Page 113 of Beautiful Cruelty

I drag both women behind the jet's armored door, and slam it shut as bullets ping off the fuselage. "Take off! Now!" I bellow to Demyon in the cockpit.

The jet engines roar to life, drowning out the gunfire outside.

Turning back, my heart clenches at the sight before me. Lacey kneels on the floor, her once-pristine wedding dress now marred with crimson. Her hands press desperately against Irina's chest, trying to stem the bleeding.

"Stay with me, Irina!" Lacey begs, her voice breaking. "We'll get you help, just hold on."

But I recognize the vacant stare in Irina's eyes, and the way her chest has stopped moving.

I've seen that look too many times before.

The woman who helped me save so many others, who survived Kirsan's cruelty only to find freedom through my organization, now lies lifeless on my jet's floor.

"Lacey." I touch her shoulder gently. "She's gone."

"No!" She shrugs off my hand, continuing her futile efforts. "We can save her. Wehaveto save her!"

Blood covers Lacey's hands, stains her wedding ring, and seeps into the delicate lace of her dress. Each press of her palms against Irina's wound sends another wave of red across the white fabric. The sight burns itself into my memory.

This is what happens when I let people get close to me. This is the price of my protection.

"Zvyozdochka." I wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her away from Irina's body. "Let her go. There's nothing more we can do."

Lacey struggles against me for a moment before she collapses into my chest, her body wracking with sobs.

I hold her tighter as the jet lifts off, leaving Paris behind.

33

LACEY

The jet'sengines hum as we reach cruising altitude, but I barely register the sound. My hands tremble as I stare at them—crimson staining my skin, soaking into the delicate lace of my wedding dress.

Irina's blood.

I can't tear my eyes away from where Vadim kneels beside her body, his fingers gentle as he closes her eyes. His lips move in what sounds like a prayer, the Russian words soft and mournful. The tenderness in his touch makes my chest ache.

"I tried..." The words catch in my throat. "I tried to save her."

My fingers had pressed desperately against the wound, but her blood had pumped out between them anyway. Her final smile flashes in my mind, when she congratulated us as we rushed up the stairs—triumphant and undying even as the light faded from her eyes.

Olga's warning echoes in my head:"Sooner or later, Pyotr's bastardwillput blood on your hands."

I look down at my stained palms and dress, bile rising in my throat.

The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils, making my head spin. My wedding dress—Irina's final masterpiece—is ruined. Dark crimson blooms across the pristine white fabric like spilled wine.

We had talked about what we could do together when we returned to Seattle. She brought preliminary sketches for her new line. Promised that we'd look them over on the flight back home.

Together.

"I should have..." My voice breaks. Should have what? Run faster? Fought harder? Never agreed to this insane plan in the first place?

Irina died protecting us. Protecting me. The weight of that truth settles heavy in my chest, threatening to crush me. My hands begin to shake harder as the reality of what just happened crashes over me.

This isn't just some elaborate game anymore. This is blood and death and consequences I never imagined when I agreed to this plan.

What else will this cost?

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