The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

"Come out!" Maksym screams. I shiver in fear. He doesn't care that they could have weapons and we have nothing?

But as I look at his face drawn in absolute rage; I know he really doesn't care. Not if they hurt him, not if they kill him. He will fight them to the death.

"You want me? Come get me!" He releases my hand and stands by my side, his fists clenched and his face a mask of fury. "You motherfucking cowards! You want a fight? You want to kill us? Show your fucking face!" His voice shakes in fury.

No one responds to him. No one in their right mind would. But what if there's more than one person?

"I only saw one," I tell him. "But what if there are more?"

"Then I'll kill every fucking one of them," he says.

He has no weapons. No light. How could he even see? Something tells me he would find a way.

"Come out!" he screams, his furious voice echoing in the woods, but whoever it was is either too cowardly or getting back-up. No one comes. Shepherd's nose points into the air, sniffing, but he stays by Maksym's side.

"They're gone," I tell him. "Let's go. That fire will destroy the whole forest if we don't do something."

He throws back his head and roars in rage, an inhuman fury overtaking him. And then I realize that right now, he wouldn't need a weapon to take down a fleet of assailants. He's angry enough, he's fierce enough, he'd kill them with his own bare hands.

"Please, Maksym," I tell him. "Let's go." I point several kilometers ahead of us to a clearing, where a light shines in the darkness. "Looks like there's a residence up ahead."

He takes my hand and we go as quickly as we can. The entire time we're on the lookout but no one shows their face. I replay it over and over in my head, the flash of moonlight on a tattooed arm. I've seen the tattoo before. What was it? Some sort of black and white mandala... was it one of my father's men?

Or one of his?

Either would make sense.

"Who knows we are here?"

"Demyan," he says. "But Demyan is not behind this."

"How do you know?"

He shoots me a sidelong glance as if the mere suggestion makes him want to tear things apart. "I know."

Well that's not good enough for me. I, on the other hand, do not know. But does it matter? All are my enemies.

All but him.

God, what is wrong with me?

My eyes are bleary from exhaustion and the effects of fire when we finally approach the house with the light on. I take a look at him and he gives me a once-over.

"Do we look guilty?" I say.

A corner of his lips tips up. "Guilty? How so?"

"Like you're a bad guy and I'm your captive. Will they call the police?"

He only raises a brow. "Fuck the police."

"You're not worried?"

He snorts. "Hell no."

The house in front of us is small and rustic, much like the cabin that was his. And then it hits me.

His cabin. That was his. His home, that he shared... with that woman in the picture? And now it's gone. It's destroyed. Sympathy weaves its way through my heart once more. He's been vicious and cruel, but I can't help but feel for him. He's done what he thought he had to. And whoever is against us... whoever his enemies are... they've destroyed everything that matters to him.

He's brutal and angry, but I saw what he endured. And I will never, as long as I live, eradicate the memory of his brutalized body, broken and bleeding on the cell in my father's prison. What he's done to me is wrong. So damn wrong, I'm not sure I'll ever fully get over it. So wrong, he deserves imprisonment or worse. But I can't forget what he's endured. I can't. And I can't believe the man I visited is the one who stands before me now. I shed so many tears when I heard of his death. It killed me knowing that man had died, even as I hoped his death was an end to the misery he suffered.

I tear myself back to the present.

We're only a few paces away from the house in front of us now.

"What's our story?" I ask him.

The light from above shines on his incredulous face. His eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. "Our story?" he asks, as if I've just asked something incomprehensible.

"Our story," I repeat. "Where we were. Why we ran for help. Who we are?" I shrug. "You can't very well tell them the truth. And it makes sense we get our story straight before we knock on that door."

"Yes, of course," he says. "We are newlyweds honeymooning in a cabin in Istra. A little escape from the real world as it were."