Chapter 51 Natasha
NATASHA
My dreams had never been so sweet.
Even before my eyes fluttered open, last night wrapped me in a warm embrace.
The good. The hallelujah-thank-you-Jesus good.
My man—no, my husband—loved me for me. Lachlan had shown me the intimacy that uplifted, elevated, nurtured, cherished, and adored.
Dang, Natasha, how many synonyms do you wanna throw in here? I’d list them all day.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, the good, the stars in the sky, and the ugly.
I glimpsed that before even opening my eyes because a person didn’t grow without battle wounds. I’d grown stronger because of Lorenzo’s actions. And last night, I’d seen Lachlan in a new light. He grew too—his fingers intertwined with mine as we lay in bed.
And before dawn claimed the night, with no pillows beneath our heads, he’d slid his arm underneath mine, granting me a comfortable rest. A small act, and I melted into the strength and safety of him.
Now I wanted to melt again.
My lashes fluttered open, light kissing the edges of the room. “Hubby, I’m ready for round …” What round was it?
Light spilled over crumpled sheets as I slipped into Pop’s oversized necklace. I padded to the foot of the mattress, past my Converses when I called his name again. “Lachlan?”
Man, I expected that husky Scottish reply.
Silence.
Chewing my lip, I entered the bathroom. The mirror stopped me cold.
Oh, no, he didn’t.
Lachlan wrote over the mirror with lipstick. My lipstick. The note read,
My lovely wife, I’m grabbing breakfast, maybe haggle someone to make a phone call. Sorry, no pens or pencils.
“Or utensils.” I shook my head.
I headed toward the bedroom, humming a tune and shoving into my jeans and shirt. I lifted my arm and sniffed. “Oh, lawd.” Then a quick breath check. Passable. Maybe a water rinse and bird bath—
Creak.
Not the shuffle of Lachlan’s Nikes.
Heavy. Purposeful. The sound iced my blood.
I scanned the room. No Lachlan. No weapons—unless you counted the makeshift clothes rack in the corner. Not even a wire hanger to stab someone with.
He stepped into view, big enough to block the doorway.
My throat closed. The tears came hot, uninvited—not because Lorenzo stood there. He didn’t.
The last granule of time sifted through my fingers. “You’re w-with the Mikhailovs?”
“Da.” A simple nod. His gaze flicked to the mattress, his expression unreadable. “We will not disclose this. Our secret, da?”
Mikhailovs clung to Russian traditions. Women remained pure, especially those tied to the bratva elite. And they were infamous for killing the messenger who delivered bad news.
“I can’t go with you.” I placed a hand on my hip, hiding the tremor in my fingers. “Edik and I have an arrangement. We both agreed to marry for love! Touch me, you’ll start a war.”
“You misunderstand.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “It is your father who has initiated a war. Vassili breached the Resnov-Mikhailov agreement—”
“You mean I breached it. But women mean nothing, so my po—father is to blame?” Ugh, I couldn’t even use the affectionate name I had for Pop in front of this man. It would be another infraction against me. This group doubted I was Russian enough. Why did they want me?
“Natasha, Edik is here. They are all here. I waited for the Scot to leave out of respect for your … affection for him. I saw it in your eyes when you climbed onto the bike he’d rigged.” The muscle in his jaw kicked. “Do not misconstrue my tolerance.”
This wasn’t happening. My heart slammed into my throat, choking my retort. “Don’t touch—”
He moved like a shadow—sudden, silent, inescapable.
A crushing bear hug pinned my arms to my sides. “No! Stop!” My voice came out ragged. I kicked hard. Toes connected, but he didn’t even grunt. The orders behind his grip scared him more than I ever could.
My teeth sank into his shoulder. Salt and sweat filled my mouth. Without flinching, he hauled me to the window.
The freezing air slapped me as we hit the fire escape. My body pitched forward, the cement yawning below. For one breathless second, I thought he’d let me fall headfirst. Arms cinched my waist, yanking me back in line. The man climbed down the ladder.
I screamed, thrashed, and pummeled his back with every bit of strength I had. Faces turned toward us. People watched.
Watched.
How could they do nothing?
Halfway across the street, I saw movement above. Broad shoulders framed the window.
“Lachlan!” My voice cracked his name.
The van’s back door burst open. The man tugged me into the seatless rear of it. A machine gun glinted to my side.
Lachlan’s voice ripped through the air—raw, furious, and every shade of protective I’d ever known in him. The words, his promise to save me, burned into me.
Bullets sprayed into the street, shattering the morning air. I dove for the gunner, swinging hard, but my captor yanked me into his steel grip.
My life narrowed to one awful truth: My life ended the second they found me. I’d made love to Lachlan countless times last night. Now, I’d marry Edik Mikhailov. And after experiencing true love … death sounded more promising.