Page 84 of Brazen King

And now the woman I love is falling apart in my arms because her parents were just murdered before her eyes. I won’t let them have her—or her sister. Natasha’s lost more than any woman her age should ever have to. I won’t just hand her over to the man responsible in the hopes that it will save my own skin.

Only a complete fool would think he could strike a deal with a man who committed the atrocity Don Lucian just did.

“You’ll take them over my dead body,” I growl, guiding Natasha behind me to use my body as her shield. And I reach inside my suit coat for my gun—the gun I normally carry in my chest holster. But I handed it over in order to gain admission into the charity ball tonight.

Wait a minute. How in the hell did Lance get a gun past Boris’s security?I muse suddenly.

I suppose I should just be grateful because it’s making us slightly less outmatched. But I still don’t like our odds. Because I have nothing but my bare hands to protect Natasha with.

And while that’s not the most promising weapon, I’ll use whatever means necessary to keep her safe. So I raise my fists and settle into a defensive crouch.

“Killian, no,” Natasha hiccups, her petite hand grasping my shoulder with her considerable strength as she tries to discourage me from fighting.

It relieves me to feel her so strong despite the horrible trauma she just endured. And though her voice still quivers precariously, she’s not sobbing like before. The gravity of our situation seems to have brought her back from the precipice, if only temporarily. She’s pulled herself together to face the battle before us.

Only she better not think that I’m going to hand her over without a fight.

“They’re not taking you,” I growl, and from somewhere behind me, I hear Lance’s gun cock in confirmation.

“You’re a fool, King, if you think you can stop it from happening,” the same Italian sneers, and he draws a knife—as do the three men beside him. “They’re not worth dying for.”

“You’re. Not. Taking them,” I snarl, steel filtering into my voice.

Several more guns cock, warning me that Lance is outnumbered and outgunned.

“You must be stupid if you think you can shoot those guns at my man in this stairwell without hitting the Sokolov girls,” I state with deadly calm, flashing a spiteful look toward the gun-wielding men. “You really think your boss will appreciate it if you kill them?”

They hesitate, sharing a glance before slowly lowering their guns as one.

“Killian, look out!” Natasha screams, alerting me to the danger.

But before I can turn back to face my four knife-wielding opponents, they’re on me—they struck while my focus was elsewhere. Bastards.

And I just have time to get my hand up in order to block the first attacker as he plunges his knife toward the soft spot at the curve of my neck. A second attack comes so swiftly, slashing at my throat, that it’s all I can do to duck. I feel the air ripple past my face as the blade comes within inches of my ear.

Then a third blow connects with my gut.

Fortunately, that one was a boot, not a knife. But it still knocks the wind out of me, and I wheeze as my body doubles over without my permission.

Behind me, Lance cusses, and four shots ring out in quick succession, making my head spin and my ears throb as the ruckus turns muffled from the percussive gunfire bouncing off the cement walls. I shake my head to try and rid myself of the tinny buzz.

And from the corner of my eye, I catch two blades flash from Natasha’s palms, blurring as they fly through the air—and bury themselves to the hilt in two separate Italian men’s eyes.

The men hit the ground, halving my number of opponents in an instant. And it’s not lost on me that Natasha just saved my life. Even in a moment of severe trauma, she’s the most badass woman I’ve ever met.

Behind me, I watch Lance tumbling down the stairs with his remaining opponent, vanishing from view. And Tatiana stands frozen, her back against the wall as her eyes widen in shock.

Then the two knife-wielding Italians still standing attack me as one. Blow for blow, I block and parry, avoiding their blades without having the capacity to land a hit myself. What I wouldn’tgive for a weapon. But my gun’s stashed in the safe at the front entrance.

Vaguely, I note Natasha’s swift, silent movement as she stoops over one of the men she killed. And I redouble my efforts to bring this fight to a close. Catching one of my opponents off guard, I slam my fist up into his jaw hard enough to hear it crack.

His head snaps violently back. As he topples, his temple hits the cement stair hard enough that he’s not getting back up.

And in that fraction of a second between incapacitating him and gauging my second opponent’s next move, I feel the sharp bite of a blade as it slides between my ribs.

I wasn’t fast enough.

Searing pain explodes across my side. I grunt, jerking away from the source out of sheer instinct. And the knife wrenches free—opening a gaping wound in my side.

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