Page 4 of His Forced Bride
In my frightened haste I can't really do much, and my phone buzzes with an incoming call.
Batya's name flashes on the screen, and I answer before the first ring completes.
"Batya, thank God. Where are you?"
"Inessa." His voice sounds strained.
"Listen to me carefully. Stay inside the building. Do not come outside, no matter what you hear."
"What's happening? There are cars circling the block, and I've been trying to reach you for?—"
"I'm two blocks away," he interrupts. "Something has gone wrong?—"
The line goes dead before he can finish, and I stare at the phone, my mind struggling to process what he's told me.
What could've gone wrong?
I glance up at the window again as Alina's arm wraps around my waist.
"What did he say?"
"We're in danger. Batya's coming, but?—"
The sound of an engine revving cuts through my explanation.
Through the window, I see Batya's silver Mercedes turn onto our street, moving faster than the speed limit allows.
Relief and terror war in my chest as I watch him approach the showroom and hear the screech of his car's tires on the pavement.
The first gunshot shatters the night air.
Muzzle flashes erupt from the windows of all three SUVs simultaneously, turning the street into a war zone.
Batya's car swerves violently as bullets spider-web across his windshield.
The Mercedes jumps the curb, smashes through the outdoor seating of the café next door, and comes to rest against a light pole.
I scream, though I don't remember opening my mouth.
My legs give out, sending me to my knees on the showroom floor.
Through the window, I can see Batya's car riddled with holes, steam rising from the engine, the driver's door hanging open at an unnatural angle as the SUVs peel away from the scene, leaving behind the acrid smell of burned rubber.
Car alarms shriek throughout the neighborhood, and my chest pounds.
"Batya," I whisper, then louder, "Batya!"
Alina tries to hold me back as I scramble toward the door dragging the heavy gown with me, but I shake her off.
My father could be bleeding, dying, while I cower inside this building.
I run toward the street where my world has just been torn apart by bullets and let the silk and satin drag on the filthy concrete.
The night air hits my face and glass crunches under my feet from the café's shattered windows.
Batya's Mercedes sits silent and broken, its once-pristine exterior now pocked with bullet holes.
The driver's side window has been blown out entirely, and I can see Kasper slumped over, his face drenched in blood.
