Page 184 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

And then a flash of movement to the corner reveals a third Bratva soldier pushing his way in.

I don’t know when I make the decision but suddenly, I’m getting to my feet, knife clutched in hand. In front of me, the fight is starting already.

One of the soldiers manages to get in a punch. Artem stumbles back as blood trickles from his nose.

Taking advantage of the defensive position Artem’s been forced into, the second soldier swoops in and punches him in the gut. The third soldier moving forward, victory already written in his beady eyes.

“No!” I scream. “Artem!”

All three masked men turn to me, giving Artem time to gain his footing once more.

He grabs the first soldier, shoves him against the wall, and stabs him in the heart with a knife I didn’t know he had.

The moment the blade sinks in, he’s already moving, ripping it out and throwing it end-over-end through the air at the creeping soldier who’s decided I’m the better target.

The man sees it at the last second and starts to duck, but it still slices open his cheek. He roars in pain as blood sprays on Tamara’s white couch.

Artem moves towards me to intervene, but his path is blocked by the second soldier, who lunges at him.

The last thing I see is Artem being thrown against a thin wooden console table before rough hands latch onto my shoulders and I’m being lifted into the air.

That’s when I remind myself that I have a weapon in hand.

I’m not defenseless.

I can protect my fucking self.

Kicking into survival mode, I bring the blade down blindly. It makes sickening, squelching contact, and a moment later, the masked soldier cries out in shock and pain.

He drops me like a hot rock. I land on my hands and knees. The pain of the fall radiates through my joints.

I try to scramble to my feet, but before I can get far, the man’s hand grabs my left ankle and he pulls so hard that I’m getting a face full of carpet again.

I try and kick him off me, but he’s fighting hard, even as blood spurts from the puncture wound in his thigh.

“Come here, you fucking bitch,” he snarls. The whites of his eyes are huge and terrifying.

I can hear the commotion of another fight in the room next to this one, and I hope that Artem has the upper hand now, but I can’t be sure and I have to get away from the attacker still attached to my leg.

All the while, I can feel a strange pulsing in my stomach.

As though my body’s trying to remind me that it’s not just me I’m fighting for.

I twist around so that I’m on my back against the floor and kick as hard as I can. My foot careens into his face and he recoils backwards with a pained grunt, giving me enough time to get to my feet.

But in the chaos, I’ve lost track of the knife. It’s definitely not in my hand anymore.

I search the floor desperately. I don’t have long. Without the knife, I’m screwed.

“I will fucking kill you,” he growls at me. “Come here.”

“In your fucking dreams,” I say. I’m shocked at how confident I sound.

He tries to lunge for me again but the wound in his leg stops him short and he clatters to the ground.

I run around the couch, my eyes darting between my attacker and the floor.

Where the fuck is that knife?

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