Page 15 of The Bratva's Forced Kidnapped Bride
“I don’t think so, Uncle Miron,” I said, pushing aside the twinge I felt at the hopeful tone of his voice. After all the treachery, he still believed that the Ovinko name meant more than just a powerful organization. To him, Bratva really did mean brotherhood above all else.
“Nonsense. We must show a united front, now more than ever. Too many of your brother’s men think they can go their own way now that he’s gone. I don’t want to have to fight them if they decide to join forces against us, and I really don’t want them heading to the Collective.”
It wasn’t a good time to go anywhere, but I didn’t like the idea of my own holdings in Russia being weakened or threatened by the implosion of my family. Before I could answer one way or another, one of the guards came in, looking more anxious than the poor bastard who’d spilled the news about my marriage.
“The prisoner is gone,” he blurted, clearing his throat. “I mean, your wife has left the house.”
My mood went from bad to worse. Ending the call with Miron without so much as a goodbye, I grabbed a gun and waved for the guard to stay behind, not bothering to ask how this could have happened. It was Masha, after all.
Of course, she wouldn’t get off the property. My mood improved as I looked over the tracks she’d left behind the poolhouse before heading out to hunt my wife. This could be fun.
The wall surrounding a small area of the house wasn’t overly tall, and Masha could easily scale it, but that wasn’t the only thing guarding the perimeter. If, for some reason, she made it much further, it was unlikely she’d pick the right direction back to the main road, which was over eight miles away. Other than that, it was nothing but a vast, lonely desert. The artist who had this place built had been serious about solitude.
She was in a hurry and hadn’t bothered hiding her trail, which I picked up easily. She couldn’t have more than a fifteen-minute head start, and I called out to her in a mocking tone, picking up my pace. I didn’t have time to chase her, but despite the foul mood the unfinished call with Uncle Miron had left me in, I started to feel a grin take over my face as I climbed over the adobe wall.
“Masha,” I shouted again. “Save yourself and come home. There’s nothing out there for you but a slow death, cooking under the sun.”
I came to a rocky outcropping and paused, listening for the slightest trace of footsteps, the merest echo of her breathing. “I feel I should warn you about something else,” I called.
Before I could tell her about the fence that was a mere thirty yards away, camouflaged and barely visible to anyone who didn’t know about it, a bullet whizzed past me.
“Damn it, Masha. Enough is enough.”
“Not until I say it is.”
She jumped out from behind a rock, a gun held out in front of her. I rolled my eyes, taking a step toward her. She didn’thesitate, firing again. And this time she didn’t miss. As I was whirled around by the force of the bullet winging me, she took off, straight for the fence.
The fence I tried to warn her about. Clutching my arm as blood poured through my torn sleeve, I saw her take a flying leap at it, ready to climb it and put me behind her once and for all. As soon as her hands wrapped around the links, I heard the crackle and zap, and took off running for her as she flew backwards to land on the ground with a harsh thud.
She was out cold when I reached her side, and I faltered under a brief burst of fear when she didn’t respond to my light slap on her cheek.
“Masha,” I said, the fear growing as I shook her shoulder. This wasn’t from concern. I just didn’t want my plaything taken from me so soon and so ignominiously. I shook her again, my voice rising as I kept calling her name.
Her eyes opened, blinking at me as her brows furrowed. All that voltage must have hurt like a son of a bitch.
“Looks like you ended up getting shocked today after all,” I said.
Breathing out, she gathered her strength to take a swing at me. I ducked it, laughing, then groaned as the sudden movement reminded me I’d been shot. Blood still seeped from beneath my hand, and I scowled at the smirk on her face as she noticed it.
“Looks like you got shot,” she said.
Ignoring the pain in my arm and her smug attitude, which was sure to be short-lived, I picked up my runaway wife and hauled her back to the house. What I’d do with her when we got there was anyone’s guess.
Chapter 13 - Masha
I really thought I was home free, at least as far as getting over the wall and not having anyone follow me. Now I was too weakened by that damn electric fence to do much more than stay conscious as he carried me back to the house. He was right. It hurt. And it literally zapped my energy.
After all that voltage, I prayed he wasn’t taking me back to the torture chair, and despite the fact it felt like a ten-story building had collapsed on me, I still managed to punch him where he got shot, pissed off the bullet only grazed him, and he was still very much alive.
And to my surprise, he seemed to be in a good mood. Almost exhilarated. That was worrisome. Even when I thumped him hard in the bicep where blood still flowed from under his torn shirt sleeve, he only grunted and transferred me unceremoniously to his other shoulder, so I hung halfway down his back, my arms flailing.
A few guards met us at the stone wall I had been so pleased to scale, and Anatoli hoisted me over to one of them before nimbly hopping over as if he hadn’t been shot. He quickly scooped me up again, his grip a little tighter this time. Two of the guards followed us to the kitchen, where Anatoli plopped me down in one of the chairs. I nearly slid off, still woozy and dizzy, my hands and feet feeling like they didn’t quite belong to me.
One of the men stayed planted in front of the sliding doors, glaring in my direction without actually looking at me. The other placed himself in front of the door leading into the house, as if I’d run and hide under a couch or something. I gave him a haughty look, which he ignored.
“Stay put until you can stand properly,” Anatoli said, some traces of humor at my expense in his voice.
“I’d suggest the same until your arm is patched up,” I told him.
