Page 34 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
We worked in comfortable silence for the next few hours, falling into the familiar rhythm we’d developed over the past two years. Sasha had always been more than just an assistant—she was my anchor, my voice of reason, the one person who could call me on my bullshit without making me feel defensive.
By the time the Chicago skyline was painted gold with the setting sun, we’d managed to salvage two of the vendor relationships and find alternatives for the third. My phone had been buzzing intermittently throughout the afternoon, Maxim’s name flashing across the screen like an accusation. Each time, I’d rejected the call without hesitation.
When it happened for the fifth time, Sasha looked up from her tablet. “You know he’s just worried about you.”
I shook my head, jaw clenching. “I won’t talk to him. He made me marry the person I hate the most.”
The words came out harsher than I’d intended, bitter and final. But even as I said them, something twisted in my chest. A voice in the back of my head whispered that maybe, just maybe, I was lying to myself.
Sasha tilted her head, studying my face with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but relentless. “Are you sure you hate Lev?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. I felt my carefully constructed walls trembling, threatening to crumble under the weight of truths I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
“Of course I hate him,” I said quickly. “He’s everything I despise about the Bratva world. He’s violent and controlling and—”
“And you can’t stop thinking about him.”
I glared at her. “That’s not—”
“And you married him instead of running away to Italy like you could have.”
“Maxim gave me an ultimatum. I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Anya. You chose him.”
Before I could deflect or deny or build another wall between myself and the uncomfortable truth, my phone buzzed again. But this time it wasn’t Maxim’s name on the screen.
Eleanor.
I answered without thinking, pressing the phone to my ear. “Eleanor? What—”
“Anya.” Her voice sliced through the connection like a blade, sharp with panic and barely controlled terror. “Lev has been attacked. He’s been taken to Bratva Hospital.”
The world tilted sideways.
My heart slammed into my ribs so hard I thought it might burst. The phone slipped in my suddenly nerveless fingers, and I had to grip it with both hands to keep from dropping it.
“What?” The word came out as barely a whisper. “What do you mean attacked? How bad is—is he—”
“I don’t know the details. Drew called me. All I know is that there was shooting, and Lev was hit. You need to get to the hospital now.”
The line went dead.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The office around me felt like it was dissolving, reality blurring at the edges as Eleanor’s words echoed in my head.
Lev has been attacked.
Lev was hurt.
Lev might be….
No. I shoved that thought away before it could take root. He was too stubborn to die. Too mean. Too determined to make my life complicated to just give up and leave me alone.
But the fear that gripped me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was primal, visceral, a terror that reached down into the deepest parts of me and squeezed until I couldn’t think straight.
I moved without conscious decision, muscle memory taking over where rational thought had failed. My hands went to the bottom drawer of my desk, fingers finding the hidden catch that Maxim had installed years ago. The drawer slid open silently, revealing the arsenal I’d hoped I’d never need to use.
The black leather sheath held three throwing knives, their edges honed to surgical sharpness. I’d learned to use them when I was sixteen, during one of Maxim’s paranoid phases when he’d insisted I know how to defend myself. I’d hated every lesson, hated the feel of the blades in my hands, hated what they represented.
