Page 65 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“Then I want to be here to help fix it.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “She’s my assistant, my responsibility. She got taken because of me.”
“She got taken because Mila Kozak is a psychopath,” Drew interjected from the front seat, not looking up from the tablet where he was coordinating with backup teams positioned around the perimeter. “Don’t make this about guilt when it’s about survival.”
But it was about guilt, at least partially. Sasha trusted me to keep her safe, and I failed her. I brought a viper into our homeand fed it information about our schedules, our routines, our vulnerabilities.
The SUV stopped, and Trev emerged from the lead vehicle with the fluid grace of someone who had done this too many times to count. His face was set in lines that made him look older than his thirty-seven years, harder than the brother who’d been joking about trackers just days ago.
We followed him toward the church’s main entrance, boots crunching on gravel mixed with broken glass. The air smelled of damp stone, rusted chains, and mildew—the scent of things left to rot in places where light rarely reached. The silence was unsettling, broken only by the steady drum of rain against stone and the distant sound of wind moving through empty spaces.
“This place feels wrong,” Trev exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air.
He was right. There was something about the atmosphere here that raised every primitive warning system in my brain. It wasn’t just the obvious danger or the knowledge that armed killers might be waiting inside. It was something deeper, older—like the very stones remembered violence and whispered it back to anyone who got close enough to listen.
We moved through the sanctuary, past rows of broken pews and an altar that had been stripped of anything valuable or sacred. Religious imagery had been defaced, symbols of peace twisted into something uglier. This wasn’t just abandonment—it was deliberate corruption, turning a place of worship into a temple of something darker.
Then Trev held up his hand, head cocked like he was listening for something the rest of us couldn’t hear.
A faint sound drifted up from somewhere below us. A cough, weak and human. A whimper that made my heart clench with recognition and hope.
“Downstairs,” Trev said, his voice barely above a whisper.
We found the entrance to what must have been a basement or storage area, stone steps descending into darkness that seemed to swallow our flashlight beams. The smell got worse as we went down—human waste, fear, blood, and something medicinal that made my stomach turn.
Then I saw her.
Sasha slumped against the far wall, wrists shackled to rusted pipes that wept condensation like tears. Her skin was pale as paper, her lips cracked and bleeding, blood smeared across her temple in a pattern that suggested she’d been hit hard enough to leave lasting damage. But she was breathing, and when our lights found her face, her eyes fluttered open.
“Sasha.” My voice broke on her name, and I was moving before anyone could stop me.
Trev reached her first, his hands gentle as he checked her pulse and examined her injuries. “Water,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Get her water. Now.”
I knelt beside them, my hands hovering uselessly as Trev worked to free her from the shackles. She was so thin, so fragile-looking. How long had she been down here? How long had she been living on whatever scraps Petro’s people bothered to give her?
“Sasha,” Trev said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Look at me. You’re safe now.”
Her eyes found his face and held, some of the terror fading as recognition kicked in. “Trev?” Her voice was barely a whisper, throat raw from dehydration or screaming or both.
“I’m here.” He lifted her carefully, supporting her weight as circulation returned to her arms. “Mila was never after you specifically. She used you as a pawn, kept you alive as leverage. She wanted the bloodline gone—all the Antonovs.”
The words hit me like physical blows. Sasha suffered for weeks, not because of anything she’d done, but because of who I’d chosen to love. Because my last name made her a target in someone else’s war.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, touching her hand. “Sasha, I’m so sorry.”
She turned her head toward me, managing what might be the ghost of a smile. “Not your fault,” she croaked. “Crazy girl kept talking about angels and demons. About purifying bloodlines. She’s completely insane.”
Mila’s religious fanaticism, inherited from her father like a genetic defect. The idea that murder becomes holy when you dress it up in the right prayers, that genocide is justified if you claim divine mandate.
Trev lifted Sasha in his arms, carrying her toward the stairs with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the violence I knew he was capable of. “We need to get her to the underground medical facility. She needs fluids, antibiotics, probably surgery to check for internal damage.”
As we emerged from that basement hell, I caught sight of Lev’s face in the dim light filtering through broken windows. His expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and deadly promise. This wasn’t just about rescue anymore—it was about retribution.
The ride back to the city passed in a blur of medical checks and whispered conversations. Sasha drifted in and out of consciousness, her hand gripping Trev’s with surprising strength whenever she surfaced. He refused to leave her side, even when Drew suggested he might be more useful coordinating the manhunt for Petro.
“I’m not leaving her again,” was all he said, and something in his tone killed any further argument.
***
Back at our penthouse, the familiar surroundings felt surreal after the horror of that church. Lev moved through our home like he was cataloging everything, memorizing details in case this was the last time he saw them.
