Page 68 of Owned By the Russian

“Move!” he barked, his voice edged with pure rage.

They stormed forward, weapons raised, clearing corners, taking down anyone stupid enough to get in their way. Someone screamed. Someone fell. It didn’t fucking matter.

Then, through the chaos, he could see movement.

Two figures running toward them.

His heart stopped.

Valentina.

And she wasn’t just running?she had a gun, her grip steady, her expression focused, lethal. His fucking wife had fought her way out. And right behind her was his sister, looking all shades of happy and relieved to see them.

A mix of shock, pride, and fucking relief slammed into him all at once.

He barely had time to process it before she reached for him, her wide eyes meeting his in relief, her chest heaving, her lips parted.

“Ilya,” she breathed hard. She barely noticed the entourage around him, barely registered the swarm of men who had come to tear the place apart for her, most of which had now scattered to search the rest of the warehouse for the men who had taken them. Her frantic eyes darted over his body, searching, desperate. “Are you hurt?”

He was too fucking stunned to laugh at the irony?that she was the one who had been kidnapped, yet the first thing she cared about was him.

He grabbed her, hauling her against him so hard her feet left the ground. His arms locked around her, and he buried his face in her neck, his entire body shaking with the force of holding her again.

“Fuck,” he rasped into her hair. “I almost lost my fucking mind.”

Irina was swept into her brothers’ arms, but Ilya barely noticed. All he cared about was the woman in his arms, the one who had just proven?again?that she was nothing short of extraordinary.

“You got yourselves out,” he murmured, tilting her face up to look at him, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

Her hands came up to frame his face. “We didn’t have a choice.”

His jaw clenched, his hands moving, touching?her face, her arms, down to her waist?checking, searching for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “I’m okay. So is Irina.”

His eyes burned into hers, desperate, furious, relieved as he softly dragged his thumbs across her raw, red wrists. “Who?”

“The Irish,” she said, her voice steady. Then her eyes immediately turned glassy, like she recalled something, and a tear slipped out. “They’re working for Aleksander. Those bastards. They tried to hurt my baby.”

Ilya exhaled harshly, shaking his head and kissing her forehead. “It’s okay. You’re both okay. We figured it was the Irish, but it doesn’t matter anymore.” His voice turned cold. “They’re dead men walking.”

Before she could respond, another pair of arms grabbed her?then another.

“Valentina.”

“You scared the shit out of us.”

Aldo and Enrico crushed her between them, their Italian murmurs both scolding and soothing.

She let out a breathless gasp, hugging them back, but when she peeked over Enrico’s shoulder, she saw the rest of the men who hadn’t dispersed standing around?Ilya’s siblings, their cousins, all of them watching, protective and relieved.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she was suddenly aware of the whole scene.

Ilya smirked, watching her expression shift. “Shy now,Printsessa?”

She rolled her eyes, but she softened, slipping away from her brothers’ hold and returning back to his as he lifted her in his arms and led them outside.

“I love you, Baby,” he declared, pressing kisses to her face. “And I can’t possibly put into words just how grateful I am to you for being capable of taking care of yourself, our baby, and my sister. But next time, try not to give me a fucking heart attack.”

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