Page 129 of The Lazarov Bratva

“There is a lot of worry spread over eighteen years,” August says. “But my wife is cut from the same cloth as I. We grew up with nothing and scraped by with even less. I proposed to her with a piece of string and a promise to make all her dreams come true, and I worked hard. She worries, of course she does, but she knows I love her and that getting back to her is my one and only goal.”

August takes my hand between both his large ones.

“I know Kristof is the same. We are of the same cloth.”

“Then where is he?” I whisper as hot tears flood my eyes. “It’s been too long.”

“I will find him,” August says, and the comfort is clear even through the thickness of his accent. “I know these words will do little for the concern you are feeling, but I hope the warmth and comfort here will ease you, even a little. You will be safe here, and Kristof will return to you.”

“And if he doesn’t?” I look up at August, my eyes swimming as static constricts across my chest.

“Then,” he replies softly, “I will follow his wishes and keep you safe.”

“Even from my father?”

“Especially from your father,” August says firmly.

It's a welcome reassurance, but August is right. His words do nothing to calm the turmoil in my heart.

I blink, and the tears fall. I hastily wipe them away as August stands.

Suddenly, a loud thump like the distant slam of a door echoes down the corridor. Andrev is on his feet immediately, gun in hand. The three guards dotted around the edge of the room all flinch into action as well while August moves toward the closed door.

I can’t sit still. Rising, I step back toward the fireplace as my pulse races. Is it my father’s men? Did they find us already? My mind runs as my eyes dart around the room, seeking escape and anything I can use as a weapon, settling on the collection of fire pokers nearby.

It won’t stop a bullet, but it’s better than nothing. Andrev positions himself in front of me as the thumps and yelling grow louder. August pulls a handgun from his back holster, grabs the door handle, and rips the door open.

Everyone freezes.

My heart pounds so loudly that it’s all I can hear, and for a terrifying, split second, I fear that August has been shot and that’s the reason for his stillness. Then he steps aside, and warm, painful relief overwhelms me in seconds.

Kristof is standing haggardly in the doorway, flanked by two of August’s men.

3

ALENA

“Kristof!”

Time stands still.

The two men on either side of Kristof look stressed, and one has an impressive bruise shadowing his jaw. Given how furious Kristof looks, I can only imagine how he got it.

His eyes are white-hot pools of black, his hair slicked back, and blood splatters his face. It sweeps down across his neck where his shirt bleeds the same shade of crimson, but given his stance, I don’t think it’s his blood. His jaw is sharp and angled from how firmly his clenched teeth are visible through parted lips. Both hands are curled into fists, and he stands there with his chest heaving.

“Where is she?” he barks at August, with such fury in his voice that all my worries about his condition melt away. “Where?—”

His question dies when our gazes lock, and my heart punches back to life.

“Alena.”

My name slips from him like a strangled noise of pain, and he sweeps forward. Our bodies collide in the center of the room. His arms encircle my waist, and he hugs me so crushingly that my feet no longer touch the ground. I throw my arms around his shoulders and draw him as tightly against me as I can manage, then I bury my face into the side of his neck and close my eyes.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

“Alena,” he repeats brokenly. I hug him tighter, tangling one hand into his grimy hair and using my other as an anchor.

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