Page 63 of The Pakhan's Bride
I press on, softer now. "He wrote you into the plan. He figured if you married Ricci, then produced an heir, he controlled succession. If Ricci fell, you'd inherit both lines. But you'd be boxed in with enemies, surrounded, reliant on his people for protection. It wasn't a life. It was a prison."
Her breath catches. I can see her recalibrating everything she thought she knew about her father. About herself. She finally lifts her gaze and pins me with it. "Did you kill him to save me?"
I hesitate. I've always been good at lying, but never to her. "Yes," I say. "But I knew it would destroy you. Maybe that wascowardice, or maybe I thought you'd be better off without the chains he built for you."
She nods slowly. The tears are drying from her cheeks, and in their place is something colder and cleaner. "You could have told me."
"I know," I say. "I thought I was sparing you. Turns out I just delayed the wound."
She breathes in, steady now. "Ekaterina was right all along, then."
I wish I could tell her she's not wrong about doubting her sister. Ekaterina isn't… There's something wrong with her, even though she gave Zoya the truth about their father. But I haven't figured out what that is yet, and the only way to find out is to bring her back.
For a long while, we are silent. I run my hand down her hair, smoothing it back, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. My palm lingers at the curve of her jaw, thumb brushing slowly over her cheekbone. I can feel the shiver in her, the way she's holding herself rigid, refusing to collapse again. She doesn't want to be comforted. She wants to be understood.
So I just hold her, there in the half-light, until she lets herself lean in, her forehead against mine. We are two creatures built for violence, trying to learn how to hold something without breaking it. Her voice is barely audible. "What now?"
"We find Ekaterina."
Before I can say more, there's a sound. My eyes sweep the angles—the curtain shivering around a shape, the way the light bends. I catch the movement on the tree line—not a flash, not even a glint, just the wrong geometry. A figure, hunched, perfectly still. To anyone else, it could be a trick of the light. But I know the silhouette. Military grade, matte black, with a scope built to eat reflections. The rifle is already braced, aimed, waiting.
There is no time to think, only act. I launch myself to the air with her in my arms. Zoya's mouth is forming a question, beautiful and round and totally oblivious. I barrel into her, driving her shoulder toward the floor. Her body resists for a tenth of a second—half a heartbeat—and then she yields, tumbling backward in a tangle of arms and startled profanity. The world seems to freeze—the muffled whistle of air, the arch of her foot as she pivots, the flutter of silk.
Then noise. A flat, monstrous bang, more vibration than sound. The impact is so fast it bypasses pain and goes straight to paralysis. Something obliterates the left side of my chest, a fist-sized hammer blow that throws me against the table. I stagger, hit the edge, and all the air leaves my lungs in a single, humiliated grunt.
"Sweet girl," I say, even as the world begins to blur at the edges. "Always be ready for what the truth can do to you." She's screaming, calling for help.She looks beautiful, I think to myself,wild and feral and utterly in love.
Not a bad way to end things, as it were.
24
ZOYA
Time splits into fragments—the snap of bone, the vibration in the air, the aftershock of the rifle report. Konstantin doesn't scream, just drops straight down, knees buckling, left arm flailing as if to catch the memory of balance. Red pools before the sound even fades. I know the caliber by the way his shirt flowers. For half a second, I don't move. The training says get low, find cover, but my body revolts, sprints forward, a marionette cut from strings. My hand is at Konstantin's shoulder, fingers already hot and sticky, before I remember the sniper.
His blood is everywhere. So much for a through-and-through. The impact must have hit an artery or a vein. I press my palm to the wound, hating how soft the tissue is, how the skin gives and slides under pressure. He chokes on air, teeth clenched, his other hand grabbing my wrist, locking it down hard.
Alarms. Not just the perimeter, but inside, shrill, overlapping, a chorus of failures. Voices above, boots pounding the balcony, a wave of bodies converging on us like sharks on a dead whale. My vision narrows, but I force myself to clock thedetails—the chandelier swinging in the air, the flecks of glass on the carpet, the white glow of muzzle flash reflected in the east window. Sokolov is already dragging a Kevlar blanket over the rail while another man lays covering fire toward the trees.
The second shot never comes. The shooter is either gone or is still sighting me. I don't care. I drop to my knees and rip the sleeve from my T-shirt, packing it tightly against the wound. He grunts, face as white as the marble under him.
"It's nothing," he manages, blood in his teeth. He tries to push me off, but he doesn't have that kind of strength anymore. I can feel the heat draining from his skin, sweat slicking his brow even as the house freezes around us. The guards close in. One takes position by the shattered door, gun drawn, barking into his radio. Another kneels beside us, unspooling a belt of gauze, but he fumbles the end and it skitters across the floor. Amateurs. I grab the strip, wad it into a ball, and press it down hard. Konstantin hisses, then clamps his jaw, refusing the scream.
They try to pull me back, but I bare my teeth. "Get a real medic," I snap, voice so low I taste it in my spine. Someone runs for the infirmary. The rest form a wall, bracing for another attack.
The room is all blood and light and the stink of cordite. My hands are crimson, the color too vivid to be real. I don't remember breathing, but the world is edged with oxygen, everything too sharp, too loud, too bright. Konstantin's eyes are glassy. He looks up at me, trying to focus. The old defiance is there, but it flickers, replaced by something more human. I know the look. I've worn it myself.
He tries to say my name but chokes again. Instead, he grips my wrist, hard enough to bruise, and doesn't let go. The men drag furniture, flip the table, stack it as a barricade against the windows. Sokolov is on the radio, his voice a staccato of orders. Down the hall, the estate's alarm system screams for a reset,the failsafes tripping in sequence. I hear boots on the roof, the distant whirr of a drone, the double-tap of suppressed pistols clearing the grounds.
I lean in, mouth to Konstantin's ear. "Stay with me," I whisper, even though the cliché makes me want to puke. "You do not get to check out now."
His breath rasps, slow and uneven, but he clamps his good hand around my arm and squeezes once. I take it as a yes.
Someone throws a blanket over us, shielding us from line of sight. I see the shadow of Sokolov at the edge, gun ready, eyes never leaving the trees. The guards drag us behind the overturned couch. Blood leaves a trail, an arterial smear across the wood.
"Trauma Specialist in three," a voice says behind me. "We're secure."
I pull the pressure off for one second, just to check. The wound is angry, torn, but the bleeding has slowed. I can't tell if it's because the artery is sealed or because he doesn't have enough blood left to pump it. I push the gauze down again, counting beats. The world fades to the rhythm of his heart.
