Page 8 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I know it.
The pavement blurs beneath my feet as I run, hard and fast, lungs heaving like they’re going to split open. I don’t lookback. I can’t. The rain lashes against my face, streams into my eyes, but I keep going. My hoodie sticks to my skin, soaked through and heavy. Every breath burns. Every step feels like I’m running on fire.
The alley spills into another industrial block: low buildings, rusted fences, windows like black eyes staring blankly into the street. The scent of wet asphalt, oil, and old metal fills my lungs. No one around. No lights. No voices. Just the pounding of my boots and the echo of footsteps that aren’t mine.
Footsteps echo behind me, louder now. Heavier. Closer.
He’s faster than he looks. Or maybe I’m slower than I think.
I shove past a sagging gate, duck beneath a bent pipe, keep my body low, moving like instinct alone is dragging me forward. My legs scream. My vision blurs; but I see it up ahead, a flash of light, a car turning onto the main road. The neon blur of a corner store. A person, maybe. Someone.
Hope flares.
I dig deep, pull whatever strength I have left. My feet slap against the pavement, sending up tiny sprays of water. I reach the edge of the alley—
Almost there.
Then a hand clamps down on my wrist.
Steel fingers lock tight. I cry out, startled, but the sound is swallowed by the rain and wind. I’m yanked backward so fast I barely register it, the world spinning sideways as my balance disappears.
My back slams into cold brick, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. The impact sends pain shooting up my spine. I try to twist, try to scream, but he’s already there. A body pins me in place—solid, warm, and terrifyingly steady.
Rain soaks us both. His coat presses against my chest. I smell smoke. Gunmetal. Something sharp and clean, like expensive cologne over blood.
One hand around my wrist, the other at my throat, firm but not choking. Not yet. But there’s a promise in his grip. One wrong move, and he’ll tighten. I can feel it.
“Got you,” the voice murmurs, bright and teasing.
His face is close. Pale blond hair, soaked and plastered to his forehead. Sharp cheekbones. A long scar along his jawline. And his eyes—they’re wrong. Not Angry but wild, like he’s enjoying this.
I try to scream, but the sound sticks in my throat. All I can do is gasp, heart pounding so violently I think he must hear it.
He watches me for a second longer. Just long enough to make sure I know it’s over. That I can’t run again.
“You saw too much,” he says. “A shame to waste somebody so pretty.”
Then the pistol lifts. Smooth. Effortless. Like brushing hair from someone’s face.
I flinch.
The last thing I see is the flash of silver at the barrel’s edge—
Everything goes black.
Chapter Four - Kion
She looks smaller in the chair.
It’s not that she’s especially petite, though she is. It’s the way she slumps, wrists bound loosely in front of her, like she’s been dropped there by accident. Like this wasn’t meant for her. Her head tilts to one side, chin brushing the collar of her soaked hoodie, the blue now dark with water. Strands of damp hair cling to her cheeks. Her lashes rest like shadows against skin gone pale under the overhead light.
Her lips are parted slightly. Just parted, like she was in the middle of saying something before the world slipped out from under her.
I stand a few feet away, arms crossed, watching.
There’s something about her that doesn’t fit. Not here, not in the concrete silence of this borrowed safehouse, with its peeling walls and flickering bulb, the smell of wet asphalt and motor oil still heavy in the air. The room is built for interrogation, maybe even execution. She looks like she belongs in a library.
She doesn’t belong to this world. That much is obvious.
