Page 105 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva
I roll my shoulders, every inch of me aching, buzzing, alive.
“Let’s go home.”
The stench of smoke and blood clings to my skin as I storm out of the building, boots crunching over shattered glass, the night air slapping me in the face. My hands are still slick with someone else’s blood, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
She needs me.
Maxim is waiting just outside by the car as the back door opens.
Violet is slumped in the seat, her body loose with exhaustion and drugs. Her head tips against the window, lips parted like she’s breathing in fragments. My chest twists violently.
“She’s semi-conscious,” Maxim tells me. “In and out, but…she keeps saying your name.”
That does it.
I walk straight to her and take her, gently, like she’s made of light and glass. Her arms move, just barely, like she recognizes me even in this haze.
“Shh,” I murmur. “I’ve got you now.”
She settles in my arms instantly, her cheek resting on my collarbone, her fingers twitching against my chest.
Niko appears beside me, blood streaked across his jaw, shirt torn at the shoulder. He claps a hand on my shoulder, eyes sharp but satisfied.
“That’s it,” he says. “We’ll head home. You go.”
I nod once. “I owe you a big favor.”
He smirks. “You do. Don’t worry—I’ll cash it in.” Then he turns, barking orders to his men, fading into the night like smoke.
Maxim’s already behind the wheel by the time I slide into the backseat with Violet in my arms. I don’t let go of her—not even for a second. She murmurs my name again in her sleep, soft and cracked, and I press my lips to her forehead.
“I’m right here,kotyonok,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”
Maxim speeds through the streets, straight to the airstrip. The runway lights are already glowing in the dark like a path back to sanity. Our jet is waiting, engines on, doors open. No delays. I told them I’d be back with hell behind me—and I am.
I carry her up the steps of the plane like she weighs nothing, like she is everything. Because she is. And this time, I will never let her go again.
As soon as we’re in the air, I take her straight to the jet’s private bedroom. I lay her down gently, then grab a warm cloth and begin cleaning her body—carefully, methodically. I won’t let anyone else touch her. Not right now. Not while she’s still trembling. Not while her body still smells like smoke.
I wipe her arms, her legs, her scraped palms. Her breathing is steadier now, the furrow in her brow softening slightly. I clean her face last—tracing gently over her jaw, her lips, the faint bruises marring her cheek.
She stirs again.
“Violet?” I lower beside her, brush her hair away from her face.
Her eyes crack open, wide and glazed. Then suddenly—recognition.
And then—tears. A sob catches in her throat as she launches into me, wrapping her arms around my neck. She clutches me like I’m the only thing keeping her from drowning.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she chokes out.
I hold her tighter. “You will always see me again. I will always come for you.”
She nods against my shoulder, still crying. I close my eyes and press my lips to her hair, breathing her in.
“I’m sorry.”
I blink, not sure I heard her right.
