Page 54 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“Hospital,” I managed to rasp as they loaded me into what felt like the back seat of an SUV. “Not Bratva. Regular hospital.”
“The hell?” Maxim’s voice. When had he gotten here? “You need Kozlov’s people—”
“No.” The word came out stronger than I felt. “If Petro’s people are watching Bratva facilities, I’m dead the moment I walk through the door. Regular hospital. Anonymous.”
“He’s right.” Drew again. “St. Mary’s is twenty minutes south. Clean, quiet, no questions asked if we pay upfront.”
I felt the car lurch into motion, felt Anya’s hand find mine again in the dark. Her fingers were shaking.
“I’m okay,” I lied, because sometimes lies were kinder than the truth.
“You’re not okay.” Her voice was steady, but I could hear the tears underneath. “You’re hurt, and bleeding, and you scared me.”
Scared her. Christ. I’d done the one thing I’d promised never to do—I’d left her alone and afraid, wondering if I was coming back.
“Won’t happen again,” I whispered.
“You’re damn right it won’t.” The steel in her voice made me want to smile, even through the pain. My sunshine, my light, had found her claws. Good. She was going to need them.
Because this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Petro had played his hand, shown his cards, revealed that he was willing to kill me in the messiest, most personal way possible. But he’d also made a mistake.
He’d let me live.
And now I knew exactly what I was up against.
***
The drive to the hospital passed in fragments. Anya’s voice, soft and steady, telling me about her day, about Sasha’sreplacement, about anything that would keep me anchored to consciousness. Trev coordinating with Drew about cleanup—the wreckage, the evidence, the story they’d tell anyone who asked questions.
Maxim on the phone with someone, his voice low and deadly. “Find me everything on Ukrainian Cossack burial rites. Traditional execution methods. I want to know how these people think, how they move, what makes them bleed.”
The pieces were falling into place, forming a picture I should have seen earlier. This wasn’t just about vengeance for Taras’s death. This was ritual. Ceremony. A holy war dressed up in Old World traditions and Saint Michael iconography.
Petro wasn’t just trying to kill me. He was trying to purify the world of my existence, to send my soul to whatever hell he thought men like me deserved.
The joke was on him. I’d been living in hell for twenty-seven years. A few more decades wouldn’t make much difference.
But Anya—Anya was light and warmth and everything good in this fucked-up world. And if Petro thought he could touch her, could use her to hurt me, he was about to learn what real monsters looked like when you threatened the only thing they loved.
The SUV pulled into the hospital parking lot, and I felt the shift as we went from hunters on the prowl to civilians seeking help. Drew had already called ahead, arranged for a private room and a doctor who understood that sometimes patients needed discretion more than they needed questions.
“We’re here,” Anya whispered, her lips brushing my temple. “You’re going to be okay.”
I tried to squeeze her hand, but my grip was weakening. The edges of my vision blurred, darkening like someone was slowly closing curtains on the world.
“We both are,” I managed to whisper, though the words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.
Because now I knew the score. Now I understood the game Petro was playing.
And I was done being reactive, done chasing shadows and jumping at decoy leads.
It was time to go hunting.
But first, I had to heal. Had to get strong enough to—
The thought slipped away as darkness pulled me under. My last sensation was Anya’s hand clutching mine, her voice calling my name from somewhere far away.
