Page 82 of Chain Me

“The gap's shrinking,” Alexi's voice cuts through static, blood loss making his words slightly slurred.

I twist the throttle, feeling the Ducati's engine respond. The gap between the closing gates narrows—maybe six feet and getting smaller.

“Stay tight behind me,” I radio to Dmitri.

The Ducati shoots forward, Katarina's breath sharp against my neck. The gate's metal edges blur past us with inches to spare. Behind us, the McLaren follows, scraping paint as it squeezes through the closing gap.

More gunfire erupts from the SUVs now trapped behind the gates. But we're clear of the estate, racing toward the main road.

“Turn right at the intersection,” Katarina shouts over the wind. “There's a service road that connects to the highway.”

The pursuing vehicles won't stay trapped long. Igor has other exits and other routes. We need distance before his men regroup.

32

KATARINA

The Ducati’s engine roars beneath me as we race through the night, my arms wrapped tight around Erik’s waist. The weight of his body grounds me even as adrenaline courses through my veins. Behind us, the McLaren’s headlights cut through the darkness, keeping pace as we navigate winding back roads toward the Ivanov compound.

“Clear behind us,” Nikolai’s voice crackles through Erik’s earpiece, loud enough for me to hear over the wind.

My father’s estate shrinks in the distance, swallowed by trees and shadows. Each mile puts more space between me and a life chained to Anton Petrov, between me and the cage my father built around my life.

The compound’s familiar silhouette emerges through the trees—concrete walls, security towers, the place where I was held captive for weeks. Where Erik first tied me to a bed and made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

Strange how returning here feels like coming home.

Erik downshifts as we approach the main gate. Security personnel wave us through, clearly expecting our arrival. The McLaren follows, tires crunching over gravel as we pull into the courtyard.

I slide off the motorcycle on unsteady legs, my body still buzzing from the escape. Erik’s arm immediately circles my waist, steadying me.

“Inside. Now.” Dmitri’s voice carries urgency as he helps Alexi from the passenger seat.

Blood has soaked through Alexi’s shirt, spreading dark stains across the fabric. His face is pale, but his eyes remain sharp and focused.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Alexi protests as we move toward the main entrance. “Barely a scratch.”

“A scratch that’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” Nikolai states.

Alexi chuckles. “Don’t get me started. You went to the doctor for a papercut if I remember rightly.”

“That was a very deep paper cut,” Nikolai’s tone remains deadpan.

Despite everything—the gunfire, the chase, Alexi’s injury—I find myself almost smiling at their banter. Even wounded, they deflect concern with humor. It’s so different from my father’s coldness or Ivan’s cruelty.

The medical room smells of antiseptic and sterile equipment. Erik guides me to a chair in the corner before turning his attention to Alexi, who’s already peeling off his blood-soaked shirt with one hand.

“Sit,” Erik commands his youngest brother, pointing to the examination table.

“Yes, Doctor Ivanov,” Alexi salutes mockingly with his good arm. “Should I say ‘ah’ too?”

Erik ignores the sarcasm, pulling on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. His movements are clinical—nothing like the passionate man who held me moments ago. This is his military training taking over.

“Local anesthetic?” Erik asks, preparing a syringe.

“Nah, I’m tough. Besides, pain builds character.” Alexi grins, then winces as Erik probes the wound. “Okay, maybe a little numbing wouldn’t hurt.”

“Hold still.” Erik injects the area around the bullet graze. His hands remain steady despite everything we’ve just been through.

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