Page 68 of Crown of Hate

Then a jarring realization hits me.

Shit.

This isn’t just a party; it’s a fucking trap.

As if on cue, the sound of gunfire rips through the air, and chaos erupts. My ears ring from the blast, but all I can think about is Alya.

I squint, scanning the hall frantically for her. There—she’s crouched behind a table with her hands covering her ears.

I need to get to her.

Reaching for my gun in the holster strapped to my chest, I dash toward her, shielding her body with mine as I pull her to a secluded bar at the other end of the hall.

She flinches, then she turns to me, her eyes wide with fear. Some of it fades when she realizes it’s me. “What the hell is going on?”

“This party was a trap,” I say with labored breath as I pull out my phone and call Alexei. He answers on the first ring. “It’s a trap.”

“Where are you, chief?” he asks.

“In the hall. Bring the men in. Now!” I hang up, shove the phone back in my pocket, and drag my attention back to Alya.

A rush of adrenaline courses through my veins. I’ve been in situations like this before, but never with her. I don’t care about dying, but I’ll be damned if I allow even a scratch on her skin.

I need to protect my wife.

“Don’t come out no matter what happens, okay?”

I cock my gun, ready to fire back at Arsen’s men.

She huffs, but there’s no amusement in her eyes. “I’m not letting you go out there alone, husband. We’re in this together. Till death do us part, remember?”

My body goes rigid. There’s something both utterly insane and deeply romantic about her resolve. Has she always been this stubborn?

Hell. If we survive this, I’m going to have to fuck that stubbornness right out of her.

21

ALYA

A second passes and more gunshots ring out, nearly drowned by the screams echoing in the hall. The air is thick with fumes and the acrid smell of gunpowder burns my nose. But it’s the man standing in front of me that leaves me breathless.

The sheer lust and intensity of his gaze make it hard for me to breathe. I can’t believe he’s eye-fucking me when we’re both in such danger.

“I remember,malyshka,” he drawls, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement. “But I’d rather we fuck than die.”

A shot whizzes past us, and I practically fling myself into Mikhail’s arms. He holds me tight, shielding me while he angles towards the threat. One quick pull of the trigger, then a thud and a chilling laugh.

“Mikhail,” a voice calls out mockingly. The gunfire stops, replaced by laughter and footsteps on marble. “It’s so unlike you to hide… so cowardly.”

I feel Mikhail’s muscles coil with barely restrained fury. His breathing is labored, as if he’s holding himself back from rushing out of our hiding spot and beating the shit out of Arsen.

“How about we play a little game, you and me?” Arsen goes in on that annoying, playful tone that is anything but playful. “I’ll count to five, and if you don’t come out, I’ll have a little fun with your wife.”

My husband’s jaw tick. Then he corks his gun and unleashes a hail of bullets. Arsen’s men return fire, and the gunfight continues until Mikhail’s gun clicks empty.

Shit. We’re fucked.

Or maybe not. In a blur of movement, Mikhail hurls the gun and launches himself at Arsen’s men, dodging and dealing blows like a man possessed. I watch, mesmerized by the sight of him. Each swing, each dodge, is like watching art in motion—raw, violent art. Hell, who needs a gun when you’ve got fists like that?

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