Page 17 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

Sabrina

Irun until my lungs burn and my legs shake with exhaustion. The storm hits harder now, rain driving down in sheets that soak through my dress in minutes and turn the forest floor into a treacherous maze of mud and fallen branches. Every step is agony without shoes, which was one aspect of my escape plan I never managed to find a solution for, but I keep moving because stopping means giving up, and I’m not ready to do that.

The keycard I lifted from his belt when he leaned close is still in my hand in case I need it to access a gate. This property surely has a huge fence, though I haven’t seen it yet. I can’t see much through the rain, save for the moments when lightning flashes across the sky.

I think about the moment he almost kissed me, when his guard was completely down and all his attention was focused on my mouth. That’s when I moved. Desperation made it possible to suppress the desire flooding through me, and I snatched it when I had a chance.

Now I’m free, but freedom in the middle of nowhere during a thunderstorm with heavy rain doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like trading one kind of death for another.

Thunder crashes overhead, and lightning illuminates the forest in stark, terrifying detail. I have no idea how far I’ve come or how much farther I need to go to reach the highway. My bare feet are torn and bleeding from roots and rocks, and the cold is starting to settle deep in my bones.

Still, I keep running because the alternative is going back to that beautiful prison and pretending I don’t feel something dangerous building between us every time he looks at me. I saw the way he stared at my mouth, and the hunger in his eyes mirroring mine. Staying means losing myself completely.

The sound of an engine cuts through the storm like a blade.

I freeze, pressing myself against the trunk of a massive pine tree and listening to the low rumble growing closer. Headlights sweep through the trees ahead of me, and I realize I haven’t been running in circles. I’ve been heading straight for the road as I’d planned.

Too late, though, because he’s found me.

The black SUV stops fifty yards away, engine idling, and its headlights cutting through the rain. I can’t see him through the windshield, but I know he’s there.

Waiting.

Watching.

I could run deeper into the forest and try to lose him in the darkness and the storm, but my body is already at its limit, and I won’t make it much farther in these conditions.

The driver’s door opens, and he steps out into the rain.

Even through the storm, in the darkness, he moves with the kind of predatory grace that makes my breath catch. He doesn’t hurry or call out threats or demand I come back. He just walks toward my hiding spot with the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly how this is going to end.

I break cover and run.

It’s pointless, we both know it, but some stubborn part of me refuses to make this easy for him. If he wants me back, he’s going to have to work for it.

My bare feet slip on wet leaves, and I go down hard, scraping my palms against rough bark as I try to catch myself. Before I can get back up, strong hands close around my arms and haul me to my feet.

I spin around to face him, expecting anger or threats or the cold fury I saw in his eyes when he first brought me to the safehouse, and I denied being Irina. Instead, I see something that looks almost like relief.

“You’re bleeding.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something underneath it that makes me regret running from him.

I feel… guilty.

I look down at my hands, at the cuts from rocks and thorns, and the blood mixing with rain. “I’m fine.”

“You’re hypothermic.”

He’s right. I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand, and my lips feel numb. The adrenaline that carried me this far is starting tofade, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion and the kind of cold that settles in your marrow.

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t lecture me about the stupidity of running or threaten me with punishment for stealing his keycard. Instead, he shrugs out of his coat and wraps it around my shoulders, and the gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it breaks something inside me.

“Don’t.” I try to push away the coat, but my hands are shaking too badly to be effective. “Don’t be nice to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes this harder.”

Something flickers in his expression, pain or maybe understanding. “Makes what harder?”

---