Page 69 of Crown of Hate

One of Arsen’s men manages to slip past Mikhail and starts prowling towards me. Panic shoots through my nerves, but I force myself to stand, backing up slowly, eyes locked on him, until I run into a table. Cutlery rattles and falls to the floor; plates clang at my feet.

He takes two more steps, and something snaps inside me. I kneel down and blindly fumble for one of the fallen plates.

My fingers wrap around it just in time to slam the hard porcelain over his head.

The plate shatters. Blood streams down from the man’s face. But to my dismay, he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he cracks his neck like I just swatted him with a feather.

“Fuck…”

Ice coats my skin as his meaty hand reaches for my throat. Fear clogs my nostrils and simmers down in my stomach, making me sick. This is so much worse than I imagined.

We’re going to die here.

Mikhail is all bloody and bruised, but he’s still fighting like our lives depend on it—because they do.

Before Arsen’s goon can close around my throat, a loud bang echoes from the entrance, and the man crumples. I twist to look as a single tear slips down my cheek. Semyon, Alexei, and the rest of Mikhail’s men pour into the hall, guns blazing.

“We’re not going to die,” I mutter to myself, sagging to the floor. “Not today.”

Semyon and Alexei fight their way to Mikhail, flanking him on either side

“What took you guys so long?” Mikhail pants, looking like he’s about to collapse. He’s been holding his ground, outnumbered and alone, for what feels like forever. Only raw determination still keeps him on his feet.

“Sorry, chief. We had something to take care of,” Alexei answers as the others join the fight.

Minutes later, the hall is a bloodbath, littered with dead bodies. Arsen is whimpering on the floor, bleeding heavily. And Mikhail looks like he’ll die if he takes one more punch. Semyon and Alexei, on the other hand, look like they just had a fun brawl.

I rush to Mikhail, throwing myself into his arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck. My heart rate slows as relief washes over me. We made it. Mikhail is battered and bruised, but we’re both alive.

His warm hands cup my head, and he gently pushes me back. Despite his injuries, he’s examining my body for wounds. His dark eyes are clouded with worry as he asks, “Are you hurt anywhere?”

I shake my head, blinking back grateful tears. How can he worry about me when he’s the one in such bad shape? I don’t want to read too much into it, but I can’t shake the feeling that he cares about me a lot more than I’m ready to admit.

“You’re hurt,” I protest, taking his hand to inspect his wounds. “We need to clean these before they get infected.”

He nods. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

I almost snort. “As if I’m going to let you. I know how to treat wounds like this. I watched Mama patch up Papa plenty of times.”

“There’s a first aid kit in the back of the car,” Semyon chimes in suddenly. Then to Mikhail, “Go home, chief. We’ll clean up here.”

Mikhail frowns, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the semi-conscious Arsen. I brace myself for his refusal, fully expecting him to argue. But to my surprise, he lets out a deep sigh, looks at Arsen one more time—his glare full of rage and frustration—before finally turning away. “Call me if anything goes wrong, and make sure that bastard doesn’t die. He has a lot to fucking answer for first.”

Semyon answers with a nod.

I support Mikhail as we head to the parking lot where our limousine is parked. The bodyguard in the passenger seat must’ve seen us coming because he gets out from the car and opens the back door.

“Under there,” Mikhail grunts as we climb in. I follow his gaze, finding the first aid kit beneath one of the seats.

Mikhail visibly tenses when I take out the iodine.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, opening a pack of cotton wool. “Scared of a little pain?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then why the long face?”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

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