Page 2 of Unleashed

I’ll make her wish she hadn’t. I’ll make her wish she’d come like the obedient little girl she’ll learn to be.

I’ll make her regret the day she disobeyed me.

Why did she run?

How did she get away?

Only the sound of distant whispers and the faint rustle of clothing breaks the silence.

"If I can assist in any way…" the priest begins. One look from me, and the words die on his lips.

A low, dark, irreverent chuckle comes from the pews. I glance at my youngest brother. Where Semyon embodies cold precision, Rodion is the unpredictable wildfire none of us can fully control—to be honest, nor do I want to. It helps to have someone like him on my side. Leaning back with his arms spread along the back of the pew, that ever-present smirk on his lips and glint in his eyes promise me that one word is all it would take from me and he’d happily burn this church to the ground—and roast our enemies in the flames with glee—if I asked him. His loyalty borders on madness. He left his motorcycle parked outside and probably has more weapons on him than he has tats, and that’s fucking saying something.

I shake my head, give Rodion a meaningful look, and turn back to the priest. "That won’t be necessary, thank you."

The only people who will "assist" in what I have to do next are already here before me. Armed and ready.

My bride was here earlier. I saw her from a distance. I’m not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, and even I'm not going to fuck with tradition. As my grandfather says, "Superstitions may be for children, but adults are old enough to follow them."

So I did my duty when I came here. I wouldn’t tempt fate and look at my bride before the ceremony. I turned away when I saw the flurry of white fabric and a gauzy veil, when I heard the click of heels on the marble floor in the foyer. There were only two strangers here—my fiancée and her bodyguard.

She was here though. And now she’s gone.

"Did anyone see her leave?" I say in a low voice to Semyon. I narrow my eyes on the doorway. "Is it possible that she was taken?"

Would somebody dare to take the bride I was about to marry? If anyone touched her, if anyone touched one hair on her fucking head?—

"She wasn’t taken," Semyon says. "We just found video surveillance from the basement. She left on her own. Paid off her guard, ripped her dress off, and ran."

Jesus.

I look to the priest. "You didn’t tell us there was video surveillance in the basement, Father."

His heavy book falls to the floor with a clatter. He stammers as he tries to make an excuse. "I didn’t know there was," he says. "That’s not what I handle here. I’m sorry. If I knew, I would’ve told you?—"

I shake my head. "Even I won’t bring down the fury of hell by harming a hair on a man of the cloth in front of an altar, Father," I say quietly. "But don’t test my patience. Or God’s."

He clamps his mouth shut, his thin lips forming a perfect O before he swallows hard. Good. A wise man knows that sometimes silence speaks much louder than words.

I turn to face my family, my voice booming. “I’m calling an end.”

My youngest sister, Zoya, jumps in her chair, though my sister Yana sits ramrod straight and doesn’t move. She holds my gaze and gives me a slight nod of encouragement. Steadfast and loyal with sharp eyes that seem to take in everything around her, Yana has an aura of calm and stillness, though underneath, she is always thinking. Resilience is her middle name.

Zoya, however, is delicate and sensitive, and I feel like a dick for making her jump. Her kind, wide eyes are fixed on me. Shit. She’s the only one who can make me feel guilty for raising my voice.

When she gives me her small, little smile, I swallow hard and nod, asking her forgiveness. She inclines her head, and her eyes grow soft—granting it.

One family, one fight—never apart.

I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten on the small matte-black purse she carries, her own family heirloom. If I don’t marry, I’ll have no choice but to marryheroff since Yana’s already married. The thought fucking kills me. She’s seventeen years old and still a child in my eyes. I can’t do that to her. I fuckingwon’t.

It is for her—it is forallof them—that I’m even here.

Beside her, my grandfather sits, his back ramrod straight, but his eyes warm with reassurance. One gnarled hand rests atop his cane, the other on Zoya’s shoulder. His gaze tells me everything I need to know—he has total confidence that I’ll handle this.

I stare out the stained-glass window, a brutal yet somehow beautiful depiction of the beheading of St. John the Baptist, and past it to the graveyard where my life changed forever.

It was there that I witnessed the burial of my parents. There that I buried my youth. There that I became the guardian of my siblings, inherited my family’s wealth and every one of their enemies.

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