Page 66 of Twisted Vows

My blood runs cold.

His body goes limp before I can press him further. I let him drop, the weight of his words settling over me like a lead blanket.

They’re already inside.

Inside where? My house? My ranks? My trust?

Anton approaches, his face grim. “We need to move.”

I nod, my gaze flicking to Nikolai. He’s standing off to the side, his gun hanging loosely in his hand. His expression is unreadable, but his hesitation earlier is burned into my memory.

Something isn’t right.

I glance back at the SUV. Ari is watching me, her face pale but defiant. Her eyes are filled with questions I can’t answer.

For the first time, I feel the weight of uncertainty pressing against my chest like a blade.

They’re already inside.

And I don’t know who I can trust.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ari

The car reeks of smoke and chaos, the acrid scent of gunpowder clinging to the leather seats. I lean back against the headrest, feeling the faint sting of glass cuts on my arm. My pulse is finally slowing, but I can’t shake the hum of adrenaline thrumming beneath my skin.

Maxsim sits rigid beside me, his hand clenching the steering wheel so tightly I half expect it to snap. His knuckles are pale, stark against the dried blood staining his cuffs.

He’s always controlled—calm, deliberate, methodical—but tonight, cracks are showing. His jaw is set in a way that screams fury, but it’s more than anger. It’s fear.

Not that he’ll admit it.

I shift slightly, wincing at the ache radiating from my shoulder. His eyes flick to me, quick and assessing, before snapping back to the road. The high walls of Alexey’s estate loom ahead, floodlights sweeping across the drive like silent sentinels.

“You don’t have to crush the steering wheel,” I say, my voice breaking the thick silence. “We survived.”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t answer.

“Max,” I try again, softer this time.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice low and tight.

“It’s a scratch,” I reply lightly, though I feel the sting of every tiny cut. “I’ve had worse.”

His knuckles relax slightly, but his grip remains firm. “You shouldn’t have been hurt at all.”

The rawness in his tone surprises me, though I mask it with a small smile. “You should see the other guys.”

His lips twitch—just barely. “I did.”

The faint humor is a relief, even if it’s fleeting. I turn toward him, resting my head against the seat. “You think I don’t see it, don’t you?” I say quietly.

He glances at me, his brow furrowing. “See what?”

“How much this is eating at you.” I gesture faintly toward the bloodstains on his shirt. “You’re blaming yourself. Like you could’ve predicted an ambush in the middle of the city.”

His silence says everything.

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