Page 17 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
Halfway up. I reach for the top of the pillar and pull with all my strength, pushing off on my tiptoes from the ledge for an extra boost. It’s not pretty. Anyone watching would probably be cackling with laughter, but I make it to the top of the pillar on my stomach, legs dangling over the edge. It’s a long way down. I swing my legs around and try to reach for the ledge on the other side, hoping to slow my fall, but the moment I drop my feet slide down the entire length of the pillar and hit the ground, hard.
Pain stings the bottom of my feet and rockets up my shins. My joints will probably pay for that. Holy shit, I’m on the other side. I’m free. It takes me a minute to move, to get my brain to register that I actually broke out, and then I’m off running again.
The neighborhood is unfamiliar, and I couldn’t see out of the window during our drive here, so I’m running blind. My first move is just to get as far away from that house as possible to lower the chances of Timofey spotting me on his way home, and soon enough, I spot a sign for the city center.
Thank God for all the time I spent on the treadmill when Sarah signed us all up to run a half-marathon six months ago. My feet pound steadily on the sidewalk. A few more streets and I’ll be at my brother’s house.
Streetlights are far and few between out here, and I’m paranoid I’m going to twist an ankle, so focused on where I’m putting my feet that it takes me a long time to notice that I’mbeing followed. I slow, hoping the car will just drive past, hoping that I’m wrong, but the car slows to keep pace a few feet behind my shoulder.
I’m afraid to look. It must be Timofey.Oh my God, he found me.I didn’t far enough, fast enough, and now he’s going to drag me right back to his house. Only this time, he’s going to be pissed. My legs burn as I put on a desperate burst of speed, racing for my brother’s street.
The car speeds up. If I can just make it to my brother’s, I’ll be safe. But another car guns it from a side street and flies up onto the sidewalk in front of me, forcing me to a halt inches from the front tires.
I duck to the side as a man swings open the door and lunges for me, his fingers falling short when I leap backwards. Another man steps out from the driver’s side door, and I hear the other car skid to stop behind me, the opening and closing of more doors. Hands grab me from behind, pinning my arms in place. Someone starts to drag me backward, and I fling my head back, hoping to break a nose.
Pain sparks as the back of my head makes contact with something hard, but the person holding me doesn’t let go. Not again, is all I can think. I’m not getting into another car, not getting kidnapped again. I look around for some form of escape.
Tires screech, and one of the men shouts in surprise.
“Who the fuck is that?”
My heart jumps. Could it be the police? I twist to look as the man holding me wrenches us sideways toward the car. Timofey. He moves like a snake, lunging for the man holding me. The knife in his hand passes so close to my face that I feel the air stir. It sinks in with a sickening thud, and warm blood spills out over my shoulder. Suddenly, I’m free.
I make a break for it, seeing an opening between two of the men closing in, but Timofey reaches out and yanks me back.
“Are you out of your mind? They’re armed,” he hisses, and I realize the men are brandishing knives. “And I’m betting they’d rather see you dead than free. You won’t make it without me.”
He’s right. There’s no way I can get past both of those men on my own. The devil you know, and all that.
“Get behind me,” he says, stepping between me and the approaching attackers.
They move together, one of them trying to get around Timofey to me while the other drives his knife point-first at Timofey’s chest. Timofey catches the first guy, jabbing his knife into the man’s side three times in quick succession. He raises his arm to ward off the other man’s strike, knocking the blade aside before it can impale him.
“Timofey! There’s more!” I spot another group of men spilling from a car up ahead and catch the glint of metal—guns.
He surges forward and sinks his knife into the last man’s eye. I fight a surge of vomit at the back of my throat at the sight, but Timofey is already moving again, pushing me backward toward his car.
“We need to move, now,” he says, shoving me unceremoniously into the passenger seat before racing around to the other side.
The smell of iron fills the car, and the side of his face is covered in blood. I press my hand to my lips. He spins the car around and takes off while I fumble for a seatbelt.
“Stay low.” He reaches over and pushes me down by the shoulders as gunshots hit the back of the car.
I curl onto the seat, sinking as low as I can, and try not to pass out. I’m hyperventilating, sucking in useless breaths at a rapid pace. Someone just died. He killed them. I don’t think I’ll ever get the image out of my head, and it’s replaying now, over and over, at hyper speed.
“Talia,” Timofey shouts, cutting into my panic, “you’re going to be okay. Try to breathe through your nose.”
His palm is warm and heavy on my back, and his voice is steady, like we didn’t just nearly die. It’s reassuring, somehow, and I’m able to slow my breathing enough that my head stops spinning. I don’t want to know how many situations like this he’s been in, that he’s not having a similar reaction right now.
We hurtle down the streets, and when I don’t hear any more gunshots, I poke my head up to get a sense of where we are. I don’t think we’re heading back to his house.
“Where are we going?” I ask, turning to look behind us. “Did we lose them?”
“I can’t be sure yet,” he replies gruffly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“My brother’s house is nearby,” I say, clinging to a last bit of hope that I can just go home after all of this.
“And they’re obviously staking it out for some reason.” His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and I swallow at the sight of his blood-speckled forearms flexing. “We can’t go back there.”
