Chapter 22 Ivy
IVY
The slap snaps my head sideways, the metallic tang of blood instantly coating my tongue. My cheek burns, skin stinging where his ring cuts deep as it wakes me from my dreamless sleep.
I bite down on the sound clawing up my throat. I won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing me cry out.
One of Anton’s men grips my hair, jerking my head back until my scalp screams. My eyes are forced up to meet his sneer. “Pakhan’s little toy. Not so pretty now, are you?”
Another blow follows, a fist in my ribs this time, hard enough to blur my vision. My wrists strain uselessly against the ties biting into them, my shoulders aching from still being bound behind the chair.
Every breath rattles through my body, shallow pulls that hurt more than they help. My body is trembling, but I clamp my jaw shut, hold his gaze, refusing to let him see me shatter because I know that’s exactly what he wants.
Because if I do, I know I’ll never make it out of this alive.
There’s a large metal table next to where I’m sitting. On the surface of it are tools laid out in a macabre display. The glint in the light overhead is taunting me.
The only reason I haven’t been chopped into little bits and sent back to Maksim in a box is because they need me alive. They need me as a pressure point to force Maksim to cave to their whims. It’s sickening, being stuck in a room with these men—these cowards.
Who double-crosses their leader?
Anton watches from the corner, perfectly composed, swirling liquor in his glass like I’m nothing more than a stage play for his amusement. He hasn’t laid a finger on me, and for some reason, that makes all of this worse.
He’s saving himself for the finale, and every second of anticipation drags like barbed wire through my veins.
“Your man will crawl,” Anton’s soldier grins at me.
He’s missing a front tooth, the others decaying and blackened.
His breath stinks of liquor and rot. “He’ll beg.
And when he does, we’ll make him kneel in front of you as we slit your throat.
He’ll be soaked in your blood as you die in his arms. How fun will that be? ”
I close my eyes. Maksim’s face rises in my mind unbidden, stern and steady, that calm, dangerous focus he wears like armor pinching his features. My stomach twists with terror that I’ll never see him again, or when I do, it really will be at my death site.
At least this confirms he’s really alive.
The door behind Anton rattles.
For a heartbeat, silence grips the room.
Then the world explodes.
The door bursts open, detonating so loudly, my eardrums feel like they’ve exploded. Gunfire rips through the open doorway, deafening cracks that split the air like thunder. The two-way mirror behind me shatters. Shouts erupt, sharp and panicked.
My captor releases me, shoving me hard to the floor as he lunges for his rifle. I slam against the concrete, cheek grinding against the hard surface, shoulder and arm screaming from the impact as they’re trapped under me.
Someone hauls me back, away from the chaos, pulling me behind the fallen table. Tools are scattered around with the bullets. Someone cuts the ties binding me to the chair, and when I crane my neck back around to see my savior, I’m disturbed to see that it’s Anton.
The chaos that floods the interrogation room erupts—men yelling in Russian, boots pounding outside the hallway, bullets biting through plaster.
As soon as I’m free, I shove the chair away from me and sit up, looking over the edge of the table to find who the hell is behind the torrent of bullets.
And then I see him.
Maksim runs down the hall like a storm itself, black-clad and merciless, his soldiers flooding in behind him, guns spitting fire as they move in one uniform line.
It isn’t long before the room I’m in transforms into a slaughterhouse.
Anton’s men drop one by one, blood painting the walls, screams cut short by sharp, efficient execution.
He moves through it all untouched, unstoppable. His gun rises, falls, every shot precise as if the battlefield is nothing more than a chessboard and he’s already seen the endgame and this is all just a formality to get to the finale.
For a moment, all I can do is stare.
Then his eyes find me. The calm mask he wears falters—only for a second—but I see it.
Hands clamp down on my shoulders from behind, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as I’m yanked off the floor. My body lurches back into the iron cage of someone’s chest. The stink of sweat and cheap vodka fills my nose, the scrape of stubble rough against my temple.
A flicker of something raw and fierce breaks through. His jaw tightens, his stride quickens. Two men move to cut him off, rifles raised. He cuts them down without slowing, stepping over their bodies like stones.
Something cold is pressed against my neck. A quiet click echoes in my ear.
A gun.
Maksim’s steps falter, coming to an abrupt halt. He’s only a few feet from me now, close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest, close enough to see the hatred radiating off him.
“Don’t,” Anton warns.
His fury is palpable, dark and consuming. His fingers flex around the handle of his gun as he trains it on Anton behind me, fingering the trigger like he’s debating whether or not he’s got the aim to take the shot.
“Easy,” Anton says. There’s no longer amusement coiling through his words. His voice is taunt with an audible swallow. “One wrong twitch, and your little prize stains the floor.”
The gun digs deeper against my throat. I can feel the faint tremor of the man’s hand, and the thought that a single mistake could end me sends a bolt of terror slicing through my body. My pulse hammers against the steel muzzle while I try remaining statue-still.
His eyes narrow, that mask of composure fighting to slide back into place. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen the truth burning behind it.
He’ll burn the whole city down for me, and Anton knows it.
“You let me walk out of here, Antonov, and I’ll let your little American go.”
Maksim breathes in slowly, fighting to regain composure. “It’s too late for negotiations, Sidrov.”
“True. But we both know you’re at a disadvantage here.”
Maksim’s stare never wavers.
But slowly, he lowers his gun just a fraction, taking it away from the spot he’s aimed and pointing the muzzle down to the floor.
Anton chuckles from behind me. “It’s good to see the mighty Antonov Pakhan has finally learned when to kneel.”
Something flickers in Maksim’s eyes, a glint of resolve that makes my stomach knot because I suddenly realize I recognize it. His free hand twitches—a signal so small I almost miss it. The barest flex of two fingers at his side.
It’s all the warning I need to dive down to the floor, flattening my body at Anton’s feet. Gunfire erupts from Maksim’s Glock. Bullets fly over me in a deafening storm. A sickening squelch gurgles up from Anton’s throat, his gun falling to the floor close by.
My head snaps toward him, catching the sight of his body tipping back and collapsing onto the ground like dead weight. His chest heaves, blood pooling out of his mouth and running down his cheeks. He chokes on it, suffocating from the holes punched through his chest.
For some fucked up reason, I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight. I have to see it through. I have to watch the man who tried to use me as a weapon finally take his final breath. For my own sanity, I need to see him die.
Anton’s body gives one last shuddering jerk before going still.
Maksim drops to his knees beside me, hands already lifting me up from the floor and into his arms..
Up close, I can smell the gun residue clinging to him, the faint trace of his natural musk beneath it.
His hands are steady, but his breathing comes out in small gasps, as if holding back the warring emotions colliding inside his chest.
“You’re safe now,” he rasps.
I can barely breathe, but through the pounding in my own ear, I hear something much more calming—his heartbeat.
It races in time with mine, but it’s there, thrumming.
His hands cup my face, tilting it toward him and away from the gory sight. His thumb brushes over my split lip, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. Maksim’s head turns slightly, shoulders coiling, but his hands stay on me, grounding me in the middle of a warzone.
“I’ve got you.”