Page 66 of Scarlet Chains
Yobani urod!
Ilona!
Adrenaline floods me like a wave as every instinct honed over years of violence screams that she’s in danger. That someone is hurting herright now, while I stand here frozen like an idiot.
Ilona!
Someone is in there with her.
The thought barely forms before it’s overwhelmed by rage so pure and violent it threatens to tear me apart from the inside out. Someone is in that room withmywoman. Someone is touching her, hurting her, making her scream.
Every civilized thought evaporates, replaced by cold fury that’s kept me alive through wars and prisons and betrayals that should have destroyed me.
The door handle turns under my grip. One moment it’s locked, the next it’s giving way before violence that doesn’t recognize obstacles.
I fling the door open and the sight before me makes me see red.
Ilona, pressed against the far wall in a silk robe that’s been torn open, the fabric hanging loose to reveal pale skin marked with red fingerprints. Her eyes wide with terror that transforms into shock when she sees me. And standing over her, one hand on her throat, the other trailing down her body with possessive familiarity—
Stanley fucking Morrison!
And he has his hands on my woman.
Mywoman!
Time stills into perfect, deadly clarity. Every detail burns itself into memory— the way Stanley’s fingers are positioned around her throat like he owns her, the twisted smile spreading across his face, the sick satisfaction in his eyes when he realizes he’s been caught. The sheer terror in her beautiful eyes, the way her chest rises and falls with panicked breathing.
Ublyudok!
What is that cunt doing here?
The sight of his hands on her skin, of her fear, of the violation already begun— it detonates something primal in my chest. This ismywoman. Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to fuckingkillfor. And this piece of shit has his filthy hands all over her, has made her afraid, has dared to touch what belongs to me.
Questions pile up and collapse under rage that’s been building for months. Every nightmare, every imagined scenario, every fear that kept me awake— it’s all here, made real, happeningright fucking now. The fury burns through my veins like molten steel, obliterating every rational thought except one:
Stanley Morrison dies tonight.
“Morrison!” I roar. I cross the room in three strides, my fist connecting with Stanley’s jaw before he can finish whatever clever remark he’s preparing. The impact sends him stumbling backward, his grip on Ilona finally broken as he crashes into the wall behind him.
“You son of a bitch!” He spits blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Red droplets spatter the expensive carpet. “You think you can just—”
My second punch cuts off his words, this one aimed at his solar plexus with the full weight of my fury behind it. Air rushes out of him in a whoosh, doubling him over as he fights to breathe.
“You don’t fucking touch her,” I snarl, my voice coming out as something barely human. “You don’t evenlookat her.”
But Stanley Morrison didn’t build his reputation by being easy to intimidate. He recovers faster than I expect, his own fist whistling toward my face with trained skill. I duck low, feel the wind of his punch ruffle my hair, then explode upward with an elbow strike aimed at his ribs.
The crack of bone echoes through the room like a gunshot.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Stanley gasps, but I can see the pain flickering behind his eyes, the way he’s already favoring his left side. “No wonder Ilona came looking for better company.”
The taunt detonates what little control I have left. I feint left, then drive my right fist into his kidney with enough force to rupture organs. Stanley staggers but somehow stays upright, his own hand shooting out to grab my throat with desperate strength.
We grapple in the confined space, two apex predators locked in mortal combat. Stanley is bigger than I remember, muscles corded with the kind of power that comes from expensive gyms and personal trainers. His technique is polished, professional— clean combinations and proper footwork that speaks of military training or private instruction.
But he’s also soft underneath it all. Pampered. Used to intimidating with words and money and reputation rather than the kind of violence that leaves permanent scars.
I learned to fight in Moscow streets where losing meant more than just pride. Where hesitation was death, and mercy was a luxury that got you killed. Where every day was a choice between survival and extinction.
