Page 61 of Stolen By the Bratva

Iran out of the apartment and nearly skidded to a rough stop against the wall. A guard lay dead on the hallway floor, a bullet neatly embedded between his eyes.

Geoff had killed him. He had to have. There was no other explanation for it, but I knew that man was too far gone.

I couldn’t stall. Stopping or hesitating would be a grave mistake. With Geoff wounded and furious in the apartment, he’d been eager to chase me down. I had no way of guessing whether he had backup, where others from my father’s force could be hiding or waiting, or if anyone here would help me.

If Alek could question himself and give evidence of not being able to fully trust me because I was a Kastava, would his men?

I ran all the way out to the streets. Being in the open helped me beat back the gnawing claustrophobia that had overtaken me in the hallways as I fled the scene, but on the streets again, I felt more vulnerable. My father’s men could be out here. Alek’s could too. It seemed that no matter where I looked or what I did, enemies would always be lurking too close.

Who can I trust? Where can I go?

Rain fell from the skies, and with a chilly gust of air cutting down the street, I was instantly chilled by more than just fear.

I shielded my face as I dared a look back. No one ran after me, but a phantom sense of feeling that I was being chased kept me running from the building. I couldn’t hear anyone running after me. No one popped up and tried to grab me, but the terror remained under my skin, propelling me to hurry away.

I had no sense of direction. Deep in this Valkov territory, I was lost and unaware of my surroundings. All I knew was to keep running and seek somewhere to hide. Three times, I almost ran out at intersections. People shouted and horns blared, but I dismissed it all and kept going. If I stayed mobile, it would be harder to be caught.

Time fell away from me, and I grew colder and wearier without a clue of how long I’d run for, much less where I was going.

I had no one to call for help. Alek hadn’t given me a phone, and I wouldn’t have known his number, anyway. My father wasn’t a source of help, either. He wanted me dead. Rosamund might have been the closest thing to a person I could consider a friend, but she wasn’t within reach, either.

I had nothing and no one, and I fought back tears with how badly I wished I could have Alek with me.

He’d protected me so far. I felt confident that he would again. I had so much to learn about him, but I knew somehow that he was a man of his word. When he married me, he'd meant it.

“Hey!”

I regretted that I’d slowed to a walk. My lungs burned. My skin was chilled and soaked, and my feet bled from running so hard on the sidewalks barefoot like this.

A pair of beat cops had noticed me, and I knew they wouldn’t give up. I hadn’t dressed for the weather, and I was sure my eyes hadn’t yet lost that look of pure horror and fear.

“You on the run?” one asked. The other spoke into his radio piece on his coat.

“No.” I swallowed, forcing moisture down my dry throat that felt so raw and harsh from the exercise of running hard.

“Easy, Ma’am, easy.”

I backed up as they approached.

“We’re here to help.”

I shook my head. They might think they could, but I knew better. They’d want to know who I belonged to, where I called home, and I couldn’t reveal that.

“Ma’am.” One lifted his hand. His partner hurried after me as I turned to sprint away again.

A third cop stopped me. He must have been coming to join them on this rainy day, and it was his wide chest that I ran into.

I bounced back from the impact, but he caught my upper arm. His fingers wrapped around the spot where I’d been shot, and I hissed at the contact.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

I was. But I refused to speak to them. It was too dangerous. Even if I wasn’t a Kastava anymore, I was a Valkov woman now, and no bratva women ever spoke freely with law enforcement. That rule of life had been ingrained in my brain from an early age.

I sagged, caught and kept in place as the cops ganged up around me. Pedestrians didn’t notice, keeping their faces down or tucked under umbrellas. They all parted us as we stood in the center of the path, and I prayed that just one of them, anyone, could intervene and help me get away.

I’d been praying for a rescue, but I knew these figures of authority wouldn’t save me.

“She’s Kastava’s daughter,” the redheaded cop said. A sneer slid over his face as he looked me up and down. Water beaded and dripped from his auburn facial hair, and he tightened his grip on my arm.

---