Page 11 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“Keeping you alive,” I bite out, shoving open the passenger door. “Stay down.”
“Put me down, you psycho—!”
I drop her into the seat, slam the door, and round the car just as more shots crack through the lot. Tires screech.
Fuck. More Zakharov scum are here. My men peel out with Valentin, Iosif covering them as they go.
I slide behind the wheel and pull out my gun before bringing the engine to life.
Yulia’s still yelling beside me, trying to claw at the door handle.
“Don’t,” I warn, voice steel. “You don’t want to step out there right now.”
She freezes for half a second as another bullet ricochets off the asphalt nearby, her chest rising and falling like she’s seconds from hyperventilating.
“Buckle up,” I order, punching the accelerator.
The tires squeal as I rip out of the lot, weaving through the side streets, eyes darting between the mirrors. My jaw tightens when I spot headlights closing in fast behind us.
Of course, they’re not done.
“Let me out,” Yulia demands, voice cracking at the edges now, fear tangled with rage. “I’m not going anywhere with you—”
“You already are,” I snap, swerving onto a side street as another car barrels into view. “Stay low.”
She’s scrambling to process it all—the attack, me, the gun in my lap—but her stubbornness burns through the fear.
“You kidnapped me,” she hisses, gripping the seat, her eyes wild. “What kind of psychopath—”
“Saving your ass, actually,” I cut in. “But if you want to step out and introduce yourself to the guys with automatic weapons, then that’s an adventure you might not live to talk about.”
Her mouth opens, but the next burst of gunfire shatters the rear windshield.
I swerve hard, one hand on the wheel, the other raising my gun, firing a clean shot through the back window. One of the pursuing cars jerks sideways, tires screeching as it collides with a parked truck.
“Jesus Christ,” Yulia gasps, ducking instinctively as glass rains down.
The second car’s still tailing us, close now, too close.
My pulse hammers steady, every muscle taut as I maneuver through the industrial backstreets. I can feel hershifting beside me—heart racing, adrenaline climbing, her mind working a mile a minute.
Then, to my utter aggravation, she moves.
The second I swerve around a corner, her hand slams the door latch open. I reach for her, but she’s faster, diving out into the alleyway, rolling to the pavement before I can grab hold.
“Yulia!” I snarl, tires screeching as I slam the brakes.
I want to stop. Want to haul her stubborn ass back into the car where she’s protected. But headlights flare in the mirror—the other car’s still on me, gaining fast.
I scan the alley as I roll past, eyes sharp. She’s already gone—disappeared between dumpsters, shadows swallowing her whole. No movement. No silhouette. No clear target.
Good.
If I can’t see her, neither can they.
I grind my teeth, fury knotting in my chest as I slam my foot down on the gas, peeling off into the next side street, forcing their car to follow. My priorities are locked—the faster I lose them, the safer she stays.
I’ll deal with her later.
