His to Protect (Merciless Mercy: Sovarin Bratva #2)

Chapter 1

ROWAN

I feel the cold before my memory comes back.

It seeps through my coat and pants, working its way into my spine, settling between muscle and bone until the concrete beneath me feels less like a surface and more like a slab of ice against my back.

My cheek rests against the floor. It’s uneven in places and slightly damp.

I keep my eyes closed and let my breathing even out before I attempt to move.

My hands are tied behind my back, the knot resting high between my shoulder blades.

Rope circles my wrists, tight enough that I can feel the pull when I flex my fingers, but not tight enough to cut off circulation.

There’s a faint tingling along the pads of my fingers that comes from pressure rather than loss of blood flow.

I flex them one at a time, small movements that don’t pull at my shoulders, and wait to see if sensation returns fully. It does.

I draw in a slow breath and let it out, paying attention to the way my ribs expand and fall again. There’s an ache at the base of my skull, dull and steady, but no nausea rising with it. I swallow and wait to see if the room tilts. My vision stays clear, and the concrete remains still beneath me.

When I open my eyes, the ceiling stretches high above me, steel beams crossing under corrugated metal panels.

A single industrial light hangs from a chain, its glow thin and yellow.

The chain sways slightly, and the movement drags faint shadows across the beams overhead.

Dust floats lazily beneath the light, disturbed by nothing but the small currents of air moving through the building. I’m in a warehouse.

I roll one wrist slightly against the rope and feel the fibers scrape against my skin that’s already irritated. When I draw my shoulders back even a fraction, the rope pulls tight and holds. The strain spreads down my arms and settles in my elbows.

Somewhere deeper in the building, I can hear a faint drip of water hitting metal at irregular intervals. The air smells like rust and old wood. There’s a faint trace of oil soaked into the concrete beneath me, the scent rising when I ease the pressure off my hip.

Something moves to my left.

“Rowan?”

Lila’s voice reaches me quietly as she leans a little closer, careful to keep it low.

I turn my head slowly, the movement pulling at the ache in my skull, but not enough to blur my vision.

She lies a few feet away, propped partly on her side, her hair tangled against the collar of her coat.

Her hands are tied in front of her, the rope looped twice, and the ends resting loosely against her knees.

“I’m here,” I tell her.

She blinks as if focusing, then presses her lips together and nods.

“My head hurts.”

“Mine too,” I answer.

“They dragged me out of the SUV,” she says. “I think I hit my head.”

Her voice wavers briefly before smoothing out. I study her face in the weak light. She closes her eyes briefly and opens them again.

“Are you nauseous?” I ask.

“No.”

“Vision clear?”

“Yes.”

She tests the rope with her hands and winces when it pulls against her wrists, the fibers pressing into skin that is pink from friction.

“Move slower,” I tell her. “Give your body a minute.”

The concrete beneath me continues to draw heat from my hip and shoulder.

I roll slightly onto my side to change the pressure and feel the rope tighten again behind my back.

My shoulders burn from being pulled backward, and I ease them down carefully, so the strain distributes more evenly across my upper arms.

A low vibration moves through the floor beneath us, subtle but distinct. It rolls under my shoulder and into my ribs before fading. The metal beams overhead vibrate with a faint tremor. I stay still and listen.

A few minutes later, it returns, stronger this time, followed by a distant metallic grind that echoes through the structure. The rhythm is familiar, steel on steel, wheels against track. It’s a train.

“How long have you been awake?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Lila answers, her voice rough. “It was dark when I came to. I couldn’t see anything.” She swallows once. “I yelled until my throat hurt.”

“Did anyone answer?” I ask quietly.

“No.”

She pushes herself more upright, bringing her knees under her and pressing her bound hands against the floor for balance. The rope gives her just enough room to brace herself without standing. I hear the scrape of her boots against the floor as she repositions.

“Did you see their faces?” I ask.

“No.” Her breathing deepens. “They had on masks. I think. It happened too fast.”

I nod once, keeping my movements small.

“Were you hit anywhere besides your head?”

She shakes her head slowly and then pauses, as if reconsidering.

“I don’t think so. I fell when they shoved me. I remember the pavement. And then a door slamming.”

Her jaw tightens.

“They grabbed you first,” she adds. “I tried to get to you.”

The image forms quickly, and I set it aside.

“I’m okay,” I tell her.

Her shoulders remain tight, drawn upward as if she expects a door to open at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. “If I hadn’t insisted on dinner—”

“This isn’t your fault,” I interrupt quietly.

She presses her lips together and nods once, though she doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes return to me again, scanning for blood, bruising, or anything out of place.

“You’re not dizzy?” she asks.

“No.”

“Any nausea?”

“No,” I repeat.

She studies me a second longer, then nods, as if checking off a mental list.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.” Her voice trembles slightly.

I let my gaze travel across the room. Wooden pallets are stacked unevenly against one wall.

A forklift sits near a secondary door, its tires sagging faintly, a thin line of dust outlining where they’ve rested.

A large sliding metal door spans the far side of the building, sealed shut with no light slipping through its seams. The floor between us and the door shows scuff marks that cut through the dust, wide enough for two men to walk side by side.

“We were carried in,” I observe.

She nods once.

The low vibration beneath the floor returns once more, and the industrial light hums faintly overhead. A mechanical click sounds above us, followed by a short whir that momentarily changes the pitch of the light.

I lower my head and let my shoulders round just enough to look less alert than I feel.

The warehouse stays quiet around us. Then a burst of static tears through the silence.

It scrapes across the ceiling first, thin and sharp, before dropping into a low hiss that spreads through the rafters and lingers along the walls.

Lila’s arm brushes my shoulder as she adjusts on her knees, moving closer. Then a man’s voice comes through the speaker mounted somewhere overhead.

“Doctor Hale.”

The distortion blurs his voice, but not the authority in it, as if he expects to be answered.

“Yes,” I reply, keeping calm.

My voice travels across the open space and returns a second later, flattened by the ceiling. There’s a pause that feels intentional rather than uncertain, long enough for me to become aware of the rope tightening again when I roll my shoulders.

“What did Alexei Morozov tell you before he died?”

I keep my eyes on the sliding metal door across the warehouse. The surface reflects the overhead light in dull patches, revealing uneven streaks where water once ran down it and dried in narrow lines.

“He was losing blood,” I answer. “He wasn’t coherent.”

“What did he tell you?”

I think of the trauma bay without meaning to. The fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic layered over iron, and the pressure of his fingers around my wrist as his pulse weakened beneath them.

“He repeated names,” I say. “They didn’t connect to anything I understood.”

“Did he name anyone within the Sovarin organization?”

“Nothing I could place,” I reply.

The static hum rises for a second, then flattens again, as if someone has adjusted a dial.

“Did he speak of financial operations?”

“No.”

“How much do you know about Sovarin Biomedical Technologies?”

The question changes direction without changing tone, moving from bedside to boardroom in a single breath.

“I know what most physicians know,” I tell him. “They fund research. They sponsor trauma programs. And they show up at events.”

The train hums faintly beneath the floor again, the vibration moving through the concrete and into my shoulder and hip before fading.

“How many captains report directly to Kiren Sovarin?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m not part of it.”

“Who manages security outside the city?”

“I’ve never asked.”

“You live inside his world now. You know more than you think.”

I let a breath move through me before responding.

“I live in his apartment,” I state. “That doesn’t mean I sit in on his meetings.”

The silence returns again, thicker than before. I can hear the faint hum of the light above and the slow rhythm of Lila’s breathing beside me. Somewhere along the far wall, a drop of water hits metal and echoes once.

“Did Alexei describe internal dissent?” the voice asks.

“He was fighting to breathe,” I answer. “He wasn’t outlining grievances.”

The static softens and then returns to its low hiss, filling the space again.

“You’re protecting him.”

I turn my head slightly toward the center of the warehouse, though I can’t see the speaker, only the shadowed beams and drifting dust above.

“He was my patient,” I reply, forcing the words into the empty space around me. “That was my responsibility.”

The train vibration returns, stronger this time, rattling faintly through the beams overhead before fading again. The chain of the light sways a fraction, then stills.

“How many captains trust Kiren Sovarin without question?” the voice asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer flatly.