Page 57 of Obsessed Bratva King

A second man lunges inside, knife in his hand, his mouth opening in a curse.

Too slow.

I’m already moving.

I slam forward, using his knife to slice across his throat in one brutal, efficient motion. The blade cuts deep, severing arteries, sending a spray of crimson across the concrete. He gurgles, hands clawing at his ruined neck, but I shove him aside, stepping over his body.

Another figure moves in the hall, gun raised, finger tightening on the trigger.

Cora doesn’t hesitate.

She pivots beside me, aims, fires. The shot lands square in the chest, the impact sending the man sprawling backward.

Her movements are sharp, controlled, precise. She doesn’t flinch.

She’s deadly.

And fuck, I think I might be falling in love with her.

A man rushes from the left—Cora takes the shot, eliminating him before he even lifts his weapon.

Another steps into view from the right—I lunge forward, knife in one hand, gun in the other. I fire at one, while my blade plunges deep into the second’s ribs, twisting up, ripping through organs.

“Behind you,” she shouts.

I pivot instantly, raising my arm just in time to block a blow. A fist slams into my ribs, pain rocketing through my side, but it doesn’t slow me.

I grab the attacker by the throat and slam him into the nearest crate, driving my knee up into his gut before planting a bullet between his eyes.

Cora moves in tandem with me, her breathing even, her gaze sharp, reading me, anticipating every shift. When my gun clicks empty, I barely need to speak before she’s passing me another.

Two more men appear down the hall, guns raised. We drop together, using the shadows. She takes out the one on the left. I take the one on the right.

The bodies hit the ground, blood pooling at our feet.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

The warehouse is filled with the thick, metallic scent of blood and gunpowder. The air is humid with death, with sweat, with something close to madness.

The bodies are piled up behind us.

The wail of alarms splits the air, a shrieking signal that reinforcements are closing in. It’s chaos now.

I grab Cora’s wrist, yanking her toward the nearest exit, every instinct screaming at me to move faster. She stumbles slightly but keeps up, her breaths sharp and ragged as we sprint through the corridors of this death trap.

Ahead, the exit looms—freedom just beyond it. We’re close. So close.

A bullet whizzes past my shoulder, too close, too fast. I shove Cora behind a stack of crates, shielding her as I twist and fire back over my shoulder, taking down the shooter. Another man lunges from the side—I fire twice, one shot ripping through his throat, the second finishing him before he can collapse.

Cora leans around the crate, returning fire at another set of guards pushing in from the opposite direction. Her bullets find their marks, her stance solid despite the exhaustion.

We’re almost clear?—

Then—a voice.

"Ivan!"

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