Page 27 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

Fiona looks up at me, and I realize that, for the first time since I abducted her more than a week ago, tears are running down her face.

“Fiona,” I whisper, my chest squeezing as I look at her. Obviously, she cares for her friend, but there’s something else to this. Fiona doesn’t want me to kidnap Olive because she thinks that means I would marry her.

Would I? That was the plan in the beginning—to marry Allard’s daughter and legally take her from him—but that doesn’t seem like the best course of action now. And it has everything to do with the woman staring up at me.

“I’m giving you thirty seconds,” she whispers, “before I’m leaving.”

“I’m not going to marry Olive,” I say, leaning down so she can hear me. The crowd is moving around us, manipulating our bodies, sending us into the flow of the music. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath. “My heart is taken by someone else.”

Fiona continues to stare up at me, her eyes searching my face. Then, slowly, she puts her arms around my neck, and we give into the crowd's sway.

We dance together, slow at first, then faster when the tempo of the song changes. Fiona turns out to be an amazing dancer, her hips moving in time, sliding ever so slightly against mine, making me crazy for her.

Everywhere our skin touches feels like a spark, zipping through my body, reviving me. My hands are desperate, hauling her body against mine, feeling her ass through her dress. I don’t care that we’re in public; I don’t care who can see me as I run my hands down the front of her body, skimming over her breasts, her stomach, and her hip bones.

I can tell it’s affecting her, too—she’s panting, her eyes dark and heated every time she spins around to face me. My hands tighten on her hips—this is it. I can’t wait any longer. There’s a room in the back that has our name on it, and when I start tugging her in that direction, she comes willingly.

I sense something is off just as Fiona tugs on my hand.

“Boris!” she says, her voice washed out by the noise, the throbbing mass of bodies, the strobing lights. Then, when I turn, I see the guy moving through the crowd too determinedly, something glinting in his hand.

A knife.

Heading straight for Fiona.

I move before I can think, I’m placing my body in front of hers, yelling for people to clear out. Clearly having lost his primary target, the guy’s eyes lock on me, and before I can do anything—lunge forward, knock the knife away, punch him in the face—I feel the sharp sting of a knife burying itself in my ribs.

This is why Viktor would claim romantic love is nothing but a liability. If it was anyone but Fiona with me, I would have been clear-headed and would have had plenty of time and space to take that motherfucker out. Instead, I can feel the warm ooze of blood as it saturates my dress shirt and dinner jacket.

“Boris,” Fiona gasps, trying to catch me as I crumple to the ground. Before everything goes black, I hear a wet thump and then a loud thud next to me. Someone starts to call 911, but Fiona stops them, dialing someone else instead.

“Hello?” I hear her say as the edges of the vision blink out. “Anya? We need help!”

Chapter 12 - Fiona

As soon as I see the knife plunge into Boris’s side, it’s like my body takes over, and my brain is no longer in control. I lunge forward, kicking the guy in the side before he can turn and run away. What a fucking coward.

But the moment he turned back to me, and I saw his face, all the air left my body. Because I’ve seen this guy before, hanging around the office.

I realize now that one of Olive’s “boyfriends” is a bodyguard, always hanging around her but not too close. I picture her typical entourage and wonder how many of them are real friends and how many are mafia members.

Boris lets out a groan before crumpling to the ground, and I’m torn between helping him and killing the motherfucker who did this. The dance floor has completely cleared out, girls are screaming, and the houselights have come on, illuminating the blood seeping out of Boris’s side.

“I’ll call 911,” a nearby girl says, but I hold up my hand, searching for a reason for her not to call an ambulance.

“He doesn’t have health insurance,” I finally settle on, which makes the girl nod in understanding. I kneel next to Boris, ripping off a piece of his jacket and pressing it to the wound to try and stop the bleeding. He’s fading in and out of consciousness, and his hand moves like he might try to pull the blade out, but I know that will only cause more damage. I place my hand over his, and his eyes meet mine for a moment before he passes out again.

I fumble in Boris’s pockets, bring up his emergency speed dial, and call the first person I see: Anya.

“Hello?” she sings when she answers the phone. It’s quiet in the background, so she must not be at a club. I wonder if she’s home, in her pajamas for the night, ready for bed. I swallow and take a deep breath before answering her.

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