Page 70 of Scarlet Chains
The blood pounds in my ears like war drums. My vision tunnels until all I can see is Stanley’s face, that smug expression of satisfaction that tells me he’s been waiting for this moment. Waiting to see my world crumble. Waiting to watch the knowledge destroy me from the inside out.
Galina.
Her face flashes through my mind— those soft brown eyes, the way she’d smile so gently then rest her hands on her swollen belly. My son growing inside her, safe and warm… until Morrison decided to play God with their lives.
She’d trusted people. That was always Galina’s weakness and her greatest strength. She saw good in everyone, believed in second chances, gave people the benefit of the doubt even when they didn’t deserve it. It’s what made her beautiful. It’s what got her killed.
The memory hits me like a physical blow: the last time I saw her alive, standing in the doorway of our apartment, telling me to be careful. The way she’d pressed her hand to her stomach and said our baby was restless that day, kicking like he wanted to meet his father.
I should have stayed home.
I should have been there.
But I wasn’t. I was… I was here. With Ilona. While Stanley was ending her life. The guilt is a living thing inside my chest, clawing at my ribs, tearing at the scar tissue I thought had healed over that wound.
“You fucking monster,” I breathe, the words hard to hear over the roaring in my ears.
The rage that hits me is volcanic, the kind of fury that could level cities and salt the earth behind them. It surges through my veins like molten metal, burning away fear, burning away rational thought, burning away everything except the single, consuming need to destroy the man who took the mother of my child from this world.
But even through the red haze of killing rage, I see Ilona’s expression visibly change. Her eyes go wide with shock, then narrow with understanding. Then, her gaze meets mine with determination that sends my heart surging.
It’s like we silently agree that Stanley has to go.
I immediately know she wants to do something and I know it’s risky. I can see it in her eyes, in the subtle tension that enters her body despite the knife at her throat. She’s going to try to fightback, putting her own life at risk. All Stanley needs to do is swing the knife and Ilona’s done for.
Shit.
I don’t know how to stop whatever Ilona is planning without letting Stanley know.
I deepen my gaze into hers, hoping she understands that I want her to stop doing whatever she’s planning to do. My eyes try to communicate everything I can’t say aloud:Wait. Let me handle this. Don’t risk yourself for me.
But she’s not listening. I can see it in the way her muscles coil beneath her skin, in the way her breathing changes from shallow panic to controlled preparation. This woman— my woman— has never been one to wait for rescue. She’s a fighter, and she’s going to fight.
Stanley continues his monologue, drunk on his own power, reveling in the pain he’s causing. “Oh, you should have seen her face when she realized what was happening. Sweet little Galina, so trusting, so naive. She actually thought I was there to help her.” His voice drops to a whisper, intimate and obscene. “She kept saying your name right up until the end, you know.‘Osip will come for me. Osip will save me.’But where were you, Osip? Hm? Where were you when she needed you most?”
Each word is a knife twist, designed to maximize damage. And it’s working.
“I killed them both,” Stanley continues, savoring every syllable like fine wine. “Your precious little bastard, growing inside her belly. I made sure to take care of both of them. Two birds, one stone. Efficient, don’t you think?”
But that’s not right.
Slava survived. My son lived through that nightmare, lived through Stanley’s attempts to murder him in the womb. The paramedics saved him, pulled him from his mother’s dying bodyand gave him a chance at life that this piece of human garbage tried to steal.
But Stanley doesn’t know that. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell him.
“You’re a dead man,” I breathe, the words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “You’re fucking dead, Morrison. I’m going to rip your heart out with my bare hands.”
“Am I?” He shifts the knife, pressing it deeper into Ilona’s throat. More blood flows, a crimson river against her skin. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the one who’s fucked. She dies first, then you. Just like I planned.”
Ilona mouths: “Now.”
Blyad!
Everything happens at once.
Despite the grim situation she’s in, despite the knife at her throat and Stanley’s arm around her waist, Ilona musters up her courage and drives her elbow back into Stanley’s solar plexus with every ounce of strength she possesses. The impact is solid, meaty, the sound of bone connecting with soft tissue. Stanley doubles over with a grunt of pain and surprise, his grip on the knife loosening for just a heartbeat.
But a heartbeat is all I need.
