Page 67 of The Pakhan's Forced Bride
“Your warehouses are being systematically attacked,” Emmanuil replies, frantic.
“Fuck,” I snarl, grabbing Belle’s hand. I turn to face her. “I have to drop you at home, I’m so sorry—I have to go—"
“Of course,” she says, worried. “I can get a taxi, you should go.”
“Not a chance. If they are attacking my warehouse, they might target anything important to me,” I snap. “I’ll personally make sure you get home safe.”
Spinning towards my cousin, he nods, already knowing what I’m about to say.
“I’ll go straight there,” he answers.
Belle and I run out to the cars after I grab my phone and say a very hurried goodbye to my sisters and family. They heard the news from Emmanuil, so they know what’s going on.
A few of the men rush out to my warehouses with Emmanuil.
In the car, Belle is anxious.
“Are they shooting, or setting off explosives?” she asks, shifting in her seat. I reach my hand across the car and place it on her leg. My eyes are on the road ahead.
“I have a good support network, Belle. A good team, and we prepared for this. We were expecting it. They’ll have it under control quickly.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her nod, and I steal a glance at her.
She’s biting her lip again, this time with nervous tension.
“Hey,” I say gently. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
With Belle safely in the walls of the mansion and my home security team on high alert, I leave confident that she is safe and head towards my biggest warehouse.
My stomach is tightly knotted, my shoulders are tense, and my jaw is set firmly. I was hoping we could’ve avoided the attack completely, stop it before it started. But somehow these assholes managed to slip past the first layer of defenses, as though they knew exactly where they were.
Agitation rumbles through me as I pull into the parking area outside the warehouse. The place is in chaos, but it seems to be organized chaos.
Smoke is billowing out the back of the warehouse, coming from somewhere I cannot see yet.
I climb out of my car and run towards the entrance. Several men are sitting outside, covered in blood, groaning in pain as others tend to their wounds. I spot the team manager, leaning over a man whose leg looks like it’s been shredded.
“Artan, sorry it took me so long to get here. Where do you need me?” I ask.
“Inside, right at the blast sight. There are still men trapped.”
“How many have we lost?” I ask tightly.
“So far, three,” he says, turning back to the man in front of him.
I squeeze his shoulder, then run inside to help where I can.
Emmanuil is there, his sleeves rolled up, his white shirt coated in grime and blood.
“Ardalion, help me lift this,” he shouts. I run to his side, and together we manage to get the fallen forklift back upright. Beneath it, there is a young man’s body, crushed. I swallow hard.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Let’s keep looking and help those we can.”
In my pocket, my phone rings, and I pull it out, anxious for good news.
“Ardalion,” I snap, pressing the phone to my ear.
