Page 99 of Bratva Bride
Yelena lifts her gun again, her jaw tight, eyes shining with a feverish certainty. “It’s too late now. Your family is branded,” she whispers, almost to herself. “I need to finish this. Tie off every thread.”
Nadya pulls Nikolai closer, breath ragged, blood seeping from her thigh. I keep my aim steady, my mind racing for a way out, some final card to play.
“None of us asked for this,” Nadya says, voice shaking but strong. “Alexei set this in motion, not us. And he’s dead. He’s paid his debts, Yelena. You can’t do this, whatever twisted legacy you think you’re protecting, this isn’t it.”
Yelena’s eyes flick to Nadya, her resolve faltering just for a breath. “Perhaps,” she murmurs, the word a soft ghost between her lips, “but I will.”
In that moment, something flickers behind her. It’s Rifat, moving in, gun drawn, but Yelena’s senses are too alert; she pivots, firing a shot that sends him sprawling to the deck. He isn’t dead, but she’s forced them all back, her attention turning toward me, gun trembling for the first time all night.
I see the hesitation in her eyes, the doubt, the rage, the ancient loneliness. I don’t wait. I raise my weapon, years of training and pain steadying my hand.
Our eyes lock.
For an instant, she almost smiles, an echo of the woman I once thought I understood. “You really should have loved me back,” she breathes.
My finger squeezes the trigger. The shot rips through the air, hitting her square in the chest.
Yelena staggers, mouth falling open in shock. For a moment she’s just a woman again, lost and alone, then she collapses, the gun skittering from her grasp. She lies still, blood spreading beneath her on the steel deck.
Silence falls, broken only by the slap of water and Nadya’s ragged breathing.
EPILOGUE
NADYA
Pretendingto hate my husband in front of the entire world has to be the most difficult thing I’ve done in my life. But there’s another secret I’ve carried, something I’ve been hiding from him for weeks now.
Konstantin gathers me in his arms, lifting me off the cold steel with a gentleness that’s almost heartbreaking. His grip is tight, desperate, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. My leg is throbbing, blood soaking through the torn fabric, but all I can think of is the hollow ache in my chest.
“Nikolai,” I manage, my voice barely there, panic spiking as the pain swells again.
“Arman has him,” Konstantin whispers. His voice is thick and rough, and for once, I don’t have the energy to argue. My body is limp, everything heavy and blurry around the edges as he carries me away from the chaos and ruin.
The world tilts, spinning around the lights and sirens. I’m vaguely aware of doors slamming, voices shouting, Konstantin shouting back. He doesn’t let me go, even when someone triesto pull me from his grasp. His heart pounds beneath my cheek, fast and unsteady, and I focus on the familiar rhythm, letting it anchor me to the present.
There’s a rush of cold air, the stinging scent of antiseptic, and then bright lights overhead. Hands peel me away from Konstantin, voices muffled and urgent. I try to reach for him, but my arms feel like lead.
And then darkness swallows me whole.
I turn my head, blinking against the hospital light. Konstantin is at my side in an instant, taking my hand in both of his. I see the exhaustion written all over his face, but beneath it, there’s something brighter, rawer with relief.
My first thought is for the children. My voice comes out hoarse. “Where’s Mila? Nikolai?”
He squeezes my fingers. “Safe. Mila’s with Pyotr, so is Nikolai—he hasn’t left his side. Everyone’s alright, Nadya. You kept them safe.” There’s a break in his voice as he says it, and the truth settles over me with a kind of aching warmth.
“Arman?”
“Not at the hospital,” Konstantin says. “But he did help save your life.”
I look away. “He saved my life in more ways than I can count, but he also got innocent people killed.”
For a moment, we just look at each other. There’s nothing left to say, not after everything we’ve survived, all the lies we’ve had to tell, even to ourselves. He leans down, and I meet him halfway. Our lips brush, soft at first, then deeper. It’s not about passion or hunger, not this time.
Konstantin brushes his thumb over the back of my hand, searching my face as if he still can’t believe it’s really over. The silence stretches, soft and full of all the things we never got to say in public.
He finally speaks, voice low, almost disbelieving. “When did you figure out Anya’s truth?”
I smile faintly, letting my head rest back against the pillow. “I didn’t, not at first. Not really. It was something Tatiana said at the party, actually. She was the one who planted the doubt.”
