Page 68 of Scarlet Chains
But desperation makes men capable of impossible things. While I’m catching my breath and assessing the damage to my own body, Morrison’s good hand darts toward the fallen knife with the speed of a striking serpent.
His fingers close around the handle just as I realize my mistake. Just as I understand that this fight is not over yet.
It’s as if everything happens in slow motion. Stanley’s hand shoots out, grabs Ilona’s wrist, yanks her against his chest. The knife appears at her throat, the edge kissing her pale skin with the promise of red ruin.
“That’s enough!” Stanley’s voice is thick with blood and pain, but the triumph in it is clear. “One more step and she dies.”
The blade rests against the delicate line of her jugular, steel sharp enough to part skin with the slightest pressure. A thin line of blood already marks where the edge has found purchase, bright red against the alabaster column of her throat.
Ublyudok!
Every instinct I possess screams at me to attack, to tear Stanley apart with my bare hands. But the knife at her throat stops me cold, transforms me from predator to helpless witness in the space of a heartbeat.
One wrong move. One moment of lost control. One slip of Morrison’s hand and the woman I love bleeds out on expensive carpet while I watch.
“Good boy,” he purrs, his arm tightening around Ilona’s waist. “Now we can have a civilized conversation.”
I raise my hands slowly, showing empty palms, fighting every violent instinct that screams for blood. The sight of that blade against her skin, the thin line of red already markingwhere death waits— it’s worse than any torture I endured in Siberian cells.
“Let her go, Stanley.” My voice comes out steady, professional, but I can hear the underlying thread of desperation. “This is between us. She has nothing to do with it.”
“Nothing to do with it?” Stanley laughs, the sound harsh and ugly in the confined space. “She has everything to do with it. Daddy’s little girl, walking around free while her father’s debt goes unpaid.”
Ilona’s eyes find mine across the room, and in them I see a universe of emotion— fear, yes, but also something else. Something that looks almost like… forgiveness? Understanding?
The moment stretches between us, heavy with everything we’ve never said, everything we’ve lost, everything we might never have the chance to recover. She’s so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her, even now, even with Stanley’s knife at her throat and death hovering in the air between us.
“Osip.” Her voice trembles but carries across the room with startling clarity. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”
The words break something inside my chest, some wall I’ve built to keep the pain at bay. Every harsh word I spoke in Budapest, every lie I told, every moment I chose pride over honesty— it all seems meaningless now.
“Me too.” The admission tears itself from my throat without permission, raw and honest in a way I haven’t been since I was young enough to believe in salvation. “I’m so sorry,kotyonok.”
The endearment slips out before I can stop it—little kitten— and I see her eyes soften despite the terror, despite the knife at her throat. Her eyes fill with tears that she refuses to let fall, and I see in them the reflection of my own desperate hope. That somehow, despite everything— despite the blood on my handsand the lies between us and the knife at her throat— we might find a way back to each other.
In this instant, with death breathing down our necks and Stanley’s triumph echoing in the silence, all the anger and resentment and bitter words evaporate. What remains is truth, pure and simple and devastating in its clarity.
I love her.
Despite everything, because of everything, in spite of every reason why I shouldn’t— I love Ilona Shiradze with a depth that terrifies me. Love her enough to stand here helpless while a madman holds a blade to her throat, love her enough to die if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.
And in her eyes, tear-bright and shining with emotion she can’t hide, I see the same impossible truth reflected back at me.
She loves me too.
The killer, the liar, the man who might have destroyed her family— she loves me anyway.
I’m sure of it.
I pray it.
Stanley’s voice rips through the moment. “How cute,” he sneers. “A regular fucking Romeo and Juliet. But you’re both about to find out how that story ends.”
The knife presses deeper, and another thin line of blood appears on her skin.
Fuck.
Time to act.
