Page 60 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“Juice. You should drink something.”
The concern in her voice sounded genuine, but there was something underneath it—a note I couldn’t quite identify. I blinked hard, rubbing my forehead where a headache had been building behind my eyes like storm clouds gathering.
“Did you get my phone?” The words came out rougher than I’d intended, my throat dry as paper.
Erin paused, and in that split second of hesitation, something cold unfurled in my stomach. Then she gave me that sweet smile, the one that had been making my skin crawl for days without me being able to articulate why.
“Oh. It slipped my mind,” she said, turning quickly toward the door with movements that seemed just a fraction too calculated, too smooth.
I reached for the glass she’d placed on the nightstand, my fingers wrapping around the cool surface. The juice inside was a deep red—cranberry, maybe, or pomegranate.
That was when I heard it.
The loud, violent bang of the main door swinging open hard enough to hit the wall. The sound crashed through the penthouse like thunder, and I jolted so hard the glass nearly slipped from my fingers.
Familiar male voices, urgent and sharp with adrenaline. Heavy footsteps moving fast across hardwood floors. The kind of coordinated movement that spoke of training, of men who knew how to move as a unit.
Then gunfire.
Sharp, precise shots that made my blood turn to ice. I dropped the glass completely, and it shattered against the floor, juice spreading like a sunrise bleeding out across the white tiles—or like blood,my mind supplied unhelpfully.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I scrambled to my feet, bare soles finding purchase on the cold floor as I ran toward the sounds of chaos. The hallway stretched in front of me, and I could hear voices now—Maxim’s bark of command, Drew’s clipped responses, the sound of someone being shoved roughly against a wall.
I pushed through the open doorway and froze.
The scene in front of me didn’t make sense at first. My brain struggled to process what I was seeing, like looking at one of those optical illusions where the image shifts depending on how you focus your eyes.
Erin was on her knees in the middle of our living room, arms twisted behind her back by Trev’s strong hands. But this wasn’t the helpful, sweet assistant I’d been living with for weeks. This girl’s face had been transformed—all sharp angles and cold calculation, her pale eyes holding the kind of emptiness I’d only seen in one place before.
In the eyes of killers.
Casandra, Maxim, Trev, and Drew surround her, guns drawn and pointed with the steady precision of people who had done this before. And Lev—God, Lev was here, standing despite the crutches leaning against the wall behind him, his face radiating a fury so pure it made the air around him seem to shimmer with heat.
“Lev.” His name tore from my throat like a prayer, and I was moving before conscious thought kicked in.
He caught me as I crashed into him, his arms wrapping around me with desperate strength despite his injuries. Thefamiliar scent of his cologne mixed with hospital antiseptic grounded me, making this nightmare feel slightly less surreal.
“Are you alright?” His voice was rough, hands moving over me like he was checking for injuries, for proof that I was real and whole and here.
I nodded, but the movement made the world tilt sideways. My knees buckled, and suddenly, both Lev and Maxim were supporting my weight, guiding me to the couch with the gentle efficiency of men who had dealt with shock before.
That was when Erin laughed.
The sound was nothing like the soft, musical laugh I’d been hearing for weeks. This was cold, cruel, and sharp enough to cut. It raised every hair on my arms and made something primitive in my brain start screaming warnings.
“Your kid and wife are about to die.” Her voice carried an accent now, something Eastern European that she’d been hiding behind careful pronunciation. “I slipped something in her juice.”
The words hit the room like a physical blow. Silence fell so complete I could hear my own heartbeat, could hear the soft whistle of Lev’s breathing through what might be partially healed ribs.
Lev’s face went pale, his eyes widening as the implications sank in. Kid. She’d saidkid. Which meant—
“Lev,” I started, realizing he didn’t know, hadn’t had a chance to process what I’d discovered.
But then something sharp and fierce rose in my chest, cutting through the fog of exhaustion and fear. With sudden clarity, with a voice that surprises me with its strength, I barked out: “I didn’t drink it.”
Every head in the room turned toward me. Six pairs of eyes, all focused on my face with varying degrees of shock, relief, and confusion.
“I didn’t drink the damn juice.” The words came easier now, riding on a wave of fury that burns away the last of my weakness. “I’m off balance because I’m pregnant, and the pregnancy is weak.”
