Chapter 47
Tucked behind a row of stacked shipping pallets, my eyes are locked on the tarmac.
The private jet is stationary—steps lowered and engines humming softly.
Sargsyan is at the base of the plane steps.
He’s in a tailored suit, pacing like he’s waiting to board for a business trip, not an abduction.
My hands twitch, and I fight the urge to just pull the trigger and drop the piece of shit where he stands.
My muscles are tight, every part of me screaming to move, to act—but I hold .
I wait.
For her.
My princess.
The door swings open on the SUV, and two men climb out from the back, dragging someone between them.
My chest contracts so hard it nearly knocks the air out of me.
She’s resisting, twisting in their grip, her face wild with frustration and fear.
Her incoherent cries cut across the tarmac, scared and urgent.
I catch a glimpse of her eyes—wide, focused, unyielding.
That’s my fucking girl. She stumbles as they drag her toward the plane, and one of the men roughly grabs her arm to steady her.
The second they reach Sargsyan, they shove her into his arms.
He grabs her, steadying her with one arm and pulling her toward him.
Shoving a gun into her side, he snakes an arm around her neck, and her whole body visibly tightens when she’s pressed against his front.
My gut clenches at the sight. He’s going to fucking die.
Sargsyan starts up the stairs, dragging Eavan with him.
She fights him every step of the way, her eyes wide open and desperately searching the tarmac for help.
The second she sees me, she freezes, and I feel every emotion harboring behind her eyes—fear, confusion, and relief.
Sargsyan shouts at her in Armenian, barking an order, digging his pistol into her side hard enough to cause her to wince.
“Take the fucking shot, Nik,” I mumble to myself.
Three subtle, distant cracks echo from the nearby tree-line—suppressed rounds.
Nikolai. A round pierces the cockpit window, dropping the pilot.
The second splatters his co-pilot’s brain across the glass.
The third hits Sargsyan, missing Eavan by maybe an inch, hitting his shoulder and snapping him backward.
He loses his footing—and his hold on Eavan— tumbling down the stairs and spilling onto the asphalt.
Eavan clutches the handrail despite the restraints they have put her in, grasping it just in time to keep herself upright.
I sprint across the tarmac, focused on nothing but her.
Everything else fades away—the plane, the noise, the world.
My shoes pound against the pavement as she bolts down the steps to me with her eyes locked on mine.
Shots ring out, and the final two of Sargsyan’s men hit the ground as I race toward her.
My eyes fall to Sargsyan in a pool of his own blood between us, wrapping his fingers around the gun lying beside him. Sitting up a few inches, he raises the weapon toward Eavan.
I don’t think.
I act.
I pull my Glock and squeeze the trigger.
CLICK .
I squeeze it again.
CLICK .
My heart sinks, and a surge of panic rushes through me as I break into a full sprint.
She doesn’t see him. I shout her name, it’s like I’m struggling to run through tar and unable to get to her.
“No!” I shriek, as Sargsyan fires—the sound cracking through the air.
I dive forward, throwing myself into her as pain rips across my side like a lightning strike.
My tackle takes us both to the ground hard.
She gasps, clutching my chest, as I wrap myself around her, placing my body between her and Sargsyan, tucking her beneath me with everything I have.
More shots follow, and I flatten my body against her, holding a deep breath and bracing for more rounds to slam into my back—they don’t come. A final shot rings out, followed by the near silence of whirring jet engines and Eavan breathing heavily against my chest.
I lift my head, my thoughts swimming. Cillian stands nearby, his expression cold but steady, standing over Sargsyan’s body with his firearm lowered. “He’s down. For good.”
Below me, Eavan’s eyes are glassy with tears. She runs her still-bound hands along my jaw, her fingers dragging through my beard. “You came,” she whispers, fighting back a sob.
“Always,” I exhale.
She presses her forehead to mine, her breath shaky and words laced with fear. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
“I promised you I wouldn’t let them take you.” I cup her face and stare into her eyes. “I will never let anyone come between us.”
I kiss her gently. Not caring about anything else—my wound, the blood, or the fact that we’re surrounded by quite a few dead Armenians. I need to feel her and know that she’s safe. She melts into me, bound hands still trembling, holding onto me like she’s never letting go.
Pulling back, I wince as I try to sit us both up. “Enz,” she gasps, seeing the blood at my side. Her fingers hover over the wound, trying not to hurt me .
“I’m okay,” I lie.
Cillian kneels beside me, calm and efficient. “You’re hit?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I grimace as Cillian lifts my shirt to inspect the wound.
“You’ll live.” He shrugs with a smirk. “Through and through. Almost a flesh wound.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I mutter.
He reaches for Eavan, cutting the ties around her wrists with a knife , pulling her close. “You all right?”
She nods. “Yes.”
Nikolai jogs toward us with his rifle slung over his back. “We’ve got to move. This wasn’t exactly discreet.”
Nikolai and Cillian lift me slowly. I grit my teeth and stay upright, wrapping my arm tightly around Eavan’s shoulders when she insists on nudging Nik out of the way.
She stays at my side, supporting me. As we move back toward the vehicles, I take one last glance at the jet behind us—at the man who almost stole everything from me.
I look down at Eavan, her hand wrapped tightly over mine, blood seeping between our fingers.
Her eyes are still welling with tears, but she takes every step with determination as we walk away from the carnage together. She’s safe in my arms again. And that’s all that matters.