Page 8 of Shackled

Mikhail: Let’s go

Aleks: On it

Ollie: I’ll spot you

I lift my head and stare at the darkness above the loft ladder. I feel kind of dumb because it looks like I’m glaring into blank space, but I trust Aleks. If he says someone’s there, then someone’s there.

I nod to my brothers and face the loft.

CHAPTER THREE

Isabella

Shit.

Shit.

Something’s shifted in here. The chatter’s died down, and one of them is heading over here. Lev?

I move as quietly away from the ladder as I can. I can’t risk peeking down below, not now. Even as I consider my choices, something inside me thrills at the thought of being caught by a passel of pissed-off, heavily tattooed, dominant Bratva. It’s the thrill of the chase, the hit of adrenaline when I put my foot on the gas pedal and watch my speed creep up into three digits. The utter certainty of excitement.

I slide my phone off in case that’s how they detected me. As soon as I heard we had a mole in our group, I went to alert Carlos’s sister. I don’t give a shit if the men know, but she’s my friend, and I don’t want her falling for a liar. God, how could she? I can’t risk sending a text, though, not now, when my message could be intercepted.

I quickly assess my situation.

I’m the one in the loft, which gives me an advantage. I can pretend I’m not here and force them to come get me, obviously, and when they do, I take them down one at a time. All it would take is a swift kick to the neck or head if they come anywhere near me.

I’d have to incapacitate them, though, and the worst part of it is, if I hurt them and don’t kill them, it’s like wounding a rabid animal. They’d come after me with a thirst for blood. And if I do kill any of them, as soon as they find out who I am, they’ll bring war to my family.

That may be an inevitability, but I’d like to time it just right.

A deep, authoritative, decidedly angry voice snaps below. “We know you’re up there. Show yourself.”

Fuck.

At least my instincts were right.

I flatten myself and peek down below as quietly as I can. Which one is it? I have a better chance with some of them than others. If I get anywhere near Nikko or Viktor, I’ll jump out a window.

I concentrate. That isn’t Viktor’s voice, though, so I look again. I do a double take. Is that… Lev?

Based on my research, Lev Romanov was young, still a teen, but I obviously missed some crucial points. Lev is most decidedly not a child, neither in age nor stature. Though he isn't the size of a small elephant like Viktor, he’s not small. Tall and muscular, he prowls like a lithe tiger, ready to pounce, and there’s a coldness to his gaze and countenance that sends a shiver down my spine.

What do these guys eat?

He has a commanding presence and sharp, ice-blue eyes that appear cold and calculating. His short, dark hair has a hint of a curl. Wearing a form-fitting black tee, his carved chest and biceps are on display, and his stance suggests he's ready to pounce into a fighting ring.

In other words, I’ve got my work cut out for me.

¡Mierda!

What if I don’t show myself? What then?

“You heard something you shouldn’t have, and we know it. This doesn’t have to end badly for you, but it could.” Goddamn liar. I’m not that dumb.

I don’t respond. “You have five seconds before I’m coming up. One.”

There’s no fucking way he’s telling the truth. You do not eavesdrop on the Romanov brothers and live to tell about it. I wonder how he’d define “badly.”

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