Chapter 22 Convergence #2
I stare at Anton as warm blood trickles down my throat. The knife pressure disappears, but before relief can register, cold metal presses against my temple, on the other side of my head.
A gun barrel. But Kirill isn't the one holding it; someone else is.
My heart slams against my ribcage so violently, I wonder if everyone can see it through my shirt. Anton keeps walking toward us, his expression unnervingly calm. His eyes lock with mine, steady, focused, like he's trying to tell me something without words.
"I'm sorry," Kirill whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
Sorry?
The word crashes through my brain like a derailed train. He's going to kill me. Right here. Right now. He wants Anton to watch me die.
The cold metal of the gun barrel digs into my temple, making the universe shrink to the diameter of that small circle against my skin. My skin crawls with a bone-deep revulsion at Kirill's touch, his arm clamped around my waist like an iron band.
"Sorry about the barrel," Kirill murmurs against my ear. "I hope it isn't too cold."
What? The fucking irony of him worrying about me right now almost makes me laugh. Except I can't tell if his concern is real or if the drugs are making me see things that aren't there.
"Not the first time I've had a gun pressed against my temple. But definitely the first time my killer gave a shit about my comfort." The words keep slipping out before my foggy brain catches up.
Whatever he gave me must've killed my filter along with my coordination, because this psycho is clearly unhinged, and I'm talking back.
Anton's eyes widen fractionally at my words, though his calculated stride toward us doesn't falter.
"Why would it fucking matter if you're going to kill me?" I continue, my brain spinning faster than my mouth can keep up.
Kirill's chest vibrates against my back in what I realize is silent laughter.
The world blurs at the edges, sharpens, then blurs again. My body feels disconnected, like I'm watching myself from somewhere just behind my own eyes.
Kirill says nothing to me. Nothing at all.
The pressure against my temple shifts. Through my drug-addled vision, I see the gun barrel move, no longer aimed at me but at Anton.
Wait. Is this happening now? Did it already happen? The timeline in my head fractures, splinters, reforms. Time stretches and contracts like a rubber band. I can't trust my own perception.
But Anton keeps coming closer. One step. Another. His eyes never leave mine.
I need to do something. Right now. Or maybe five seconds ago. I don't know, but I have to try.
Then my stomach clenches, churns. Not fake. Real nausea crashes through me in waves.
I heave violently. The pressure around my waist loosens.
That's my chance.
I drop.
Just let my body go completely limp. Dead weight. Straight down.
Then the world around me explodes into chaos.
Gunfire erupts from every direction. Bullets whiz overhead like angry hornets. Someone grabs me, drags me across rough concrete. I scream, raw and desperate, kicking out blindly.
"Fee. Solnishko. It's me."
Anton. His voice cuts through the fog.
"I love you," I hear him say.
He presses something cold and metal into my palm, closes my fingers around it. Then he's gone, running back toward the firefight.
Different arms seize me, lift me off the ground. I'm passed between bodies like a package, surrounded by a wall of men who move as a single unit. They deposit me behind cover on what I realize is a boat. Have I been on a boat all this time?
Lorenzo stands nearby, his expensive suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, knuckles bloodied. My father appears beside him, face grave.
"What—?" I try to ask, but the question dies when I see what's happening.
A man is on his knees, arms wrenched behind his back by two of Lorenzo's men. Blood pools beneath him where Lorenzo has methodically stabbed both legs. His hands are mangled, a severed finger lying on the deck beside him.
The man spits blood.
I tear my gaze away, searching for Anton.
There—on the dock. Anton and Kirill circle each other like wolves, neither willing to give ground. Kirill lunges, knife flashing. Why doesn't Anton just shoot him and end this?
They collide in a brutal tangle of limbs.
Anton doesn't falter. Doesn't even flinch. He just grabs Kirill's wrist, twists until something cracks, then starts punching Kirill in his gunshot wound.
That's right, he was shot, oh my god, Yuri!
Kirill howls but doesn't go down. His movements are too fast, too precise for someone bleeding out.
"Always prepared," Kirill pants, blood streaming from his mouth. "Pharmaceutical cocktail. Won't feel a thing until I'm already dead."
Anton's face remains eerily calm. "Too bad your research wasn't thorough enough."
He drives his knee into Kirill's wounded shoulder, then catches him in a headlock. "I came prepared, too."
Kirill thrashes wildly, but Anton's grip is unbreakable. There's no stylized movie fighting here, just two killers doing everything possible to end each other. Anton follows with a savage headbutt that leaves Kirill momentarily stunned.
I clutch whatever Anton pressed into my hand earlier and watch the man I love systematically dismantle the nightmare who took me.
I stare at my hand, finally seeing what Anton pressed into my palm. A gun.
Small, matte black, unfamiliar weight tugging at my wrist. My fingers trace over it like they belong to someone else.
A gun. He gave me a fucking gun.
I check the safety with trembling fingers. I don't want to shoot myself, but I will kill any bastard that comes near me.
The metal feels ice-cold against my clammy skin. My heart jackhammers so hard I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs, in my fingertips, everywhere. The dock tilts and sways beneath me—or is that just the drugs?
Through the chaos, I find Anton again. He's bleeding from a slash across his arm, but his movements haven't slowed. Every strike he lands on Kirill is calculated, vicious.
Blood spatters across the concrete in abstract patterns that look almost beautiful if I squint.
A rifle barrel glints in the moonlight as Ruslan materializes beside Anton, his cold eyes fixed on Kirill's struggling form.
"Do you want to extend this somewhere else or finish him here?" Ruslan asks, his voice casual as if he's suggesting dinner plans rather than prolonged torture.
Anton's grip on Kirill doesn't falter. "We finish this my way."
A sickening crack cuts through the air, wet and organic, like celery being snapped. My head whips toward the sound before I can stop myself.
Lorenzo stands over his captive, the man's forearm bent at an impossible angle. Bone, stark white, jagged, punches through skin and fabric, glistening wetly in the harsh marina light. Blood pumps steadily from the wound, creating a widening pool beneath him.
The man doesn't scream. Just stares at his own exposed bone with detached fascination.
My stomach lurches violently. The gun trembles in my hand as my vision tunnels, darkening at the edges. I can't look away from that bone, so white against all that red—until the sharp crack of a rifle firing snaps me back to reality.
Ruslan, shooting at someone I can't see.
My stomach revolts. I drop to my knees, gun clattering to the deck as I hunch forward, breathing in desperate, ragged gulps. The world spins faster, sound warping around me. My body can't decide if it wants to vomit or pass out, so it tries for both simultaneously.
Warm hands cup my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with devastating gentleness.
"Fee. Fee, look at me." His voice cracks on my name. "You're here. You're safe. I've got you."
I force my eyes open, finding Anton kneeling before me. Blood streaks his face like war paint, but his eyes, God, his eyes are wrecked. Raw. Terrified in a way I've never seen. He's littered with cuts and forming bruises, but he's here. Alive.
"When you told me you loved me—" His voice breaks.
"When Kirill had you, and you said those words through the comms, I couldn't... I love you so fucking much it terrifies me.
I heard you say it while he was taking you away from me, and I couldn't say it back, couldn't let him know—" His forehead drops to mine.
"But I need you to know. Right now. I love you, my Solnishko. I can't live without you."
I throw myself against him, arms wrapping around his neck so tightly I might be choking him, but I can't let go. Can't stop shaking. His heartbeat hammers against my chest, strong and steady and real.
His arms lock around me, feeling like he'll never let go. "I have you. You're safe now." The words repeat like a prayer, his face buried in my hair.
When he finally pulls back enough to see my face, his hands frame my jaw again, thumbs tracing my cheekbones like he's realizing I'm real.
Then his lips find mine, gentle despite everything. The kiss is featherlight, comforting rather than passionate. A promise, not a demand.
My head feels disconnected from my body as Anton holds me, like I'm floating six inches above myself. The world keeps shifting, everything too bright, too loud, then suddenly muffled and dim. The floor beneath me feels like it's breathing.
"Is this real?" I whisper, digging my fingers into Anton's arm to anchor myself. "Are you actually here?"
Anton's face tightens. "I'm here, Solnishko. I promise."
A figure looms over us, and I have to blink several times before the blurry shape solidifies into Lorenzo. I barely recognize him.
His perfectly styled hair sticks up in wild tufts, some strands matted with what looks like blood.
His pristine white shirt is splattered with crimson droplets.
But it's his face that terrifies me, contorted into something inhuman, eyes burning with such raw hatred that he looks like he crawled straight from hell's depths.
"They'll pay for what they did to you. For what they did to Moira. For what they tried to do to my child," Lorenzo tells me.
The baby? Wait—Moira? Oh God, Yuri?
My brain races to catch up, fragments of memories colliding like broken glass. The hospital. The lights going out. Yuri bleeding on the floor.
A wave of nausea hits me without warning. I hunch forward, my stomach heaving violently. Anton moves instantly, gathering my hair in one hand and pulling it away from my face as I vomit. His other hand rubs gentle circles on my back.
When the spasms finally subside, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Moira...the baby...what happened?" My voice sounds strange, like I'm hearing it through water. "Did something happen while I was out?"
Lorenzo crouches down to my eye level, some of the demonic rage fading from his expression. "They're both fine, Fee. Eden has been with Moira the entire time. The contractions have stopped."
Relief washes through me, making my limbs tremble even more. "And Yuri?"
"Eden's treating him," Anton says softly. "He'll recover. Took two shots meant to wound, not kill."
I nod, trying to process, but my thoughts look like a kaleidoscope, every coherent thought breaking apart the moment I try to grasp it.
Ruslan appears beside us, his cold blue eyes assessing me clinically. "Let me look at her."
Anton hesitates, then nods. "Go ahead."
Ruslan kneels and gently tilts my face up. He checks my pupils with a small penlight, then takes my wrist between his fingers, counting silently. The way he touches me is so impersonal, so clinical, yet careful. It's strange seeing this terrifying man being gentle.
He pulls out his phone, speaks rapidly in Russian, then turns to Anton. "She needs fluids immediately."
Anton nods, looking at my father, whose hand grips mine tightly. "We need to get her to the hospital, to Eden."
Was Dad beside me all this time? His thumb brushes over my knuckles. It feels warm, real.
Ruslan is already opening a medical kit that one of the other guards just brought to him. "This first."
As Ruslan sanitizes a spot on my arm, I watch his methodical movements. "What did he give me?" I ask.
Ruslan exchanges a look with Anton before answering. "A compliance drug. Preparation. He likely planned to administer more substances later, to make you susceptible to suggestion. Brainwashing, essentially."
"That's why everything feels..." I struggle for words. "Distorted. Like I'm watching myself from outside."
"Yes. You may not remember everything that happens today," Ruslan says, sliding the needle into my vein with practiced precision. "Your perception is compromised."
I suddenly remember the weight in my hand. "The gun, Anton gave me a gun. Where did it go?"
Anton's brow furrows. His fingers brush my cheek. "I didn't give you a gun, love."
"But I felt it. It was cold."
"The drugs," Ruslan interrupts, taping the IV line to my arm. "They create false memories."
I feel dizzy again, uncertain what's real and what isn't.
"Are you coming with me?" I ask Anton as Ruslan starts packing his supplies.
"I'll take both of them, prepare them for you. Go with her now," Lorenzo tells Anton.
Anton's storm-gray eyes lock with Lorenzo's, something unspoken passing between them. His jaw ticks once before he gives a curt nod. He bends toward me, one arm sliding beneath my knees, the other cradling my back.
"I've got you," he murmurs, lifting me against his chest as effortlessly as picking up a fallen leaf.
As he carries me toward a waiting vehicle, I press my face against his neck, breathing him in, blood, sweat, gunpowder, and beneath it all, just Anton.
"Is this real?" I whisper again.
His lips brush my forehead. "This is real, Solnishko. I'm real. You're safe now."
I close my eyes, desperately hoping that when I open them again, he'll still be here.