Chapter 23
LUKA
The bullet tears through my left shoulder like molten steel, the impact spinning me into the side of the SUV hard enough to dent the panel. My vision fractures—white stars exploding across black—and for one terrifying second, my arm goes completely dead.
Nerve damage? Shattered bone? No time to assess.
Through the haze of shock, I see them dragging her toward the van. Her body is limp, defenseless. The taser has left her as helpless as a ragdoll.
"Boss!" Mark shouts, already returning fire, but I'm moving on instinct now. My left arm hangs useless, blood running in hot rivers down to my fingertips, but my right hand finds the door handle.
I wedge myself behind the wheel, grateful it's an automatic. Shifting gears would be impossible. Blood makes the steering wheel slippery, and I can feel myself listing left, my body trying to protect the damaged shoulder.
"You're hit!" Mark dives into the passenger seat. "Let me—"
"Drive and I'll kill you myself," I snarl, already throwing the SUV into gear with my good hand. The movement sends lightning through my shoulder, and I taste copper as I bite through my lip to keep from screaming.
The van is already several blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon. They know where they're going. This was planned and orchestrated down to the last detail. The thought makes my blood run cold.
My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, but I push the pain aside. Pain is nothing. Pain is weakness. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting to Cindy before they—
I can't finish that thought. Won't let myself imagine what they might do to her.
"There!" Mark points through the windshield. "They're turning east toward the industrial district."
The warehouse district. Of course. Miles of abandoned buildings, perfect for the kind of work that requires privacy and soundproofing.
The van disappears around a corner. A truck cuts us off. I curse and slap the dashboard. “Go!”
By the time we get around, the van is gone.
“FUCK!” The word tears from my throat.
Twenty minutes of hunting through identical warehouses, and my vision is starting to tunnel. The blood loss is catching up. Mark's been on the phone, coordinating with our other units, throwing out a net across the industrial district.
"Sector 7 is clear," Viktor's voice crackles through the speaker. "Moving to—wait. Black van spotted, warehouse district, Building 47B."
My heart slams against my ribs. "How sure?"
"Plates match the partials you gave us. Two men posted outside, armed."
I spin the wheel one-handed, tires screaming as we change direction. The movement jars my shoulder, and for a moment, the world grays out. When it swims back into focus, Mark has a hand on the wheel, helping me stay on the road.
"Boss, you need—"
"I need to get to her." Blood has soaked through my shirt and my jacket, pooling in the leather seat. I can feel myself getting cold, that bone-deep chill that comes with significant blood loss. "How far?"
"Three minutes."
Three minutes. I can last three minutes. I have to.
Several of my men, including Grigori and Viktor, have joined us.
The shoulder wound has stopped bleeding, more or less, but my left arm is stiff and slow. I'll have to compensate.
I climb into the back of the SUV and pull the bag filled with guns and ammunition. I quickly stick two clips in my pocket and grab another Glock.
"Boss, you're hurt. Maybe you should—"
"I'm going in." My voice cuts through Viktor’s concern like a blade. "She's in there. That's all that matters."
There are eight of us moving toward the garage. We use hand signals to communicate.
Viktor steps forward first and throws a smoke grenade through the door. The air is filled with thick gray clouds that turn the world into a maze of shadows and confusion.
Another one goes in.
I can hear voices from inside. They’re scattering.
“Going in,” I say.
I move like death itself, sliding through the chaos without a sound. The first guard goes down before he even knows I'm there, my knife sliding between his ribs. The second turns at the sound of his partner falling and meets my fist instead of my blade.
One by one, they drop. Some fight. Some run. It doesn't matter. My men will get any that try to escape. They stood between Cindy and me, which makes them all dead men walking.
I make my way into the room. I hear a few gunshots but ignore them.
I have only one goal.
I push through a door and into a room mostly empty.
Except for a single metal folding chair sitting in the middle of the space and the woman tied to it.
Even through the smoke and darkness, I would know her anywhere.
“Luka,” she murmurs. “You’re here.”
The smell of gasoline hits me, and that’s when I see it. They've soaked the floor around her chair, turning this room into a death trap waiting for a single spark. One cigarette or a bullet, and she goes up like a Roman candle.
Rage floods through me, white-hot and consuming. They didn't just take her. They were planning to burn her alive.
I'm across the room in seconds, my knife cutting through the ropes that bind her wrists.
"I'm here," I tell her, slicing through the last of her bonds. "I'm here, malyshka. You're safe."
She looks at me for a long moment, taking in my blood-soaked shirt, and then she does something completely unexpected.
She laughs.
It's not hysteria, not shock. It's pure, genuine amusement, like she's just heard the world's best joke. "You look terrible," she says, reaching up to touch the dried blood on my cheek.
"You should see the other guys," I reply, pulling her into my arms.
I shield her while we walk toward the exit.
We're almost to the stairwell when my legs nearly give out. The adrenaline that's been carrying me is starting to fade, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion and the throbbing pain in my shoulder. I stumble, catching myself against the wall. Cindy reaches out for me.
“Let me help.”
“Who took you?” I ask.
“Drew. Anna. And someone named Yuri.”
“Fuck.” I pull out my phone. I call Viktor, who tells me to take cover. It’s not safe to leave. “Come,” I order.
I have every intention of finding a closet or office space to hide her in.
I open a door and find exactly what I’m looking for. It’s a small office with no windows. I close the door and lock it, leaving the lights off.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, my hand running over her face and her arms, checking for injuries I might have missed in my haste to get her out of that room.
"I'm fine," she says, but I can feel the tremor in her hands.
Shock, probably. Or fear is finally catching up with her now that the immediate danger has passed.
"Cindy." I frame her face with my hands. "Baby, talk to me. What did they do to you? Did they hurt you? Did they—"
She silences me with her mouth, her lips crashing into mine with desperate hunger. The kiss tastes of fear and relief and something darker, something that speaks to the primal part of my brain that's been screaming since the moment I saw her disappear into that van.
She's alive. She's here. She's safe.
But the rational part of my mind knows that could change in an instant. Her siblings are still out there, still hunting. This building could be crawling with reinforcements, and we're trapped in a windowless room.
We should be moving. We should be running. We should be getting as far away from this place as possible.
But I know it’s safer here than out there.
She's pulling at my shirt, her fingers desperate and clumsy as she tries to get closer to me, tries to prove to herself that I'm real and solid and here.
I get it. I understand the flood of adrenaline. The need to be reminded you’re alive.
"I thought you were dead," she whispers against my throat, her voice breaking. "I heard the gunshot, and I thought—"
"I'm not going anywhere," I promise, my hands tangling in her hair. "I'm not leaving you."
In the darkness, I can feel her need like a living thing between us. The way her breathing has changed, how her hands shake as they touch me—she needs this. Needs to feel alive after coming so close to death.
"Luka," she breathes. There's something raw in her voice that goes straight to my cock.
I lift her onto the desk behind us, my hands sliding up her thighs as I step between her legs. The wood creaks under her weight, but I don't give a damn if the whole thing collapses. All that matters is the heat of her body against mine, the way she's holding onto me like I'm her salvation.
"I need you," she whispers, her fingers working at my belt with desperate efficiency. "Right now. I need to feel you."
The shock, the fear, the overwhelming relief of being alive—it all has to go somewhere. And right now, it's going into this. Into us.
I capture her mouth again, swallowing her gasp as my hands find the waistband of her jeans. She lifts her hips, helping me strip them away along with her underwear. The fabric hits the floor with a soft whisper.
"Are you sure?" I ask, even though my body is screaming for her. "After what you've been through—"
"I'm sure," she says fiercely. "I need this. I need you."
My jeans hit the floor next to hers. In the pitch black of the office, everything is sensation and sound. Her sharp intake of breath when I position myself at her entrance. The way her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
I sink into her slowly, savoring the way her body accepts me. She fits around me like she was made for me. She's tight and warm and perfect. Mine. I’m the only man that’s ever touched her. That’s ever felt this sweet, tight pussy.
Mine.
For a moment, I forget about everything else.
There's only her.
"Move," she demands, her nails digging into my back. "Please, Luka. I need—"
I give her what she needs. What we both need. My hips snap forward, driving deep. She cries out against my throat. The desk rocks under us with each thrust, but I don't slow down. Can't slow down. The desperation is driving me, the knowledge that I almost lost her, that she almost—
"Harder," she gasps.
I comply without hesitation.
This isn't gentle. This isn't tender. This is primal and desperate and exactly what she needs to ground herself in the present moment. To remind herself that she's alive, that we both are.
Her breath comes in short pants against my ear, punctuated by soft moans that make my vision blur. I can feel her body tightening around me and can hear the change in her breathing that tells me she's close.
She moves with me, her hips rolling against mine.
Her hands are in my hair, pulling almost hard enough to hurt. She's whispering my name over and over like an incantation. I can feel her beginning to shake apart in my arms, her body tightening around mine as she races toward the edge.
"Let go," I tell her, my voice rough with strain and emotion. "I've got you. I'll always have you."
She shatters with my name on her lips, her head falling back as her body convulses around mine. Her tight sheath pulses around my cock and drags me over with her.
I press my forehead against hers as I follow her into the abyss, my release hitting me hard enough to make my knees buckle.
"Mine," I breathe against her mouth as we both struggle to catch our breath. "Alive. Here."
"Yours," she agrees, her voice barely audible. "Always yours."
For a long moment, we just hold each other, letting our hearts slow and our breathing return to normal. But the world has a way of intruding on even the most perfect moments.
Gunfire cuts through our haze like a knife, growing closer by the second.
We both dress in the dark.
“Stay here,” I tell her.
“Oh, hell no,” she says. “I’m coming with you. Tell me you have another gun. You taught me how to shoot. Let me prove it.”
I put a gun in her hand. "Safety's off," I tell her, wrapping her fingers around the grip. "Point and squeeze. Don't hesitate."
“Okay. Luka?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t die.”
"We finish this," I tell her.
Tonight, the Tremaine twins learn what happens when you try to burn down my world.