men sit in the front. One drives while the other watches the road. We drive for what feels like too long. I press my head back against the seat and force myself to think clearly.

If Sergei’s men kidnapped me, his family is going to kill me. If Sergei’s enemies kidnapped me, I’m about to disappear.

Either way, my mother is alone in that apartment. My hands shake once, then I still them.

The car turns through a gate. Gravel crunches under the tires as the road curves, then curves again. My eyes register rows of trees and expensive flowers lining the driveway in bursts of reds and oranges, iron fencing, and security lights.

Then the car stops and the door opens and cold air hits my face. “Out.”