I can’t let that happen.
I see the slightest movement to my right and see Nikandr circling around behind Sokolov from his blind spot. I need to keep Sokolov's attention on me.
“You know what your mistake was, Viktor?” I ask, taking one slow step forward. “You think you’ll be able to get out of here and face no consequence.”
I take another step forward, and Sokolov’s eyes narrow.
“But you took my wife. You took an Orlov. The Orlovs, the Zolotovs, and the Letvins will never let you survive this. They’re out there, you know? All of them. Abram Zolotov and his brothers. Lion. Nikolai and the rest of the Orlovs. There won’t be a corner in this country you can run to, there won’t be an ally or friend to be found.”
I see the shock on Viktor’s face, and I know my message landed well. I can see his mind reeling from the knowledge that the Zolotovs, the most powerful Bratva family in all of North America, view this kidnapping as an affront.
The distraction works. For one crucial second, Sokolov's eyes are locked with mine, processing my words. In that moment, Nikandr makes his move and lunges from the shadows. Sokolov turns, gun swinging away from Lilibeth's head toward the threat from behind.
And that’s when I take aim and fire. Twice. The bullets hit Sokolov right in his chest. He staggers and then crumples to the floor.
I'm at Lilibeth's side in an instant, cutting through the zip ties binding her wrists and ankles to the chair. Her face is a canvas of bruises, lip split, eye swelling, but she's alive. She's breathing.
“Agafon,” she whispers, voice cracked and dry.
I gather her into my arms, gentler than I've ever been with anyone. She feels small against me, fragile in a way I never associated with her fiery spirit.
“I'm here,” I murmur into her hair, breathing in her scent beneath the metallic tang of blood. “I've got you now. I won't let you go again.”
Her fingers weakly grasp the fabric of my shirt. “You came for me.”
“Always,” I promise, and for the first time, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth that's been growing inside me since the day I decided to make her mine for all the wrong reasons. “I will always come for you, Lilibeth.”
Her blue-green eyes, though clouded with pain, search my face, perhaps sensing something new in my voice. Something I've been battling against since the day we wed: love.
I brush a strand of darkened blonde hair from her face, being mindful of her injuries. The sounds of the dying fight fade into the background noise around us. All I see is her.
“Let's go home,” I tell her softly. “We have a lot to talk about.”
She nods once, then lets her head rest against my chest. I lift her easily, cradling her against me, and carry her out.
Chapter 25 - Lilibeth
I wake up on the eighth morning, expecting today to be different, but it isn’t. My body still hurts with every breath I take, though of course, the pain now is duller and more manageable.
I know why, though. Agafon has been carefully watching over me. He brings the doctor over every single day and insists that I be given regular painkillers. I let him do his thing because when I say I can manage, I see guilt cross over his face, and I hate seeing him like that.
My anger toward him has subsided. We haven’t yet spoken of what happened the day I ran away, but the way he carefully arranges my medicines every day, the way he brings me every meal, the way he checks to see if I’m running a fever and helps me into the bath and changes my dressings tells me one thing: he cares for me, even if he can’t admit it.
The irony isn't lost on me—weeks ago, I was the one nursing him back to health. Now the roles are reversed, and he’s playing nurse to his injured wife.
I wonder when this will end and hope we don’t make a habit of it or something.
I hear a knock on the door and call him in, knowing it’s him.
“You need to drink more water,” he says as he refills my glass. “The doctor said hydration is important for healing.”
I take the glass, our fingers brushing. He pulls away quickly, as if burned. I try to catch his gaze, but he looks away, as if afraid of the disappointment he’ll see reflected back, and that’s the part I hate most.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice still raspy.
“Your bruises look better,” he notes, and I look down my collarbone. They’ve faded from angry purple to a sickly yellow-green.
“Progress, I suppose,” I try to crack a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. He grimaces. I can tell he blames himself for what happened to me.
