Page 62 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva
When we turn the final corner, I gasp. The warehouse is in flames. There’s a firetruck out there, trying to control it.
People run in every direction, some covered in soot, others bleeding. Paramedics tend to the injured on the sidewalk.
“Stay here,” one of the guards orders as they exit the vehicle. I roll down the window and look out to see if Ilariy is anywhere to be seen, but I can’t find him.
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it hurts. I can’t just sit in here. I have to get out there and look for him.
Without thinking, I step out of the car and rush toward the scene. A few of the bodyguards scream at me to come back, but I ignore them.
I keep running until I see Ilariy.
My heart lurches into my chest. He’s sitting on a stool while someone is trying to help him drink water. I run closer, and that’s when I see his face and clothes—streaked with blood and soot.
But he’s alive. My relief is so intense that I nearly collapse.
“Ilariy!” I call out, and his head snaps up. I can see his shock at finding me here.
“Arina?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”
I reach him and fall to my knees to sit in front of him, my hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him and cause more pain. “I came as soon as I heard. You’re hurt.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He winces as he shifts his weight. “Just some cuts and bruises.”
One of the men tending to him snorts. “And two cracked ribs, probably.”
I take in the full extent of his injuries. There’s a gash above his eye that’s still oozing blood, and there are burns on his hands. “You need a hospital.”
“No hospitals,” he says firmly. “Home. Just need to get home.”
The guards who chased after me catch up, looking furious but relieved to find us together. I turn to them. “We’re taking him home. Now.”
No one argues with me, not even Ilariy. They help him into the SUV, and I climb in beside him, careful not to hurt him. As we pull away from the burning warehouse, I finally ask, “What happened?”
“We were ambushed,” he says. “They came in shooting. We weren’t expecting it.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“Not yet,” he sighs. “Agafon’s working on finding out.”
I nod and reach out, wanting to hold his hand. But I’m afraid I might hurt him, so I pull back. I whisper gently, “Don’t worry. I’m here now, and you’re going to be okay.”
He looks over at me and smiles, the kind of smile that melts into me. “I’m so furious you came, and yet…thank you, Arina.”
“Always,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. I was such a fool to let anger keep me away from him.
***
At home, I take charge. Ilariy tries to wave away the doctor Agafon sent home after I texted him, but I force Ilariy to let the doctor examine him. I carefully go over the detailed instructions the doctor leaves with me, and once we’re alone, I help Ilariy to the bathroom, where I gently clean the blood and soot from his face.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says as I carefully dab antiseptic on the cut above his eye. “The staff can help me.”
“I want to,” I say, reaching for some fresh cotton.
“Arina.” He catches my wrist and forces me to look at him. “About what you heard me say to your brother—”
“Not now,” I interrupt. “You’re hurt. We can talk about that later.”
“No.” His grip tightens slightly. “I need you to know. What I said to Tikhon—I didn’t mean any of it. I was trying to hurt him, to make him feel powerless the way he made my family feel.”
