Page 93 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I hold up a hand, signaling Freya to stop. I press her back against the wall, shielding her with my body.

There are three men armed with assault rifles. They’re ransacking the office, tearing drawers out, smashing the computer screens.

“Check the safe,” one of them says.

“It’s empty,” another replies. “Gromov moved everything.”

“Find the girl. Lorenzo wants her.”

I feel Freya flinch against my back.

I step into the hallway. “Looking for me?”

The men spin around, raising their weapons. They’re too slow. They’re thugs, hired muscle. I’m a Pakhan.

I fire three times. Three shots. Three kills. The bodies hit the floor, the sound deafening in the sudden silence.

Gunfire erupts from the living room behind us. More men. They must have flanked us.

“Move!” I shout, grabbing Freya’s arm and shoving her toward the bedroom.

“No!” she cries out. “I can’t leave you!”

“Go!”

I push her through the door and slam it shut, locking it. I turn, raising my weapon just as two men step into the hall.

I drop the first one with a shot to the chest. The second one returns fire. I feel the burn of a graze along my ribs, a sharp, hot sting. I ignore it.

I aim and fire. He drops.

I’m about to check the hallway when I hear the splintering of wood. The bedroom door. They’re trying to breach it.

“No,” I snarl, sprinting toward the door.

I turn just as a man raises his rifle. I tackle him, driving him into the wall. We hit the floor, struggling. He’s strong, fueled by desperation and drugs. He lands a solid blow to my jaw, dazing me.

I see stars.

I reach for my knife, the one strapped to my ankle. I pull it free and drive it into his neck. He goes still, gurgling.

I scramble to my feet, blood dripping from my jaw.

Freya is crouched in the corner, her hands over her head. Yuri is there now, having materialised when the fight started. He hovers over Freya and downs the last guy in a spray of blood.

Freya’s terrified, but she’s not screaming.

I run to her, dropping to my knees. I grab her shoulders, pulling her into my arms.

“You’re hurt,” she gasps, her hand flying to my side. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!”

Yuri growls. “I tried to warn you, someone snuck up on me. You all right, Freya?”

She isn’t listening. She presses her hand against the graze, trying to stem the flow of blood. Her touch is gentle, desperate.