Page 55 of Claimed By Daddy

“It won’t,” Hawk insists.

I hang up as Gunnar jerks the wheel, abruptly taking the turnpike ramp. The SUV surges to the left, nearly clipping a slow-moving delivery truck. I can see the airport fencing now, half-hidden by trees and low warehouse buildings. Gunnar turns onto a dirt service road running parallel to the airstrip. “This is your stop,” he informs Nikolai, who is already jumping from the back seat.

Nikolai pops the hatch on the back of the SUV, slings his rifle over his shoulder, and quickly grabs a black duffel with extra mags and a thermal scope. “I’ll be in position in two .”

“Nik,” I call after him, and he pauses. “Don’t miss.”

Glancing at me through the rear of the car, a smug smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “I never do.” He winks and wastes no time waiting for a response, immediately running toward the hangar, disappearing into the trees like he was never there.

The SUV jolts as Gunnar stomps on the accelerator, kicking up gravel when the tires spin against the road. And we’re at the airfield, the runway stretching into the distance, and at the far end, the white blur of a Gulfstream with the steps already down.

“Drive straight through the fence,” I bark.

“You got it, boss.” Gunnar floors it and yells, “Brace!” He guns it straight through the maintenance access gate, doing at least seventy. He doesn’t slow until we’re approaching the Gulfstream. I throw open the door before we stop moving.Cillian is right behind me, Damon and Gunnar flanking as planned.

The engines hum, runway lights reflecting off the fuselage, and bullets spark off the pavement. It does nothing to slow us. We move in coordinated chaos—trained, lethal, and unstoppable. I raise my Glock and fire twice. One of Sargsyan’s men drops with a hole in his forehead. Another falls to the asphalt beside him, screaming as his leg is shredded by Damon’s shotgun. Cillian takes two with controlled bursts. Gunnar drops another as he tries to run for the hangar like a fucking coward.

Then, movement near the stairs draws my attention.

Sargsyan…

Tucked behind a row of stacked shipping pallets, my eyes are locked on the tarmac. The private jet is stationary—steps lowered and engines humming softly. Sargsyan is at the base of the plane steps. He’s in a tailored suit, pacing like he’s waiting to board for a business trip, not an abduction. My hands twitch, and I fight the urge to just pull the trigger and drop the piece of shit where he stands.

My muscles are tight, every part of me screaming to move, to act—but I hold.

I wait.

For her.

My princess.

The door swings open on the SUV, and two men climb out from the back, dragging someone between them. My chest contracts so hard it nearly knocks the air out of me. She’s resisting, twisting in their grip, her face wild with frustration and fear. Her incoherent cries cut across the tarmac, scared and urgent. I catch a glimpse of her eyes—wide, focused, unyielding.That’s my fucking girl.She stumbles as they drag her toward the plane, and one of the men roughly grabs her arm to steady her. The second they reach Sargsyan, they shove her into his arms.

He grabs her, steadying her with one arm and pulling her toward him. Shoving a gun into her side, he snakes an arm around her neck, and her whole body visibly tightens when she’s pressed against his front. My gut clenches at the sight.He’s going to fucking die.Sargsyan starts up the stairs, dragging Eavan with him. She fights him every step of the way, her eyes wide open and desperately searching the tarmac for help. The second she sees me, she freezes, and I feel every emotion harboring behind her eyes—fear, confusion, and relief. Sargsyan shouts at her in Armenian, barking an order, digging his pistol into her side hard enough to cause her to wince.

“Take the fucking shot, Nik,” I mumble to myself.

Three subtle, distant cracks echo from the nearby tree-line—suppressed rounds.Nikolai.A round pierces the cockpit window, dropping the pilot. The second splatters his co-pilot’s brain across the glass. The third hits Sargsyan, missing Eavan by maybe an inch, hitting his shoulder and snapping him backward. He loses his footing—and his hold on Eavan—tumbling down the stairs and spilling onto the asphalt. Eavan clutches the handrail despite the restraints they have put her in, grasping it just in time to keep herself upright.

I sprint across the tarmac, focused on nothing but her. Everything else fades away—the plane, the noise, the world. My shoes pound against the pavement as she bolts down the steps to me with her eyes locked on mine. Shots ring out, and the final two of Sargsyan’s men hit the ground as I race toward her.

My eyes fall to Sargsyan in a pool of his own blood between us, wrapping his fingers around the gun lying beside him. Sitting up a few inches, he raises the weapon toward Eavan.

I don’t think.

I act.

I pull my Glock and squeeze the trigger.

CLICK.

I squeeze it again.

CLICK.

My heart sinks, and a surge of panic rushes through me as I break into a full sprint. She doesn’t see him. I shout her name, it’s like I’m struggling to run through tar and unable to get to her. “No!” I shriek, as Sargsyan fires—the sound cracking through the air. I dive forward, throwing myself into her as pain rips across my side like a lightning strike. My tackle takes us both to the ground hard. She gasps, clutching my chest, as I wrap myself around her, placing my bodybetween her and Sargsyan, tucking her beneath me with everything I have.

More shots follow, and I flatten my body against her, holding a deep breath and bracing for more rounds to slam into my back—they don’t come. A final shot rings out, followed by the near silence of whirring jet engines and Eavan breathing heavily against my chest.

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