Chapter 14 Ayla
Ayla
“Wait.”
The word comes out steadier than I feel.
“I need a head start.”
He chuckles; low, dark, like this is really entertaining him. My heart is slamming, but I don’t let my body show it. I’ve learned that trick the hard way. Panic is loud. Control is quiet.
I’ve been through worse.
Gabriel has done worse.
I lock my knees so they don’t sway, dig my boots into the dirt, force my breath into something usable. In through my nose. Out slow. If I shake, it’ll be because I choose to move—not because I’m scared.
“You have three minutes,” he says.
Three minutes isn’t mercy. It’s a challenge.
“And if you catch me,” I say, keeping my voice level, “we fight?”
“Sure.” His mouth curves, just a little. “But my mind is changing the more you speak.”
My pulse jumps despite myself.
“Changing?” I ask.
He nods once. Calm. Certain. “There are more enjoyable things for me than fighting.”
My body stills.
“Like?”
“Like fucking you Ayla.”
That sentence shifts something. It changes the shape of the threat.
“Three minutes,” I repeat, grounding myself in the number. “And if you don’t catch me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I will.”
I lift my chin. “But if you don’t?”
His eyes lock on mine, sharp and intent, like he’s already tracking me in his head.
“Then you better run far, far away, Beda.”
The words land heavy. A warning wrapped in something worse.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of another question.
I swipe the knife off the ground and turn.
The woods swallow me the second I break into a run—branches snapping, leaves slick under my boots, my breath burning fast and clean in my chest. I don’t think.
I don’t look back. I let instinct take over, the part of me that learned early how to disappear, how to move like being caught meant something far worse than death.
Three minutes.
I run like I intend to use every second of them. If he catches me…
I shudder.
No. Fuck no. He’s not hunting me. I’ll hunt him.
I have to get above.
I scan the darkness ahead, lungs already aching, and spot it—a thick oak with low branches, sturdy enough to hold my weight. I veer hard left, boots skidding on wet leaves, and launch myself at the trunk.
My fingers find bark. I pull, scramble, ignoring the way my shoulders scream. The brass knuckles make my grip awkward, but I don’t drop them. Can’t. They’re the only advantage I have besides the knife he gave me tucked into my waistband.
Up. Higher. I need height.
The branches thicken as I climb, offering better cover. My breath comes in short gasps now, each one tasting like pine and panic. I force myself to slow down, to move carefully. One broken branch and he’ll know exactly where I am.
How much time do I have left?
Two minutes? One?
I settle onto a thick branch about fifteen feet up, press my back against the trunk, and try to quiet my breathing. My thighs burn. My hands are scraped raw. But I’m hidden. For now.
The forest goes quiet.
Too quiet.
No birds. No wind. Just the sound of my own pulse hammering in my ears.
Then I hear it—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not the frantic sprint of someone searching. The measured pace of someone who already knows.
Maksim’s voice cuts through the darkness, almost lazy.
“You climbed.”
Fuck.
How does he—
“Smart,” he continues, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Most people run horizontal. You went vertical. I like that.”
I press harder against the trunk, willing myself invisible. The knife handle digs into my stomach. My fingers flex around the brass knuckles.
“But here’s the thing, Beda,” he says, and his voice is closer now. Much closer. “I can smell you.”
My stomach drops.
The marshmallow body wash. That stupid, cheap shit I bought because it was on sale. It’s going to get me killed.
Or worse.
His footsteps stop directly below my tree.
I hold my breath.
“I know you’re up there,” he says conversationally. “So are you coming down on your own, or do I come get you?”
Neither sounds good.
I stay frozen, calculating. If I jump now, I might land wrong, twist an ankle. Then I’m done. If I wait, he’ll climb up and corner me on this branch with nowhere to go.
“You have five seconds to decide,” Maksim says.
My mind races. There’s another tree close by—maybe five feet away. If I can jump—
“Five.”
I shift my weight carefully, testing the branch.
“Four.”
It’ll hold. Probably.
“Three.”
I crouch slowly, muscles coiled.
“Two.”
I take a breath.
“One.”
I launch myself into open air.
For a split second, I’m weightless—flying through darkness, pine needles whipping past my face. Then my hands connect with the branch of the neighboring tree. The impact jolts through my shoulders, nearly knocking the brass knuckles loose. I swing, get my legs up, pull myself onto the branch
Below me, I hear Maksim laugh.
“Oh, Beda.”
I don’t stop. I scramble higher, branch to branch, moving as fast as I dare. My lungs are screaming now, demanding oxygen I can’t spare. The knife digs into my ribs with every movement.
I need a plan. Need something better than just climbing until I run out of tree.
That’s when I see it—a thick branch extending toward another tree, creating a natural bridge. Risky. Potentially stupid. But if I can cross it—
“Ayla.”
His voice is right below me now.
I look down without meaning to.
Maksim stands at the base of my tree, head tilted back, those blue eyes glowing in the moonlight.
“Come down,” he says. “Or I’m coming up.”
“Fuck you,” I breathe.
His smile widens. “Eventually.”
I turn and start moving across the branch-bridge. It sways under my weight, creaking ominously. I force myself to focus—one foot, then the other. Don’t look down. Don’t think about falling.
Halfway across, I hear him climbing.
Fast.
Too fast.
The branch shudders as his weight hits it. I’m still five feet from the next tree when I feel the wood shift beneath me
“Shit—”
The branch cracks.
Not completely. Just enough to drop a bit, throwing me off balance. I windmill my arms, try to catch myself, but gravity wins.
I fall.
My hand shoots out on instinct, catches a smaller branch. It bends but holds. I dangle there, feet kicking empty air, the brass knuckles weighing down my other hand.
Above me, Maksim appears on the branch I just abandoned.
He looks down at me.
“Need help?”
“Go to hell.”
“Been there.”
I swing my legs, trying to build momentum. If I can just—
His hand closes around my wrist.
The touch is firm. Absolutely inescapable.
“Let go,” he says quietly.
“No.”
“Ayla.” His grip tightens fractionally. “Let go of the branch.”
“So you can drop me?”
“So I can pull you up.”
I stare up at him, trying to read his face in the shadows. His expression is unreadable.
He could let go.
Why should I trust him?
My fingers are slipping anyway. The choice is being made for me.
I release the branch.
The world jerks upward. He hauls me up in one controlled pull, all muscle and balance, like my weight is nothing more than a fact to manage. My boots scrape bark as I clear the branch and land hard against the trunk, breath punching out of me.
I’m still gripping the brass knuckles. They feel slick against my palm—sweat or blood, I can’t tell in the dark. My chest heaves, dragging in air that tastes like pine and adrenaline.
Maksim doesn’t let go of my wrist.
He’s close now. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his chest rises and falls with steady, controlled breaths. Like he just took a leisurely stroll instead of chasing me through the woods.
“That was fun,” he says. “Let’s climb down.”
Fun. He thinks this is fun?
He let’s my wrist go and makes his way down.
What the fuck? My heart is pounding in my chest, I’m sweating through the jacket and the head of the Bratva just said this was fun?
I follow down. My breaths slowly catching up.
The pressure lifts. Just enough to be dangerous.
For a moment, it feels like it’s over.
The second my boots hit the ground, the illusion shatters. My back hits the bark hard, his hand at my throat. “Maksim—”
“You ran.” His thumb brushes across my pulse point, deliberate. “You climbed. You tried to escape. Good instincts.” His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “But you’re caught now.”
I swallow. “What happened to fun?”
“It was fun, but I win.”
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can feel it through my skin.
“We had a deal,” I manage. “I get it, if you catch me, we fight, let me go, we can spar.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous. “I changed my mind.”
Ice floods my veins.
“You can’t just—”
“I can do whatever I want, Beda. We’ve established this.”
He shifts closer, his nose inches from mine. The bark digs into my spine through the jacket.
“You smell so fucking sweet,” he murmurs. “It pisses me off.”
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Get off me.”
“Make me.”
The challenge hangs between us.
I still have the knife. Still have the brass knuckles. I could—
His mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is brutal. Demanding. His tongue sweeps past my lips before I can process what’s happening, claiming every inch of my mouth like he owns it.
I bite down. Hard.
He pulls back with a sharp inhale, blood on his bottom lip. His eyes flash in… pleasure.
Hunger.
“Fuck, Ayla,” he breathes. “you are going to be so much fun.
I drive my knee up toward his groin.
He blocks it with his thigh, shifts his weight, I’m completely pinned. The tree at my back, his body caging me in from the front. His weight, heavy, on me. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says, almost gentle.
“Good.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. “Still hostile, Krolik.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Are you scared?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He eases back a bit, one hand moving to my hip fingers digging in through the denim. The pressure is firm. Possessive. It makes something hot and unwanted coil low in my stomach.
No. Absolutely not.
I bring the brass knuckles up, aiming for his jaw.
It connects.