Page 65 of The Pakhan's Bride
He grins, blood on his teeth. "I still look better than you."
I laugh, or something like it.
He pulls me in, voice rough. "Next time, I'll still take the bullet for you."
"Not a chance," I say. "You'd just make it a competition."
He winces, but I can't tell whether it's pain or pride. "Stubborn girl."
Sokolov hovers by the door, pretending not to watch. I lean in, whisper so only he can hear. "You don't get to make me a widow, even for a second."
He squeezes my hand, managing a brief, tight smile which suddenly transforms into a look of dread. "Zoya," he says. He tries to sit up, but the stitches at his shoulder rebel. He hisses, sucks in air, and clamps my wrist with his good hand.
"Stop," I say, but he shakes his head.
"Zoya," he says again, lower this time, as if the word could anchor him to the world. Then, "Lev?"
It's not a question. It's a demand. An invocation. All the color drains from my head, replaced with a cold so total it must be ancestral. My body wants to collapse, but instead I snap upright, shoulders squared, already pivoting away from the couch.
"In his room," I say. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know in my bones that something is wrong. Konstantin nods. "Go," he says, voice a growl.
I break from his grip and launch down the suite's corridor, bare feet slapping marble. At the far end, Lev's door stands shut, no sound from inside. My heart hammers as I burst inside.
Galina is on the floor, curled in the defensive position, hands over her head. Blood trickles from a split at her temple. I crouch beside her, two fingers to the throat. Her pulse is strong, but she's out cold. Her breath clouds the air, each exhale a soft white balloon. I check her limbs—nothing broken, just the head wound and maybe a concussion.
The window above the bed is open, glass blown in, the frame cracked. Wind claws the curtains, making them dance in theblue night. On the sill—a fat droplet of blood and the print of Lev's favorite sock. The frost has already started to form, ringed in a spiral where the window blew wide.
I lean out. Below, the flower bed is churned to mud, boot prints everywhere, a spray of block fragments from the fort, and in the center, a bare heel, smaller than my thumb. I follow the prints to the edge of the lawn, then to the drive. Under the security floodlights, I see the tire marks—wide, aggressive, gouged into the gravel, not a staff car, but an off-roader or a van. I try the comms panel by the door. Dead. They've jammed the internal net. Smart.
In a brief minute, I scoop Galina onto the bed, wedge a pillow under her head, then grab a blanket and toss it over her. She doesn't stir, but her breathing stays steady. I run back to the hall. A guard is already there, eyes wild, weapon raised but hands shaking. I push past while barking instructions to attend to Galina, tearing down the stairs to the mud room. My mind is mapping every possible route, every blind spot in the estate's perimeter. The usual protocols are useless—the enemy knows the estate as well as I do.
I hit the control panel at the main exit. The security code has been overridden, red lights strobing at every corner. I override with my own, punching in the duress sequence. The panel accepts, then locks me out. I slam a fist into the glass and watch the cracks spider out, but the glass doesn't break.
Above, I hear the shout of men on the landing, then the crack of a door kicked in. I race back up, two stairs at a time, legs burning, and hit the landing as the guard's head emerges from Lev's room.
"He's gone," the guard says, voice high.
"No shit," I answer. "How long ago?"
He shrugs, scared, and I hate him for it.
"Five minutes? Ten?" he guesses. "We lost comms. Didn't see them on the cams."
"That's because they knew where the cams are," I snarl. "Sweep the grounds. Now."
He runs. I do too.
The service gate is two hundred meters from the east wing. I cross the courtyard in forty seconds, the cold sawing at my lungs. The side door is ajar, lock sheared clean off, not picked but smashed. I count the tracks—two men, maybe three, one carrying Lev, the others covering.
Beyond the gate, the road curves out of sight, but I see the tail lights, distant, red as a memory.
I commit the shape to memory, the way the van dips on the left side, overloaded, maybe armored. The engine sound is muffled, but I can tell from the exhaust note—diesel, military, not consumer grade. I stare at the horizon until the red dots disappear. Then I turn back to the house.
Konstantin has been moved to the main hall and is sitting up in a makeshift bed now, bandage bright against his skin, men flanking him on all sides. His eyes find me the instant I appear. I drop down next to him, my eyes telling him everything he needs to know.
Two guards drag in a prisoner. He's a mess—nose broken, lip split, one eye so swollen it's a slit. The black tactical gear is ripped, streaked with mud and what looks like his own piss. He struggles, but not with conviction.
Orlov shoves him down to his knees. The impact echoes off the tile.
