Page 80 of Possessive Vows

Too late.

Chapter 19

Camilla Volkov

Artur’s voice rings in my ears.

Mama, no!

He meant me. He called me mama. He screamed for me.

His eyes lead mine to a hulking, scarred beast with blue eyes and blond hair.

Feliks Volkov. The man who beat and raped me. Who laughed when I begged for death. Who watched and held me down as his men hurt me.

He shifts his smirk of triumph away from my husband’s glare and sneers at me.

Frozen in terror, I can’t move despite the parasites crawling under my skin when he grabs my nape.

He yanks me to my feet and swats my wrist. White-hot agony spears into my forearm and streaks into my shoulder. Every horrible thing he did to me replays in my mind, trapping me in a world of darkness and despair. The blade Dimitri gave me clatters to the asphalt, jerking me out of my flashback.

Feliks wraps his fist around my throat from behind, using me as a human shield as the car door bursts open.

My heart screams for Dimitri to run. To get back in the driver’s seat and race his precious children far, far away from here. To forget me for the sake of his family. To flee and never look back.

The lethal fury emanating from his clear blue eyes as he pushes Artur back and shuts the door floods me with relief.

No matter how much I need his children out of harm’s way, a small, desperate part of me begs for him to stay. I ache for my angel of death.

A cold circle—the barrel of a handgun—presses against my temple.

I watch through the bloody window as Artur climbs into the backseat. He unbuckles his siblings and moves them to the floor. Pride and worry pulse through me.

Feliks chuckles and pulls me back, flush against his front. Bile rises in my throat. His scent chokes me.

Dimitri prevents me from spinning into nightmares with his icy, smooth tone. He speaks in Russian, but the threat is clear in his voice and the hatred in his expression as he studies his brother’s fist wrapped around my throat makes me certain his next words mean something likeget your hands off my wife.

“Uberi lapy ot moyey zheny.”

I loosen my hands at my sides and force myself to take a deep breath as Feliks laughs and tightens his grip around my throat. My head swims as he digs his fingers into my jugular and forces me to shuffle backward with him.

Shards of glass crunch under my sneakers and pieces of rubber threaten my balance.

“She was mine before she was yours,” Feliks says in heavily accented English.

He drops his chin onto the top of my head for the briefest of moments, mocking me with the movement and highlighting how much bigger he is than I am.

Dimitri snarls and steps forward. Feliks tsks and presses the muzzle of his gun against my temple so hard I wince.

“Toss your weapons toward Grisha’s feet,” Feliks demands with a tilt of his head toward the man on our left.

The bumper of a larger vehicle appears in the right corner of my periphery. A pile of weapons—rifles, crowbars, and several ridiculously long knives—sit tucked just inside the trunk. Too far away. Too big to wield quickly. Too heavy to swing one-handed.

The handle of a screwdriver sticks out of the bottom of the stack.

I force my gaze back toward Dimitri.

His handgun skids across the road. He gives his head the slightest shake, relaying his understanding, and even though I know he is warning me away from my rash idea, I’d rather die than go with his brother.

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