Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
It was a threat. A reminder that I had no real agency on my life. Whether I liked it or not, it was my duty to do whatever my father told me, and this awful thing was his wish.
I burned all the flowers, watching with a little glee when the cards burned up too. What a waste it all was.
The sedan turns down a darker stretch of road. There are fewer storefronts here, which means fewer pedestrians. Fewer witnesses.
I stare out the window and imagine the wedding. He’s going to force me into some couture gown and make me smile for the cameras while holding a metaphorical gun to my back. Men I’ve known since childhood will smile and applaud like I’ve consented to any of this.
Then, I’ll be trapped forever, tied to a monster who can do whatever he wants with me. I’ll fight him at every turn, but I wonder how long I’ll have to fight. How long until I lose the will? When we have children? When I have to protect other lives apart from my own?
I’m being led to my death sentence. In the months since our engagement was arranged, Mikhail has proven over and over what a horrible man he is. Tonight is just another example of how far he’ll go to try and control me.
Just as I’m resigning myself to my fate, the car jolts violently. Metal slams against metal from behind, hard enough to snap my head forward. The driver curses and jerks the wheel, making the tires screech.
He’s forced to brake hard when the car that hit us swerves ahead and stops short in front of us. What the hell? We don’t even have time to react when gunfire erupts from the car.
I immediately duck as the windshield shatters inward in a spray of glass. The man beside me instinctively reaches for his weapon. He fires blindly through the broken frame, but he hits nothing. Just as useless as I suspected.
The attacker could be anyone, I realize. It’s not like Mikhail has a shortage of enemies. Who would be so bold, though? It doesn’t matter, this is my chance to get away. This idiot is unknowingly my savior.
I work at the binds on my hands, trying to break free while my captors are distracted. It’ll hardly matter to them now. I’ve almost got one hand out when the back door is yanked open with force. Cold air rushes in, surprising me.
I look up to see an unfamiliar man standing there, his gun cocked and pointed in the vehicle.
3
VIKTOR
Igrab the rear door handle and rip it open hard enough to rock the frame.
The man inside turns toward me with his gun half-raised, surprised but not so much that he’s completely frozen. He’s trained well enough to respond, but he’s just not fast enough. I fire once into his shoulder to ruin his shooting arm, then step in close before he can process the damage. He slams back into the seat with a guttural sound, trying to switch hands. I easily grab his gun as he struggles with his pain and shoot him through the head for good measure.
I shift my stance, lean forward between the front seats, and fire. The first round punches into the driver’s side just below the ribs. He jerks and tries to twist toward me. The second shot takes him through the temple. His head snaps sideways and his body collapses over the steering wheel.
The horn blasts under his weight, shrill and constant, filling the street with noise. I grab the back of his shirt and pull his lifeless body back against the seat to stop the sound.
The third man scrambles out the opposite side, choosing flight over fight. He’s probably the smartest of them. I move around the rear of the car, cutting off his path before he can get away. He turns to shoot, but his grip is sloppy. I knock the muzzle aside and drive my elbow into his jaw. His bone crunches underneath the weight and he stumbles back from the pain. I fire once into his chest at close range and watch him collapse against the pavement.
The street becomes eerily quiet in the aftermath of the violence, despite both our engines still idling. I step back toward the open rear door. Anya Malenkova is still inside, fidgeting with the ropes around her wrists.
Glass clings to her hair. Blood marks the corner of her mouth. Rope cuts into her wrists. With the violence over, she’s no longer crouched on the floor. She’s upright, full of an easy grace. When she sees me standing there, she meets my eyes with a certain amount of vitriol.
I reach in and grab at the rope, slicing it through cleanly with my pocketknife. The fibers easily fall away, and she only hesitates for a single moment as she feels the binding come loose.