Page 69 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
The warehouse behind me erupted in fire and fury, shockwaves slamming into my back and driving me to my knees. Heat washed over me like the breath of dragons, and I realized that Petro had never intended to walk away from this fight.
He’d planned to take me with him into whatever hell waited for men like us.
But I had promises to keep, and death was just another enemy to outmaneuver.
Time to show this holy warrior what real devils looked like when you threatened their families.
Chapter 24 – Anya
The safe house smelled of lavender and old wood, a deliberate choice meant to calm frayed nerves and provide the illusion of normalcy in a world that had forgotten what normal looked like. I helped Sasha settle onto the couch, her movements still careful and pained despite the medical attention she’d received. Every wince, every sharp intake of breath when she shifted position, was a reminder of what my world had cost her.
Eleanor moved through the nearby kitchen with practiced efficiency, stirring a pot of chamomile tea that filled the air with honey-sweet steam. Her movements were precise and controlled, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she checked the windows every few minutes, as if expecting unwelcome visitors.
Maxim sat on the edge of the windowsill, his large frame balanced with the casual grace of someone who had spent years learning to be comfortable in dangerous places. His gun rested across his lap, safety off, finger placed beside the trigger guard in that relaxed-but-alert position that indicated professional training. His eyes swept the tree line beyond the glass, cataloging shadows and movement with the methodical precision of a man who knew that safety was an illusion maintained through constant vigilance.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Sasha, arranging the throw pillows behind her back.
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” she admitted, managing a weak smile. “But alive. That’s more than I expected yesterday.
The casual way she said it made my chest tighten. This was what my world did to innocent people—it turned survival into a pleasant surprise instead of a basic expectation.
“I’m sorry,” I said for the hundredth time since we’d pulled her from that basement hell. “You should never have—”
“Stop.” Her hand found mine, squeezing with surprising strength. “We’ve been through this. It’s not your fault that psychopaths exist.”
But it felt like my fault. Everything about this situation, from Sasha’s kidnapping to the war currently tearing Chicago apart, stemmed from choices I’d made. I chose to love Lev Antonov. I chose to marry into his world. I chose to bring a child into this chaos.
Those choices had consequences that rippled outward, touching everyone around me.
The communications equipment in the corner of the room crackled to life, voices cutting through the domestic tranquility like knives through silk. Trev’s voice, tight with urgency, followed by Drew’s clipped responses. Then Maxim’s radio joined the symphony, multiple channels overlapping in a cacophony of tactical updates and casualty reports.
“Status report,” Maxim said into his headset, his voice dropping to that deadly calm register that meant something had gone very wrong.
The response hit the room like a bomb.
“Mila is gone. She escaped.”
Eleanor’s hand froze halfway to the teapot. Sasha went rigid beside me, her face draining of what little color the medical team had managed to restore. And I felt something cold and predatory unfurl in my chest—not fear, not anymore, but rage.
“How?” Maxim’s voice could cut glass.
“Picked the locks on her restraints. Killed two guards on her way out.” Drew’s voice crackled through the comm, distorted by distance and encryption but clear enough to convey the magnitude of our problem. “She left a message painted in their blood. Says she’s coming for Anya and Trev.”
Of course, she was. Mila Kozak, the ghost assassin who had turned murder into a religious experience, wasn’t doneplaying games with our family. The failed poisoning had just been the opening move in whatever twisted symphony of violence her father had composed for our destruction.
Trev’s voice cut through the chatter, his tone carrying the kind of controlled fury that meant someone was about to die. “I’m pulling all traffic drone footage from sectors 9 through 12. She can’t have gotten far.”
I watched Maxim’s face as he processed information flowing through his earpiece—updates, coordinates, the kind of real-time intelligence that turned manhunts into precision operations. His expression shifted from concern to grim determination.
“She’s heading for the safe house,” he announced, already moving toward his weapons cache.
My blood turned to ice. This place, this sanctuary that was supposed to keep us safe from the war raging in the city, had become another battlefield. Mila knew where we were, knew our defenses, knew exactly how to turn our refuge into our tomb.
“We need to move,” I said, already calculating escape routes and transportation options.
“No time,” Maxim replied, checking his rifle with practiced efficiency. “She’s less than ten minutes out.”
Trev’s voice crackled through the comm again, deadly and certain. “Not today.”
